1. Chapter 1
Lydia
I’m tired and cranky.
I’ve spent my morning organizing a charity luncheon for deaf lizards, or neglected houseplants, or something equally ridiculous. I honestly don’t remember, and I don’t care.
My afternoon doesn’t get any better.
After a sweet but semi-blind woman rams her cart into me at the grocery store, the dry cleaner ends up losing the dress Simon specifically told me to wear tonight. The dealership then makes me wait two hours, just to tell me they don’t have the stupidly expensive oil I’ve been sent to request.
All I want now is a scalding-hot bubble bath, an irresponsible amount of white wine, and Stevie Nicks loud enough to drown out the day. Maybe a good cry too. I’m a big fan of crying.
Instead, I’ll be forced to choose a different pretty dress, paste on a big, fat, fake smile, and play the dutiful wife to the husband I regret more with each passing day.
What am I thinking?
At first, I thought he was a successful lawyer with piercing blue eyes and a way with words. He managed to convince me he was sincere, kind, and everything I’ve ever wanted. God, I’m such a dumb girl. It’s annoying, really.
What I had mistaken for kindness was just a well-practiced talent for manipulation. Those blue eyes that once drew me in now feel cold. Calculating. As if every glance is weighing what I’m worth to him.
And he’s blond.
Blond!
His hair reminds me of a damp Chihuahua, perfectly styled, meticulously trimmed, and still somehow…wrong. I used to fight the urge to mess it up just to see if he’d panic.
He probably would have. Now I just don’t care.
He’s also short. Barely five-seven. And since I’m five-three, I have to be careful about the heels I wear. Heaven forbid I’ll be taller than him. Ugh. Short men and their fragile egos.
I don’t love him. I don’t think I ever really did.
I just love the idea of being chosen by someone.
How pitiful is that?
Instead of a bubble bath and wine, I’ll have to go to this party, make small talk, and smile and laugh exactly when I’m supposed to.
No one would be the wiser, nor would they know my husband’s hands make my skin crawl or how unbearably uncomfortable small talk is for me.
I would play the part of a supportive wife, and I would play it well, dammit.
God, how did I even get here? That’s a dumb question. I know exactly how I got here.
After years of my stepfather telling me how pathetic I was and how no man would ever want me, I practically jumped at Simon the minute he smiled my way.
At the slightest bit of positive attention, I was like a dog with a bone.
He told me I was beautiful, and I ate it up.
We dated for six months before he proposed, and I said yes without hesitation, even though I was already seeing cracks in his perfect fa?ade.
Slips of his temper when I didn’t give him the answer he expected, and subtle critiques of my appearance.
Not to mention I had zero physical attraction to the man.
I told myself that was because I had very limited sexual experience and it would surely get better after we were married.
Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
Our sex life is strictly on his terms. He initiates intimacy and dictates the positions, or lack thereof, if I’m being honest. Simon is a missionary man through and through.
Super fun.
But he provides a nice home and a new car. He also tells me he loves me daily, though his actions rarely reflect it. His idea of affection is a chaste kiss on the cheek and a quick hug before leaving for work.
Zero heat. Zero passion. Zero romance. Unless he’s been drinking.
When he is, it’s always a gamble which version of Simon I’ll get: snarky, critical, mean, or apologetic, “I promise to be better to you” Simon.
He didn’t drink much in the beginning of our marriage, but it became more frequent as time passed.
He’d say it was him needing to let off some steam due to a tough case, or he’d had a long day and just needed a drink to unwind.
Sometimes he’d drink at home; other times he’d go out with colleagues to a bar near his downtown office.
Tonight, we’re at an event for his firm, and he’s already downed more than a few whiskeys.
“I like this dress, babe,” Simon says, a slight slur to his words.
I plaster a fake smile to my lips. “Thank you.”
“I like that it dips low, right…here.” He draws his pinky finger along my neckline, dipping it just below the fabric, a move that should give me goosebumps, or at the very least, turn me on. Instead, it makes my stomach turn.
“But why are you wearing such a low-cut dress around my friends, hmm? Are you trying to make yourself look like a cheap little slut?” He hisses the last part in my ear, making my skin flush along my chest and arms. He’s been doing this a lot lately.
He would drink and suddenly feel entitled to call me names and accuse me of infidelity, knowing full well he was the only man I’ve been with in five years.
“Do you want these guys to check out those perfect tits? Are you trying to get them to look at your body?” I’m shaking at this point.
His hand on my hip tightens to an unbearable grip.
“Do you want someone else to put their hands on this ass? Do you want to be a whore for another man in this room?” His words grow harder with each sentence, spittle hitting my cheek as he over-enunciates every word.
I try to pull away, my smile slipping ever so slightly.
“Of course not, baby. This dress is all for you,” I say, desperately trying to rein him back in and not cause a scene. “Come on, let’s go find some coffee. Or would you rather we just go home? You could take me to bed...”
My stomach convulses at the idea of having his naked body on top of me, but I’m trying to de-escalate the situation as quickly as I can. Something cold flashes in his eyes, then vanishes almost as quickly as it appears. He releases his grip on my hip.
“Yes, baby. Let’s go home.” The corner of his lips pulls downward in an almost sneer.
“Let’s go home,” I repeat. “Can you grab our coats, please? I just need to run to the ladies’ room before we go.”
“Of course, darling. I’ll meet you at the front,” he says, a cold edge to his voice.
I turn and walk away before I gag at him for calling me “darling,” then rush into the bathroom, nearly knocking a poor woman over in my haste to get inside and out of his sight.
“Are you okay, dear? You seem upset,” the sweet, older lady says, concern flooding her face. I’m struggling to breathe; afraid I might pass out at any moment.
“He called me a cheap slut. My husband called me a cheap slut,” I whisper before I can stop myself. What the hell? When had I decided being spoken to like that was something I would accept? Something I could endure with a smile on my face?
Yeah, fuck that.
The kind woman leans in, her wrinkled hand resting gently on my trembling arm as she speaks in a low, steady voice.
“Honey, if he does it once, he’s going to do it again.
And again, and again, if you don’t put a stop to it.
” Her eyes, sharp with experience, lock onto mine, searching for understanding.
I swallow, my heart pounding as I consider her words. “I know,” I reply dejectedly, my voice barely above a whisper. “But I don’t know what to do about it.” The weight of the situation presses in on me. I want to leave him. I need to leave him. I’m just not sure how.
She squeezes my arm, her grip both gentle and insistent.
“You take care of it before he takes care of you, my dear,” she says, a glint of orneriness flashing in her wise old eyes.
Her words echo the warning signs I’ve been trying to ignore, cutting cleanly through the haze of denial I’ve been hiding behind.
For the first time, I truly understand what the sweet old lady means, and the urgency behind her advice.