I made the mistake of hoping it was over.
Because hope, I’d learned, was a cruel illusion in this house.
He wrapped his hand around my arm like a steel trap, jerking me upright with so much force the room spun. I barely caught my balance before he shoved me backward, slamming me against the edge of the bedpost.
“Since you want to act like a whore,” he growled, brandishing a knife I knew all too well, “I’ll treat you like one.”
“No.” The word fell from my lips, but it didn’t matter.
He’d proven time and again that my consent meant nothing to him.
He sliced through the material of the dress, causing it to unravel and fall to the floor. Then he forced me onto the bed, securing my wrists over my head with his tie.
I didn’t scream.
I didn’t fight.
That would have only made things worse.
Instead, I left.
Drifted.
Floated.
My body stayed. But the rest of me — my thoughts, my heart, my soul — slipped through the cracks.
I’d learned how to do this years ago. How to escape without moving an inch.
I studied the pattern in the ceiling. Counted the shadows on the wall. Focused on the smallest details. The curl of the bedsheet under my fingers. The air from the vent brushing across my skin. The beautiful scenery of Biscayne Bay outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Not his voice.
Not his touch.
Not the pain he forced me to endure as he carved over the same scars that had just begun to heal from the last time he noticed another man looking at me in a way he didn’t like.
I became weightless. Detached.
Just a shadow.
A shell.
A ghost of myself.
I was somewhere else. Somewhere safe.
And in the distance, like a whisper on the wind, Henry’s voice echoed softly in my mind.
Gentle.
Compassionate.
Human.
And for a moment, I felt human, too.
Chapter Six
