Ave swayed her hips, humming to an old jazz piece. She'd chosen Denise's favorite dress, the black off-shoulder number that hugged her curves in all the right places. The fabric clung to her waist, exposing the wide hips he used to trace with reverent hands.
Tonight marked their third anniversary. Three years since Denise had swept her off her feet with champagne promises and whispered futures that felt infinite.
She'd spent sleepless nights planning this evening, wanting to recreate their first home-cooked meal together. Back when he used to come home early, eager to see her. Back when his hands would slide around her waist from behind, his breath warm against her neck as he pressed kisses along her shoulder.
The memory sent heat crawling up her cheeks.
She set the table with care, lighting the candles that glow across the room. The expensive cutlery….gleamed under the soft light.
"He'll understand it's special," she whispered to herself.
"Tonight, he'll remember why we matter."
By the time she finished cooking, her body sagged into one of the dining chairs. She pulled out her phone, scrolling through articles to pass the time, losing herself in headlines about market trends and celebrity gossip.
Her arm started to ache from holding the phone at an awkward angle. That's when she noticed the time.
7:40 PM.
An hour and forty minutes past when Denise usually came home.
Business meetings run late, she reasoned, setting the phone down. The Kingship Holdings merger he'd mentioned ….those things take time.
But each passing second felt like a blade pressed against her throat. Her palms grew slick with sweat. Her breathing turned shallow, uneven.
She glanced at the clock again.
The familiar knot formed in her stomach, the one that appeared whenever he was displeased. She stood abruptly, wiping the sweat from her forehead, and poured herself a glass of water with trembling hands.
"He'll come home.Tonight will be different."
At exactly 8:47 PM, she heard the garage door rumble open. Her pulse, which had been hammering against her ribs, gradually slowed. Her shoulders dropped as tension bled from her spine.
The front door opened.
Denise stepped inside, and with him came the scent of cold night air and something else. A floral perfume. Blueberry, not her vanilla. It was someone else's.
"You're late," Ave said carefully, keeping her voice warm. No accusation, just gentle observation. She'd learned this tone over months of trial and error, the one that didn't trigger his sharp edges.
Today was special. She wasn't going to let something trivial ruin the night she'd spent hours creating.
"Business." The word was emotionless. He didn't kiss her. Didn't apologize. Just brushed past her like she was part of the furniture.
The blueberry scent clung to his coat.
Ave's hands curled into fists at her sides. Something unfamiliar flashed through her chest. But she forced it down, counting silently to three until her heartbeat steadied.
Denise shrugged off his overcoat and surveyed the table. His eyes landed on the gleaming cutlery.
"You used the cutlery. I told you that's for clients."
But we never have clients over, she thought, confusion settling in her mind. The same confusion that made her question her own memory more and more these days.
"I thought... for our anniversary—"
"Sentiment is for the weak, Ave. You know this."
He sat down without waiting for her response, swirling the wine she'd poured. The same vintage from their first anniversary. He took a sip, then set it down with a grimace.
"Too warm. You let it breathe too long."
But you used to say I had perfect timing.
The thought whispered through her mind unbidden. The man who once praised every gesture now dissected each effort like he was conducting an autopsy.
Ave said nothing. She served him in silence, swallowing whatever words she'd planned to say. No point giving him more ammunition.
Dinner was brutal. The only sounds were the scraping of his fork against the plate and the occasional clink of his glass. Each noise felt like a judgment.
The lamb was over-seasoned, though she'd used the same recipe he'd once called perfect. The asparagus was limp, though she'd timed it exactly as before.
The fantasy she'd built, his hands on her skin, his kisses, his warmth ,curdled in her stomach.
Then, because hope makes people stupid, she spoke.
"The business you're working on... Kingship Holdings... is it going well?"
The air froze.
She regretted the question before it fully left her lips. How had she forgotten? Never ask about Kingship.
Denise set his fork down.
Slowly, he reached across the table. Not to strike her, that would've been easier to anticipate.
Instead, he took her wrist. Gently at first. The same hands that used to trace her skin with something close to worship.
Then his thumb pressed down into the delicate bones.
"Know your place," he whispered, his voice soft and venomous.
The pain was instant, sharp, and horrifyingly familiar. Like her body remembered this before her mind could catch up.
This wasn't the first time.
The realization hit harder than the physical pain. How many times had he done this? How many moments had she forgotten or explained away?
For a split second, another memory flashed. Strong hands, yes, but teaching, not hurting. A voice ….not Denise's saying,
"Control the pain. Use it."
She didn't cry out. She wouldn't give him that. But her breath hitched, and a small, involuntary sound escaped her throat.
He held the pressure until he got what he wanted, then released her.
"Go to bed, Ave. I have work to do"
She sat there, cradling her throbbing wrist as he disappeared into his study. The perfect dinner, the romantic evening, the hope ….all of it shattered like glass on marble.
Her body shivered despite the warmth of the room, as if ice had crept into her veins.
Later, when she finally found the strength to stand, she cleaned up. Moving hastily, she gathered the plates, blew out the candles, wiped down the table.
Then she saw his coat draped over the chair.
She used to wait up just to take his coat when he came home. A small ritual that made her feel useful. Loved.
Now, as she lifted it to hang in the closet, something felt wrong.
The weight was off. Heavier than usual.
Something stiff pressed against the inner pocket.Don't look, you know better.
But her fingers, still trembling from his grip, slipped into the pocket.
She pulled out a single black keycard.
Her breath caught. The card wasn't standard corporate issue. It was something else. Military-grade, actually.
But how did she know that?
She held it under the kitchen light, turning it over.
The embossed label made the floor tilt beneath her feet:
Kingship Holdings – Sub Level 3
And below, in tiny blood-red letters:
Authorized Personnel Only. Termination Protocol Active.
Termination Protocol.
The words sent ice through her veins, though she couldn't explain why they felt so familiar. Why they made her pulse spike with something that wasn't quite fear.