The storm rolled in sometime after midnight.
The kind that made the windows rattle in their frames and the lights flicker like the house itself knew what was coming.
I sat by the fire in my room, wrapped in a blanket, legs curled beneath me, trying to stay awake.
The ache in my ribs was worse that night.
Everything hurt.
But the silence hurt more.
Until the door slammed downstairs.
Loud. Sharp. Final.
Then…footsteps.
Fast. Unsteady. Heavy like thunder crashing up marble stairs.
He was home.
And drunk.
The stench of scotch hit the hallway before he did.
I heard glass hit the floor.
Something shatter.
Then silence.
Then…
My door opened without a knock.
Alessandro stood there.
Unbuttoned shirt. Rain clinging to his sleeves. Hair wet, jaw tight, pupils blown wide with liquor and something darker.
"You weren't waiting for me," he slurred.
I stood slowly. "It's almost two in the morning."
"You didn't ask where I was."
"I never do."
He stepped inside.
Closed the door behind him.
My heart started pounding…not from love.
From memory.
Because drunk men had never meant comfort in my life.
They meant control.
They meant bruises no one asked about.
They meant names I was forced to answer to.
"You didn't check," he said again, stepping closer.
I didn't move. "Why would I?"
His eyes narrowed. "Because I'm your husband."
"You made it clear I'm not allowed to be your wife."
He chuckled. Low. Cold. Mean.
"Maybe that's what I liked about you. All that silence. All that stillness. Like a doll I could set down and pick up when it suited me."
I didn't reply.
I didn't run.
I just stood there.
Letting the words cut.
Until he crossed the distance and grabbed my wrist.
Not roughly.
But tight.
Possessive.
Like he had a right to it.
To me.
"Let go," I said quietly.
His grip tightened.
"Why?" he whispered. "Afraid you might want it now?"
I swallowed.
"You don't want me," I said.
He leaned in. "Doesn't mean I don't know how to use you."
And then his mouth crashed into mine.
Not love.
Not passion.
Just anger.
Desperation.
Power.
I didn't kiss him back.
But I didn't scream either.
Because I knew…
In houses like this, screaming didn't matter.
And in marriages like this…
It never had.
He pushed me back against the dresser, one hand braced beside my head, the other sliding up my thigh with the kind of roughness that came from months of silence and guilt…twisted into something uglier.
I didn't fight.
I didn't beg.
I just closed my eyes and let the sound of the thunder drown out the voice inside me screaming.
This wasn't the first time I'd been touched without love.
But it was the first time it came with a wedding ring.
My body went still…like it had learned how to survive this before.
Because it had.
Because stillness was safer than protest in a house where truth was always the first thing people killed.
He kissed my neck, my collarbone, yanked the ribbon from my waist.
"You smell like pity," he muttered, biting the words against my skin.
I turned my face away. "And you smell like regret."
He paused.
Just a second.
And I felt it…that crack in his armor.
That split-second where he wasn't sure anymore if I was the one being used, or if he was the one trying to escape himself through me.
But then his hands moved again.
Faster.
Meaner.
I bit my lip until I tasted blood.
And still…I said nothing.
Because what was there to say?
That this man, who had ignored me, mocked me, humiliated me… was now using my body to punish himself?
That every thrust, every bruise, every sigh wasn't about me…it was about a war he'd never won?
Or maybe it was always about me.
Because I stayed.
Because I didn't scream.
Because I made it easy for him to believe I could take it.
And maybe I could.
But not without cost.
He didn't say a word when I didn't stop him.
When I stood there like a statue, fingers limp at my sides, dress slipping off my shoulders as his hands moved with urgency that didn't feel like desire..only punishment.
He didn't stop.
And I didn't ask him to.
Because there's no mercy in begging a man who already chose to forget your name.
He tugged me backward, toward the bed.
I stumbled.
The rain outside grew harder…hammering the windows like fists that wanted to break in and save me.
But no one came.
