13. Colette
13
Colette
“ Y ou look so amazing!” Amy, my former boss, says, taking my hands and smiling.
She was one of the few who knew and supported me through my struggles. She assured me a job would wait upon my return. I don’t think that outcome is likely, and I’m guessing neither is she.
“Thanks, Amy,” I reply, trying to hide how exhausted I am from the cheers and countless congratulations.
I wonder how Henry gathered all these people. It seems he took my divorce anniversary even more seriously than I did, seeing how I had forgotten about it before he called. It was just going to be another lovely day for me, tucked in with Antonio, without a care in the world. The longer I stay here, the more I crave his company. I glimpsed him earlier, but he was on his way up the stairs to see Henry. I’ve been searching the crowd for him, and he’s nowhere to be found.
Amy is saying something to me, and I miss it, scanning the crowd for Antonio again. I turn to Amy and give her a placating smile. “I’m so sorry, but there’s something I need to take care of,” I lie.
While Amy possesses a sweet soul, she can be… well, garrulous, and I find it tedious. She’s graceful enough to withdraw without questions, bless her.
The dining and sitting rooms serve as the main party venue, with traffic flowing between them. There are some guests out in the backyard and some on the front porch. Too many people came to celebrate what I consider a tragedy.
I grab a glass of deep red wine from a passing servant, nodding in thanks as I scan the living room again. It’s clear to me now that Antonio has left the party. But why? I swirl the drink in my glass and take a sip. The anniversary party, Henry's grand gesture of celebrating my ‘freedom’, feels like a cruel joke. Freedom. It's a word that tastes like ashes in my mouth. I’m grateful that Henry cared enough to celebrate, but I’d rather not have remembered.
The divorce papers, signed with a flourish on a table across from a man whose face seemed to blur into a sneer, might have declared me free, but the shackles of the past remain. Forced smiles stretch across my face as I mingle with the guests, their well-meaning platitudes grating on my raw nerves.
"So happy for you, Colette!" chirps Mrs. Peabody, her rouged cheeks bouncing with cheer. "A fresh start, a new chapter!"
The words are daggers, each one ripping open a wound I am trying to close.
"Fresh start," I mumble into my glass, the wonderful vintage doing little to numb the ache in my chest. Unfortunately, I can’t take anything stronger than this, or I face their judgment.
Our divorce became a brutal war, a legal battlefield where they dissected and weaponized every detail of our failing marriage. In the end, I walked away with a settlement that feels like a pittance compared to everything else I lost.
As the evening wears on, the weight of the past becomes unbearable. I excuse myself, escaping the stifling confinement of the party for the cool night air. Stepping onto the porch, I take a deep, shuddering breath, smelling freshly cut grass and blooming honeysuckle rich in the air. The full moon is a perfect silver disc hanging in the inky sky. It looks so similar to the moon that witnessed my tears a year ago, when I walked away from everything. The memory is sharp and vivid, and my hands tremble as I recall the day I left.
The silence of the lawyer's office feels pregnant with disaster, making it hard to breathe. Across the table, my husband sits, his manicured nails tapping a rhythm against the polished mahogany. His face, tanned and charming, twists into an ugly sneer that makes me flinch. The tension in the room is thick enough to slice.
"There you have it, Colette," he drawls, pushing the final documents across the table with a flourish.
I stare at the papers; the words blurring before my eyes. Memories flicker through my mind, the few happy ones that aren’t cloaked in pain. And then the slow erosion of whatever love he felt and the contempt creep in. Each memory feels like a blow, chipping away at the woman I used to be.
I pick up the pen, my hand shaking. Is this it? Is this culminating over five years of my life? At this moment, I wonder if I’m making a mistake. It’s an irrational thought, but I think it anyway. A single tear rolls down my cheek, tracing a silent path down my flushed face.
He doesn't offer a handkerchief, a word of comfort, not even a flicker of remorse. He watches me with an icy indifference that makes me feel like a stranger in my skin. with a choked sob; I sign the papers, sealing my fate.
The drive home from the lawyer's office is a blur. I feel numb and hollowed out. When I get home, the silence is suffocating. I wander from room to room, my fingers trailing along surfaces that used to feel so familiar. Now, they're just empty reminders of a life that's slipped away.
In the bedroom, his side of the closet stands empty and void. I sink down onto the bed, and I hate my traitorous heart for the pain it is making me feel for the decision I made to leave. If I did the right thing, why does it hurt so much?
I don't know how long I sit there, frozen in time, before the grief overwhelms me. Sobs wrack my body as I bury my face in the pillow, the dam of emotions I've been holding back bursting free. I cry until there are no more tears left, until my body feels raw and empty.
When the tears subside, I force myself to get up. I can't stay here, surrounded by these memories. I pack a single suitcase, tossing in a few essentials without looking at what I'm taking. It doesn't matter. This place is no longer my home.
I blink back tears; the memory leaving me raw and exposed. I feel a wave of nausea rising within me, the wine churning in my stomach. It doesn't help. The pain, the anger, the humiliation–it all comes flooding back. I need to get out of here, away from all the celebrating and noise. I glance across at Antonio’s house, wondering if he’s home. It doesn’t hurt to check.
