2. Tori
TORI
People love saying that the secret to lasting relationships is compromise. But what the hell did they really know about it? By keeping KZ Modeling’s secret, I’d be compromising more than just my wants or needs; this was about human rights, moral standards, basic decency.
As we sat in traffic just a few blocks away from our condo—Stefan’s condo, I corrected myself—I thought hard about the word compromise.
It had originated in the early fifteenth century, and its Latin roots could be traced back to the combination of the words promittere, “to promise,” and com, meaning “together.” My relationship with Stefan, in this respect, had always been a compromise—since the very first time we’d met, at my eighteenth birthday party—a promise we’d made together.
I hadn’t gone into my marriage impetuously, despite the fact that we’d gotten engaged within minutes of being formally introduced.
We’d talked it over first, weighed the implications of the union that our fathers were trying to force us into.
Stefan swore that if we got married, we’d make our own lives and our own choices, independent of our controlling fathers’ wishes.
We’d forge our own paths. We’d live for ourselves.
We’d both get what we wanted. But now here we were, completely at the mercy of the decisions and actions—or inactions—of our fathers.
And Stefan had known all along. From day one, my husband had lied to me. Played me.
Not only that, but now that I knew he’d purposely omitted the truth about the back-room dealings that his family’s agency engaged in, it had completely shattered my trust in him.
I wasn’t going to let this stand.
As we stepped into the foyer of the condo, I cleared my throat and leaned against the doorway, blocking Stefan’s route into the living room.
“I’ve made some decisions,” I told him.
He nodded, his mouth set in a firm line. “Let’s hear them, then.”
“There are things I can’t control or change about my situation, and I recognize that,” I began. “We’re married, at least for the next few years, as we discussed, and I’m dependent on you financially, in many ways. My tuition at UChicago, this condo, transportation, Gretna—”
My reference to our personal chef got a smile out of him, and I was glad.
Let him think he was winning. Let him think I liked having my meals prepared for me more than I liked protecting women from human trafficking.
Let him believe I was just a spoiled, selfish princess with no cares beyond my own comfort and well-being.
“—but while it’s one thing to accept my role, you can’t force me to embrace it,” I finished.
Stefan’s expression reverted to its scowl. “I don’t expect you to. Just play the part.”
“Oh, I fully intend to,” I said, my voice low and as cold as I could make it.
With that, I twisted off the huge diamond ring on my finger, and the pavé gold band that matched, and placed them both on the entryway table.
“When I leave this house, I’ll put them on,” I said, gesturing to my wedding rings.
“But when I’m here, at home, I’m not your slave. ”
“Is that what you think?” he growled, reaching to pull my body hard against him.
Our eyes locked, and I desperately fought against the desire spiking through my veins.
“It is,” I said, twisting out of his grasp and storming down the hallway.
Just because we were married, and would remain so, it didn’t mean I had to sleep in the same room as a monster. And I sure as hell wouldn’t be sharing a bed with him.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
I didn’t answer as I marched into the master bedroom. Stefan’s bedroom. Because from now on it would be his, and his alone.
He stood silently in the doorway, watching me as I started angrily pulling clothes out of the closet and piling them in my arms. When I turned toward him, he didn’t move.
“Why don’t you put those down,” he said, his voice deceptively reasonable.
“No,” I said, shocked to hear the word fly out of my mouth so fast. I was defying him.
“No?” he repeated, and all the gentleness was gone.
I clutched the clothes I was holding more tightly, not sure what he would do. Would he pull the pile out of my hands, force me to hang everything back up? Would he tell me I had to stay in his room, continue sleeping beside him?
Even though I felt a tremor of fear, I held my ground. I wasn’t going to back down. After everything that had happened, I needed a victory—I needed to feel like I had some control, no matter how small.
I braced myself for him to start yelling, or for him to grab my arm and try to force me and my clothes back into the master closet. But instead of just standing there waiting, I set my jaw, lifted my chin, and walked past him into the hallway.
He said nothing, following me as I went down the hall and deposited the clothes in the guest room. It was half the size of the master, with a tiny closet, but I didn’t care. I was going to have my own space, whether he liked it or not.
Back in the master bedroom, I gathered more of my things. Toiletries, underwear, my comfy T-shirts and leggings that I liked to wear to school so I could fit in with all the other co-eds. That load, too, got deposited on the bed in the guest room, along with my laptop.
“Stop,” he finally said, blocking me in the hallway.
I looked up, almost daring him to touch me, directing all my fury toward him with my gaze. “Don’t treat me like I’m a prisoner here,” I said, even though it felt dangerous.