He pressed me down onto the mattress, his breath hot and furious against the curve of my throat. His hands roamed like he didn't know what he wanted from me. Like if he could ruin me physically, it would somehow erase all the ways I'd made him feel small.
I stared up at the ceiling.
Counted the beads on the chandelier above us.
Six on the left chain.
Seven on the right.
Uneven.
Like us.
"You're so quiet," he muttered, voice slurring. "You always pretend you're above it, but you like this, don't you?"
My fingers curled in the sheets.
But I didn't speak.
I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of even hearing my breath hitch.
He pushed my legs apart with one knee, his belt already undone, the weight of him pressing down like stone.
When he entered me, I didn't cry out.
I didn't gasp.
I didn't move.
Because there was no pleasure.
No pain.
Just numb.
He groaned like he hated how good it felt to use something he'd thrown away.
His hands gripped my thighs like handles. His lips found my throat like a man searching for forgiveness through flesh.
But there was no forgiveness here.
Only absence.
I let my mind drift…to Ariella's laugh in the garden. To the scent of mint tea with Lucia in the hospital. To the way Leon once wrapped a warm blanket around my shoulders without asking for anything in return.
And then his voice broke through.
Low.
Rough.
"You made me do this."
That was what shattered me.
Not his weight.
Not his touch.
But those words.
"You made me."
Like I'd orchestrated my own breaking.
When he finished, he pulled away like he couldn't stand the sight of me.
"I don't remember anything," he muttered, grabbing his shirt from the floor. "And neither will you."
He walked out.
Didn't look back.
Didn't close the door.
I lay there for a long time, legs still parted, the sheets wrinkled beneath me, and blood lining the inside of my thigh.
It wasn't much.
But it was proof.
That something happened.
That something was taken.
Even if no one believed it.
Even if he refused to see it.
I pulled the blanket over my body and curled onto my side, eyes wide open.
The chandelier above me clicked softly with the wind.
Six beads left.
Seven right.
And me…
Alone.
Again.
But this time, not broken.
Just... colder.
Harder.
Like something inside me had finally snapped shut.
And would never open for him again.
I didn't sleep.
Not for a second.
I lay there, motionless, as the storm outside began to fade into morning gray.
The sheets beneath me were damp…rain, sweat, blood, shame. I couldn't tell which was which anymore.
Maybe it didn't matter.
Because no matter how much I wiped my skin, I still felt his hands. His mouth. His words.
"You made me do this."
I whispered it to the ceiling just to hear it out loud.
"You made me."
He said it like I was guilty.
Like my silence had asked for it.
Like a still body was an invitation.
My fingers curled into the blanket.
And I realized…
That was the last time he'd ever touch me without consequence.
Even if I never screamed.
Even if no one else ever knew what happened in that bed…
He knew.
And I knew.
And one day..
He would beg for forgiveness for something I'd never let him speak aloud.
At dawn, I got up.
Slowly.
My legs trembled beneath me.
Not from pain.
From betrayal.
I walked to the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror.
Hair a mess.
Lip bruised.
Eyes hollow.
I looked like a woman who had finally run out of mercy.
I turned the shower on. As hot as it would go. Stepped in.
And scrubbed.
And scrubbed.
Until the skin on my thighs turned red and raw and still…
Still I felt him.
Like a stain that wouldn't wash off.
Like a ghost wearing my wedding ring.
By the time Emilia knocked on the door with breakfast, I was dressed. Composed. Lips painted.
I opened the door with a smile.
"Good morning, Madam," she said. "He's not feeling well this morning."
Of course he wasn't.
He drank too much.
Slept too little.
And shattered what little dignity I had left between my legs.
I nodded once. "He should rest."
Emilia gave me a careful glance.
But didn't ask.
No one ever did.
Because women like me were supposed to endure.
Beautifully. Quietly.
But something inside me shifted as I sat down at the untouched breakfast table.
He had taken something from me last night.
But not everything.
Not this time.
Not again.
Because the woman he touched wasn't the one he married.
That girl was gone.
And the one who remained…
Would make him wish he never laid a hand on her at all.