Early morning sun peeked through curtains, golden and unreal. It toned down the look of the room — as if it had not been weighed down by silence the night before.
Amelia perched on the edge of the bed, dressed in her nightgown, a cold cup of coffee clutched in her hand. Daniel was in the bathroom, the sound of the shower thudding steadily out of hearing. Steam curled around the door, a ghost.
She hadn't slept. Remembrance of his voice last night tormented her — cold, biting, accusatory.
"You were enjoying yourself, weren't you? Laughing with him like a friend."
"Daniel, I was just—"
"Just what, Amelia? Craving attention?"
He hadn't screamed. Not really. He never did. Daniel's meanness was a gentler sound than screaming — a deliberate thing, planned and careful. The kind that never left any scars anyone could see.
Now, as the water stopped and the door creaked open, she stood upright out of habit, setting the mug aside.
Daniel stepped out, towel around his waist, glancing at her briefly. "You're up early."
"I couldn't sleep," she said. "You were restless."
He smirked faintly. "Maybe because my wife was flirting with my boss all night."
Amelia's throat tightened. "That's not fair."
"Fair?" He laughed, a short, harsh sound. "You really think life is fair, Amelia? Marriage is?" He turned and flung open his closet. "I work twelve hours a day so you can stay home playing house with me, and you embarrass me in front of the one man I do need to impress me."
She rose to her feet, her heart pounding. "I did not embarrass you. I was polite. That's all."
He stopped, his palm spread across a suit jacket. Turning, his face was near enough serene again, but his eyes were glacial. "You have no idea the way you sound when you talk to men. It's… naive. Even a little desperate."
The insult burned harder than any blow. She swallowed, her gaze meeting his. "I'm not desperate."
She didn't answer him. For a moment, they just stared at each other. Then Daniel smiled — the one that made her shrink, get weak. "Of course not. You're perfect. Just… try to recall who you belong to, okay?"
He left the room, his footsteps echoing down the stairs, and the silence afterwards was more oppressive than his presence.
Amelia remained there, her pulse trembling in her throat. Who you belong to.
She'd said those words herself once — in silk white and trembling hope. I belong to you. She'd meant love. He'd interpreted it as possession.
A car engine revved outside. He was gone.
She floated to the mirror, setting her coffee on the dresser. Her face glared back — tired eyes, soft face, a woman who once knew who she was.
In the quiet, she exhaled, "Who am I now?"
Her phone buzzed on the bedside table. A text message. From a number she did not know.
Mrs. Cross, this is Julian Royce. I simply wanted to express my gratitude for talking with me last night. I believe we should discuss — privately, actually — something.
She read the words through twice, her heart pounding. An opportunity.
For what, she had no clue. But for the first time in months, the word hope didn't feel like a lie.