Chapter 24 Lila
Lila
Isit at Mia’s kitchen table, cradling a mug of coffee between my palms. The warmth seeps into my skin, a stark contrast to the cold determination settling in my chest. Valerie paces behind me, her footsteps marking time like a metronome while Mia scribbles furiously on a notepad, making lists of what we need to do.
The morning light streams through the blinds, painting stripes across the table.
“I should go home today,” I say, the words tumbling out before I can second-guess myself. “It’s Sunday, Eli left Friday morning, he shouldn’t be he back until Monday or Tuesday. I could pack a suitcase now, be done with it.”
Valerie stops pacing, her body going rigid. “Absolutely not.”
“That’s a terrible idea,” Mia agrees without looking up from her list. “We planned for Monday for a reason. We’re going to chill today and make a plan. File for a restraining order and have an escort tomorrow.”
I trace the rim of my mug with my finger, gathering my thoughts. “I know, but think about it. Eli never comes home early from his trips. Never. And this way, I can take my time, really think about what I need.”
“And what if he decides to surprise you?” Valerie challenges, dropping into the chair across from me. “What then?”
“He won’t,” I insist. “He’s probably too busy with his prostitutes.”
The bitterness in my voice surprises even me. It’s not jealousy. God, no. More like resentment for all the times he made me feel worthless and forced himself on me all while he was paying other women for what he claimed I couldn’t give him.
Mia sets down her pen, finally looking up. “Lila, it’s not worth the risk. We can all go together on Monday, like we planned.”
“I need to do this,” I say, meeting her eyes. “I need to walk into that house knowing I’m walking back out for good. I can’t explain it, but it feels important.”
Valerie and Mia exchange a look I’ve seen too many times, concern mixed with resignation. They know once I’ve made up my mind, there’s little point in arguing.
“Fine,” Valerie sighs. “But you’re not going alone. We’ll drop you off and wait outside.”
“No,” I shake my head. “I appreciate it, I do. But I need to do this part myself.”
Another look passes between them.
“At least let us drive you,” Mia tries.
“I’ll take my car,” I counter. “I’ll text you when I get there and again when I’m leaving. If you don’t hear from me within an hour, you can come breaking down the door.”
“One hour,” Valerie counters. “And you text us the second anything feels off. If you forget anything, we’ll go back on Monday. No more exceptions.”
I nod, feeling a strange mix of fear and exhilaration. “One hour.”
The drive to my house… Eli’s house, I correct myself, is surreal.
The familiar streets look different somehow, as if the decision to leave has altered my perception of everything.
I grip the steering wheel tightly, reminding myself to breathe.
I’ve lived in fear for so long that this small act of defiance feels monumental.
I pull into the driveway and sit for a moment, staring at the house. It’s beautiful from the outside, a modern two-story with large windows and a manicured lawn. The perfect facade hiding the ugliness within. Just like our marriage.
Me: At the house. All quiet. Starting the timer now.
Mia: One hour. Be careful.
The house is silent when I step inside, the kind of emptiness that feels heavy rather than peaceful. I stand in the foyer, listening for any sign that I’m not alone. Nothing. Just the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the grandfather clock in the living room.
I head upstairs, my footsteps echoing on the hardwood.
Our bedroom… Eli’s bedroom; is pristine, as always.
He can’t stand disorder. For years, I’ve lived with the constant anxiety of leaving something out of place, of facing his cold anger over a book left on the nightstand or a towel folded the wrong way.
Not anymore.
I pull a suitcase from the closet and toss it onto the bed. What do I take? What matters? Clothes, of course. Documents. My laptop. I start with the essentials, moving quickly but methodically through drawers and shelves.
My hands shake slightly as I fold shirts and pants into the suitcase. Each item feels like a declaration. I’m choosing what parts of this life to take with me, what parts to leave behind. It’s terrifying and liberating all at once.
I move to my side of the closet, reaching for the few dark-colored dresses I actually like. Most of my wardrobe was chosen by Eli, clothes that fit his idea of what his wife should wear. I grab only what feels like me, leaving behind the designer pieces that never felt right.
As I reach for a hoodie on the top shelf, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. That feeling. Someone is in here with me.
I turn slowly, heart hammering against my ribs.
Eli stands in the doorway.
His face is blank, that controlled emptiness more frightening than any display of rage. His eyes, those icy blue eyes that used to make me feel special, now look colorless and dead.
