“So how was the fuck? Was it everything you imagined it to be?” Ethan slurs while his calculating steps inch closer to me in our walk-in closet. He’s drunk, but I know repercussions are heading my way.
“It wasn’t like that, Ethan,” I desperately try to explain. “Damon mentioned he needed some fresh air. He needed a minute to collect himself.”
My fiancé is a world-renowned plastic surgeon here in Los Angeles. We often host lavish parties, and people would donate an organ for an invitation. Tonight, we hosted a party to raise money for one of Ethan’s charities to help displaced families who’ve lost everything to a natural disaster. He supports several different charities, but it is really all about the flash and his need to feed off feeling superior. The fuck in question, Damon, is newly married to one of Ethan’s colleagues. He’s not comfortable with the whole lifestyle of the pretentious, and neither am I. I’m marrying into it, and he already has. He wanted a moment to escape, so I took him for a walk around our garden. He just needed someone to talk to, and it’s where I like to escape to find my Zen.
“You two are on a first-name basis now? Don’t give me that ‘he needed some fresh air’ bullshit. Why you? You’re the dumbest slut I know.” He is a hair’s breadth from me now. Every disgusting word that leaves his mouth sends spit particles flying into my face. I don’t move an inch. I stand here and take the abuse as I always do. I have a fifty-fifty chance he won’t get physical if I don’t fight his verbal abuse. I’ve learned not to talk back. That is a guaranteed way to get a beat down. “Answer me, bitch!”
Ethan’s nostrils flare. His questions are rhetorical and don’t have a right answer. He’s setting me up for punishment, and I know it. My heart quickens as I think about running. I look around our bedroom and see he’s left the door open. Can I make it? He stands with his arm propped against the doorframe of the closet, no doubt to counteract his obvious intoxication.
“I guess he just figured that since we’re newly engaged, and he’s newly married that I could relate to how he was feeling,” I offer nervously. “He doesn’t feel like he fits into this lifestyle.”
I wipe my now sweaty palms against my bare thighs. Ethan’s eyes narrow at my hands against my half-dressed body, but not in the way he does when he wants to have sex. It’s a look of disgust. I’m only in my bra and panties, but I’m still searching for an opening to run past him.
“I watched you arch your fake tits in his direction. Tits I paid for,” he growls. “You were a fucking embarrassment tonight. All my colleagues got to watch you be a hussy in heat, flinging your hair extensions and batting those fake as fuck eyelashes. I was glad you disappeared with Damon so you couldn’t remain the center of attention. You ruined the whole event.”
His voice has elevated beyond reasoning. It doesn’t matter that the list of fake things he rattled off about me is all because he wants me to look a certain way—his trophy. I watch as he pushes himself away from the doorframe while simultaneously clenching his fist. I know disputing the wild accusation about ruining tonight’s event is pointless. Praying I can use his intoxication in my favor, I attempt to dart past him. Only I never stood a chance. He clotheslines me with one arm and down I go, but not before smacking my head on the dresser centered in the closet. Wetness trickles down my temple. Stars dance behind my eyes, and my body goes limp as he pounds my flesh with his fist. I don’t have to endure his strikes for long, though. Darkness wins as I give into it willingly.
I don’t know how long I’ve been out. My head throbs as I try to reacclimatize to my surroundings, my eyes struggling to focus. I’m still on the floor of our closet where he left me. My body protests my movements to get to my feet, but I finally manage after several attempts. The mirror against the closet wall is a reminder of the unprovoked beating. Crusted blood clings to my hair and face on the left side, but my face, as a whole, is untouched. Even drunk, he stuck to his status quo. He never leaves bruises where they’d be difficult to cover up, thus difficult to explain. The purple marks starting to form are only on my stomach and rib area. It hurts to move. It hurts to breathe. My only comfort is that I know it is over for tonight. I peek out into our bedroom, but I know he won’t be there. He usually sleeps in one of the guest rooms after he beats me. Tomorrow will start the honeymoon phase. He won’t apologize. He never does. He just pretends nothing happened and turns on the charm. He will also buy me something expensive, which I give zero fucks about. The honeymoon phase used to last weeks, but each time it shortens. His trigger list is growing exponentially, and I can’t keep up. I know one thing for certain. I have to get the hell away from here before this honeymoon phase is over. Sorry, Dad, but I can’t do this anymore.