I was surprised when he backed down, stepping aside to let me pass.
“Fine,” he said from behind me. “You obviously need some time to come to terms with our arrangement. I understand that.”
Ignoring him, I walked back into the master to fill my arms with the rest of my nice clothes: the designer jeans, the flashy dresses I’d bought in Vienna during our honeymoon, the blue party dress I’d worn the first night we’d met.
But even though my things were moving, I knew that the memories attached to them weren’t going anywhere.
As if they were woven into the fabric of every single dress I’d worn in his presence.
Turning toward the doorway, I caught him watching me, and for a split second I could’ve sworn I saw something in his face—regret. But it was gone so fast I doubted it had been real.
“Just do yourself a favor, Tori, and realize that I’m allowing you to do this as a kindness.” He strode over to me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “And when I require my wife to behave as such, you will obey me.”
His size overpowered me, reminding me how small I was compared to him.
My pulse kicked, and my cheeks went hot.
Part of me wanted nothing more than to leave this nightmare behind, drop everything and get on my hands and knees, let him fuck me right there on the floor.
Forget about our fight and the sordid truth behind KZM’s business dealings—and my father’s role in keeping them out of the public eye.
But I couldn’t forget any of it. If I performed my “wifely duties” going forward, they’d be exactly that—duties.
“Tell me you’ll obey,” Stefan repeated.
There was no room to argue. I nodded my consent.
After I dropped the rest of my things onto the guest room bed, I shut the door behind me. Then I set about hanging everything up in the empty closet and formally claiming the space as my own. But every item I picked up reminded me vividly and irrevocably of Stefan.
The simple black sheath dress I’d changed into after our wedding.
All I could think about was how nervous I’d been unzipping it in the bathroom before changing into the white lace wedding night lingerie he’d done his best to resist. The sexy black cocktail dress I’d bought in Vienna, that even the shop girl had called vavoom, with all its complicated straps across the back.
I’d worn it right out of the store in an effort to make Stefan jealous, to make him notice me.
And here was the gorgeous gown I’d worn the night we had gone to the opera, with its daring neckline that plunged almost to my ass in the back.
I’d worn it without a bra, to tempt him.
The slinky, ice-blue silk gown I’d worn the night he stood me up, when we had fought and he’d finally kissed me the way I’d wanted him to.
Hard and rough, his tongue fucking my mouth, my pussy instantly wet for him. It had been hot. So fucking hot.
And then there was the beautiful designer dress with its petal-scattered skirt that I’d worn for my eighteenth birthday party—the first time Stefan and I had met. A night where I had felt like a princess. Where he had called me Cinderella.
Where we’d shared our first kiss.
Blinking back tears, I abandoned the dresses and tried to focus on putting my underwear away in the top drawer of the dresser. It was hard to hold those beautiful, silky, sexy things and not think about how good it had felt when Stefan ripped them off of me.
I’d noticed that there was no lock on the guest room door. Which meant that if he wanted to, he could come into this room, into my bed, and take what he wanted. Take me however he wanted. Whenever he felt like it.
Standing there, a hot ache growing low in my belly, my hands tangled in lacy lingerie, I couldn’t help imagining what it would be like; Stefan’s intense, authoritative way of handling me playing out in an intensely sexual way.
I couldn’t deny that it made me hot. I knew it was wrong, knew he was a monster, but I couldn’t erase the memories of him dominating my body.
Just the way I liked it, the way he’d always been toward me. Controlled, confident, commanding.
But that part of our relationship, that intimacy, that intensity…it was all done and gone. Things were different now. If and when I fucked him, it wouldn’t be the same.
I hadn’t been trapped before. Back then, I had been a willing partner in a marriage—one of convenience, but one that I thought I understood. Now, I was trapped. Trapped in this life, this marriage, and now in this guest room. At Stefan’s mercy and command. Because he was my captor.
And my enemy.
There was nothing I could do to change the situation yet, but it wouldn’t always be this way. My husband had been right about one thing: I did need some time to come to terms with our arrangement. He just didn’t know that I would be using that time to figure out my next move.
So I would play the good girl, the good wife, and I’d bide my time. Meanwhile, I’d find a way out, gather evidence, come up with a plan to save myself and all the other hurting women involved in this.
I felt powerful to have separated myself from Stefan already, even in this small way. To be drawing battle lines, fighting back, no matter how small the gesture was. It made me feel strong. Like I would survive.
Because this war was far from over.