“Where the fuck were you last night?” His voice is calm, too calm.
My mouth goes dry. Words stick in my throat like tar. “I went out to dinner with my co-workers,” I manage, the lie feeling flimsy even to my own ears.
“Try again.” He steps into the room, closing the distance between us with measured steps. “The cameras never showed you come home and I couldn’t see your location on your phone.”
My mind races. He wasn’t supposed to be here. How long has he been home? Did he see me leave with my dress yesterday?
“My phone died. I stayed at Mia’s because I had too many drinks to drive,” I say, clinging to at least part of the truth. “Girls’ night.”
His eyes flick to the suitcase on the bed, clothes spilling over the edges. “And this? Planning a trip I don’t know about?”
The moment stretches between us like a wire pulled too tight. I could lie. Make up some story about visiting a friend, a weekend away that he’d never allow but might pretend to consider.
But I’m done lying. Done pretending. I do the dumbest thing you could ever do when leaving a domestic abuser. I tell him:
“I’m leaving you, Eli.”
The words hang in the air, impossible to take back. For a moment, his face doesn’t change. Then something shifts in his eyes, a flash of disbelief followed by a darkness that makes my blood run cold.
“No, you’re not.” He says it like he’s correcting a simple misunderstanding, like I’ve made a mistake in basic arithmetic.
“Yes, I am.” My voice shakes but doesn’t break. “I’m done with this marriage. I’m done with you.”
His movement is so sudden I don’t have time to react. His hand shoots out, fingers tangling in my hair, yanking my head back with enough force that I cry out. Pain lances across my scalp, sharp and immediate.
“You ungrateful bitch,” he hisses, his face inches from mine. “After everything I’ve done for you? Everything I’ve given you?”
“Let go,” I gasp, my hands flying up to grab his wrist, trying to lessen the pressure on my scalp.
He drags me toward the door, my feet stumbling to keep up, my hands clawing at his arm. I don’t recognize the sounds coming from my throat, half-words, half-animal noises of pain and fear.
“You think you can just walk away?” he asks, his voice oddly conversational despite the violence of his grip. “You think you can just decide you’re done?”
We’re at the top of the stairs now. I know what’s coming even before he shoves me, but there’s no time to brace myself. My body pitches forward, hands desperately reaching for the railing but finding only air.
The fall feels both impossibly slow and too fast to process.
I’m aware of each impact. Shoulder, hip, elbow, ribs, as I tumble down the stairs, each point of contact a new explosion of pain.
When I finally land at the bottom, sprawled on the hardwood floor, I can’t breathe.
The jarring contact has knocked the air out of me, and for a terrifying moment, I can’t make my diaphragm work.
Eli descends the stairs methodically, each step deliberate. Through the haze of pain, I try to move, to crawl away, but my body won’t cooperate. Something must be broken, everything hurts in a way that makes coherent thought nearly impossible.
“Look at you,” he says, standing over me. “Pathetic. You can’t even leave properly.”
He grabs my shoulders and flips me onto my stomach. The sudden movement sends fresh pain shooting through my body, and I cry out. His knee presses into the small of my back, pinning me down.
“Maybe you need a reminder of who you belong to,” he says, his hands going to the waistband of my pants.
Ice-cold terror cuts through the fog of pain. “No,” I gasp, trying to buck him off. “Don’t. Please.”
He ignores me, yanking my pants down to my thighs with one brutal movement. I feel the heat of his body as he leans over me, hear the clink of his belt buckle.
“Stop,” I plead, my voice breaking. “Eli, please stop.”
“Shut up,” he growls, one hand pressing my face against the floor. “You’re my wife. This is what wives do.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, preparing for the inevitable violation. Then a sound cuts through the horror, a sharp, insistent knocking at the front door. Eli freezes above me, his breathing heavy in my ear.
The knocking continues, growing louder, more urgent. Unrelenting.
“On of your little friends?” Eli asks, his weight still crushing me. “Did you tell them to come check on you?”
I don’t answer, focused only on the knocking that hasn’t stopped. It’s my lifeline, my only hope.
The pressure on my back shifts as Eli stands. “Don’t move,” he orders, zipping his pants.
The moment his weight lifts, I drag myself forward, pants still tangled around my thighs. Every movement is agony, but terror is a powerful motivator. I claw my way across the floor as Eli moves toward the door, yelling for whoever it is to go away.
The library. I need to get to the library.