Without hesitation, I hurry down the steps of the porch, rounding the edge and walking up to his front door. Earlier today, I explained we can't continue our relationship in the presence of Henry. I realize now that I don’t care. Tonight, I need him .
Heavy footfalls sound inside a few moments after I ring the bell. I hide my overwhelmed state, keeping a neutral face. Antonio startles when he sees me. And then his eyes narrow as he looks into mine, and then down at the wineglass still in my hand. He glances towards my house, and then, without saying a word, steps aside to let me in.
He leads me to the sitting room, to the couch that holds a lovely memory for me. He sits beside me and says nothing. I sip my wine and let out a deep breath. For the first time in hours, I don’t have to pretend to smile when someone asks me if I’m doing better. For the first time the entire day, I don’t have to talk or explain my side of the story. I don’t have to do anything. And yet, it’s all I need.
I drain the last of my wine, and he says, “Would you like me to get you some more? I have some amazing vintages from our vineyards back home in Italy.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, resisting the temptation. “Yes, I think I need one more.” He nods and gets up as I add, “ But only if you join me and have a glass.”
His eyes widen in shock. I hold up a hand. “Antonio. It’s one glass. Please? Drinking alone is making me feel even more pathetic. Just one.”
Thoughtful eyes look down at me, and I see a hint of betrayal. Yes. He hates that I’ve requested this from him. Unfortunately, I’m too sad to care. He nods and walks out of the room, returning a few moments later with a bottle, a wine opener, and a single glass. He settles on the floor in front of the couch and goes to work uncorking a bottle.
The soft pop echoes in the room, and he pours into both glasses. He hands me mine, then sniffs along the rim of his. He takes a tiny sip, closing his eyes as he savors the taste.
I slip off the couch and join him on the floor. “Thank you,” I whisper, holding his hand.
He looks at me and smiles. “I didn’t have to be so self-righteous about a glass of wine. It’s just… when I went over the edge before, it started with just one, and then I lost control. I don’t think I’m strong enough yet not to maintain control. That’s why I stay away.”
I watch him as he takes another sip, swirling the wine in his mouth. “I think you’re strong enough. You made mistakes, sure, but who doesn’t, right?”
He cocks a brow at me. “What do you think you’re doing? Make no mistakes. This isn’t about me. This is about you, and don’t you dare try to deflect? What’s going on?”
I sit back and drain my glass, stretching it to him for a refill. He chuckles and fills the glass, then leans back. He seems content to allow the silence to stretch between us, sipping his wine.
“I just had to get out of there,” I whisper. “Felt like I was being buried alive, and the house felt like a tomb… and it was suffocating me. I…I didn’t know where else to go, so I came here.”
He nods, but remains quiet. How much can I tell him? How much would he be able to take? He drains his glass and fills it back up, topping my empty one, the soft clinking of bottle on glass the only sound in the room. He settles back again and watches me, his eyes filled with encouragement.
And so, I tell him everything. It pours out of me like a flood. I say more to him than I did, even in therapy. And he just sits there, quiet, drinking in every word.
“You know, he used to enjoy calling me names,” I confess, my voice a whisper while the past bubbles up to the surface. “Awful things. Things no one deserves to hear.”
The design studio is a war zone, papers and sketches strewn across every surface. I'm hunched over my drafting table, trying to meet a looming deadline. The angry tapping of his foot punctuates the gentle hum of my computer behind me. He insists on coming to get me after work now, convinced I'm having an affair even though I've given him no reason to think that.
"This place is a goddamn mess," he spits out, his voice dripping with disgust. "How do you expect to get any actual work done in this pigsty?"
I flinch at the venom in his words, my shoulders tensing. "I was just trying to finish up the Bryson account proofs," I mumble, not daring to meet his gaze. "They need them by tomorrow morning."
He sneers, his once handsome face twisting into an ugly mask of contempt. "Or maybe you were too busy chatting up that sleazy art director again. Don't think I didn't notice the way he was undressing you with his eyes at the last company dinner."
Tears sting my eyes as the familiar, baseless accusations wash over me. "That's not true. I would never..."
My voice trails off as he advances towards me, his body taut with inexplicable rage. In a swift motion, he sweeps his arm across my drafting table, sending my work—hours and hours of painstaking effort, fluttering to the ground in a cyclone of crumpled paper.
"You're nothing but a lying, cheating whore!" he roars, his face contorted into an inhuman mask of fury. His hand lashes out, connecting with my cheek with a sickening crack.
The force of the blow sends me reeling backwards, my hip slamming into the edge of the table. White-hot pain blossoms through my body as I crumple to the floor and curl into a ball, cradling my throbbing hip as I stare up at him in shock and fear.
This isn't the first time he's lashed out, but it still leaves me shaken to my core. How did the man I married become this angry, abusive stranger?
"Look at the mess you've made," he snarls, nudging the scattered papers with the toe of his shoe. "You're fucking useless."
Tears stream down my face as I scramble to gather up the crumpled sketches and proofs. "I'm s-sorry," I stammer through ragged breaths. "I'll have to clean it up and stay late to re-do everything."
