“Aren’t you going to invite me in?”
I stood motionless, waiting for some sort of flight or fight response to kick in, but I was nothing but numb.
Peter didn’t wait any longer for my reaction, either. With one hand holding the pizza box, he used the other to shove the door with every ounce of strength, and he was strong. I’d been on the receiving end of the fury his gym-honed muscles could dole out often enough to know that I didn’t stand a chance when he got physical.
It’d always been easier to just let it happen, to not put up a fight. The more I fought, the more of a reaction he got out of me, the more it riled him up.
I staggered back with the force of his shove as he let himself into my home.
The sun was still shining on a summertime Sable Point, streaming through the still-open front door. I’d have given just about anything for some of that famous small-town invasiveness right about now. What made the delivery kid just hand over my pizza without question? Where was my nosy neighbor who frequently cornered me on my front porch after a twelve-hour shift? Where wasmy phone?
Coffee table. Fuck.
I spun around to beeline for it in attempt to contact literally anyone. But before I could take a step, Peter was all up in mypersonal bubble. He stood inches away and a head taller, bringing my eyes to his chest. I sucked in a deep breath at his nearness, suddenly feeling claustrophobic as fuck. Instead of giving me some desperately needed relief from the anxious energy coursing through my veins, all I did was inhale his familiar scent—one that used to give me butterflies but now made my stomach roil.
Peter reached behind me, slamming the door shut. His chest brushed against my shoulder as he flipped the deadbolt. When he pulled back, the sinister grin on his face had my blood chilling in my veins.
That was the moment I knew I’d be lucky to make it out of this cottage alive.
“You filed for divorce.” Peter’s voice was deceptively calm as he set the pizza box on my coffee table, right next to the phone I couldn’t get to. “After everything I’ve done for you. Every opportunity I gave you. This is how you repay me?”
I forced myself to meet his gaze, channeling every ounce of the strength I’d built these past months. “I documented everything, Peter. Every bruise. Every broken bone. Every ‘accident’ I had to explain away to my colleagues. You really want to risk your family’s reputation if this goes public?”
His laugh was hollow. “You think I haven’t been watching you? Your little life up here in this pathetic excuse for a town?” He moved closer, backing me toward the wall. “Your fuck buddy at the resort? Did you really think you could just run away and play house with some jobless addict?”
My heart hammered, but I kept my voice steady. “I have a restraining order. The police?—”
“The police?” He grabbed my chin, fingers digging in. “Where are they now, Elena?”
I didn’t struggle—that would only excite him more. Instead, I let him push me back, carefully calculating each step until we were positioned exactly where I needed us to be. The tiny camera I’d installed above the bookshelf had a clear view of the living room. Whatever happened next, I wouldn’t let him get away with it this time.
“You had everything with me,” he hissed. “And you threw it all away for what? Some small-town fantasy?”
I stared past his shoulder at the dust motes dancing in the sunlight streaming through my window. Started counting backward from one thousand by sevens. Focused on anything but the hands that were already working at his belt.
Nine hundred ninety-three. Nine hundred eighty-six. Nine hundred seventy-nine.
I retreated into the safe, clinical space in my mind where I’d survived this before. Where the hands on my body belonged to a case study, not my reality. Catalogued each action with medical precision: bruising force to bilateral wrists, approximately 8 centimeters circumference. Contusion forming at left zygomatic arch. Possible grade 2 shoulder strain from impact with wall.
“Look at me when I’m teaching you a lesson.”
Eight hundred seventy-two. Eight hundred sixty-five.
The camera’s tiny red light blinked steadily above the bookshelf.
Evidence.
Documentation.
Purpose.
I forced my eyes to his, saw the familiar rage there that had kept me compliant for so long. But something was different now—I wasn’t that woman anymore. The one who believed she deserved this.
I thought of Chase’s gentle hands. Of morning kisses that asked for nothing. Of the way he looked at me like I was something precious instead of something to possess.
My voice came out steady despite everything. “You can’t have me anymore.”
The backhand was expected. Clinical assessment: split lip, probable dental involvement.