He has his own successful businesses, making his obsession with monitoring my every move at work even more baffling and worrying. I flinch at his scathing words, feeling small and worthless. I want to protest, to defend myself, but years of walking on eggshells around his tirades have left me cowed into submission.
Leaving that hell was an option that I had considered every day since I married Ricardo Lorde, but I feared both Father and Ricardo… What he would do to me if I left kept me that long. I am afraid of him, and I don’t want to end like the Amato girl. I am hopeless and too timid to take that bold step and put an end to all the abuse.
He lets out a derisive snort. "Like that's going to fix the damage you've already done? You've probably lost your firm and that client with your incompetence."
Fixing me with a look of pure loathing, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his wallet, extracting a few crumpled bills. He tosses them at me, the dirty cash fluttering to the ground.
"Here, why don't you take your whore money and get out of my sight?" he spat. "Go do whatever cheap thrill makes you feel better about being such a worthless failure. Getting married to a piece of shit like you was only for the health of our family businesses. Cheap slut."
This demeaning act of paying me like a prostitute buy, even though I've never asked him for anything financial since our marriage. I don't need to understand his insults for them to reinforce my growing feelings of shame and diminished self-worth. I wasn’t sure which hurt more, knowing that he was right about the reason he married me or the fact that hearing him say that only proved my father’s disregard for me.
I ignore the crumpled bills, my cheeks burning with humiliation. Grabbing my purse, I slink out of the studio, the weight of his contempt like a leaden anchor dragging me down. I can hear his mocking laughter echoing down the hallway as I stagger to the elevator, bloodied and broken. My few remaining colleagues pretend not to notice the unmistakable signs of abuse.
That's the day I decided. That's the last time I ever allow myself to be diminished and dehumanized by the man I once vowed to love forever.
I fall silent. That memory is one of the hardest for me to remember. Getting abused like that at work, by a man so powerful and wealthy, everyone else pretends they saw nothing. Fresh tears spill down my cheeks, and Antonio pulls me close, wrapping his arms around me. His embrace is so powerful, but I allow him, melting into it.
My sorrow feels like something alive. By letting down my walls, I allow my nightmares to assault me while I am awake. Antonio is a solid shield through all that, though, and his touch anchors me. It doesn’t stop me from feeling, but it helps me get through.
We stay like that for a long time, my ragged breaths evening out as I draw strength from his solid presence. When I pull back, he cups my face in his calloused hands, brushing away the tear streaks with the pads of his thumbs.
There’s something in his eyes that I don’t recognize. It looks like guilt, and it breaks my heart. How dare he? How dare he feel guilty for the crimes of a monster? This is not on him. Why does he feel the need to make this his failing?
I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him. Anything to not see him so overcome by guilt. He has done nothing wrong. His hands pulling my dress tight, almost as if he’s afraid to let go.
He breaks the kiss and cups my face. “You’re so strong,” he murmurs, his eyes shining with fierce admiration. “To have survived that...to still be standing after everything he put you through…” He trails off, shaking his head, at a loss for words. I manage a watery smile, covering his hand with mine and giving it a grateful squeeze.
“Thank you for giving me the strength to share. I feel…better. Better than I’ve felt in a long time. I don’t know if the pain would ever go away. But it doesn’t feel so bad now.”
He brushes a stray lock of hair from my face, his touch feather-light yet electrifying. "You're the strongest woman I know."
His words wrap around me like a warm embrace, soothing the ache of old wounds. I lean in, capturing his lips in a slow, smoldering kiss. He unbuttons his shirt and then pulls my dress over my head. Antonio sets me on the couch, kissing me again as he unbuckles his belt, each touch taking my mind further and further from my ex. I bask in the warmth of Antonio’s affection. It makes me feel whole. Alive!
With his lips still pressed against mine, he pushes himself inside me, and my mind leaps in a thrill. All my worries about Henry finding out, about loyalty and doing the right thing, none of them matter anymore. Nothing else matters to me but this moment of intimacy and honesty with Antonio.
There’s nothing rushed or forceful about the way he fucks me. It’s slow, passionate, intimate, and it’s complete. I weeping again. Not out of pain, but pure pleasure. His deep grunts and my loud moans sound discordant, until somehow they snap into harmony, the perfect song.
His cock feels like heaven inside me, and I focus on the sensation it leaves in my pussy, concentrating on each slow, rhythmic thrust. We’ve fucked dozens of times, but none of them ever felt this good. This is more than just sex. This is vulnerability that extends deep into the soul. I bared myself to him, showed him my scars, and he wanted me all the same.
I feel a sense of satisfaction when he comes inside me, emptying his clip with sweet, jerking motions as his cock pulsates inside me, stretching my pussy walls. I grip him, taking all he can give, my fingers digging deep into his back as euphoria envelops my mind.
And then he continues, choosing not to stop. I grin in satisfaction, clinging on tighter to him as he pounds me. I want this; I realize. I want this so fucking bad . Tonight, there are no shadows, no demons from the past–only this connection that makes me feel valued, desired, worthy. I hold on to that for dear life.
***