Chapter 14
1007 Words
Christine's POV
The sound of the main door unlocking sent a jolt through my chest. My fork froze mid-air, the piece of roasted chicken I’d been chewing suddenly tasteless. Every time that door creaked open, my heart thudded like a warning bell, and tonight was no different.
It didn’t matter how often I reminded myself that this was just my life now. Luca would come home, dragging with him the storm of his day, and I would bear the brunt of it. I was his emotional dumping ground, his outlet for all the darkness he bottled up outside these walls.
The sound of his shoes hitting the floor echoed in the house, and I forced myself to keep chewing. I kept my eyes on my plate, willing my trembling hands to steady.
Don’t look up. Don’t look up.
When Luca finally appeared, his presence filled the room like a storm cloud, dark and suffocating. He was still in his tailored suit, his hair slightly tousled, and his expression unreadable. For a fleeting second, his gaze swept over me, lingering longer than usual. I noticed a flicker of something—concern, maybe? But it was gone so fast I couldn’t trust it had been there at all.
“You haven’t finished,” he observed, his tone neutral but clipped.
I forced myself to look up, managing a weak nod. “I wasn’t very hungry,” I murmured, setting my fork down.
His jaw tightened for a moment, but he said nothing. Instead, he crossed the room with purpose, and before I could react, he grabbed my wrist and yanked me to my feet. The suddenness of his movement made me flinch, my body tensing involuntarily.
“Luca, I—” I started, but he didn’t let me finish.
His arm hooked under my legs, and with a smooth motion, he threw me over his shoulder like I weighed nothing. My heart pounded so hard I thought it might burst.
“Put me down,” I protested weakly, though my voice lacked the force it should’ve had. I already knew how this would end.
He ignored me, his grip firm as he carried me up the stairs. The air felt heavier with every step he took. I focused on the sound of his breathing, steady and unbothered, while mine felt labored, panicked.
When we reached the bedroom, he set me down, his hands brushing against my waist as he steadied me. My legs wobbled beneath me, but I straightened, trying to maintain some semblance of composure.
"Luca, please," the plea followed but was swallowed as my face got pressed into the pillow, muffling any sounds at the back of my throat.
I wanted to scream at him, tell him how much I hated this, hated him. But the words stuck in my throat, choked by the fear and frustration that seemed to define my existence now. He didn’t see me—he never saw me.
As he undid his tie and tossed it onto the chair, I found my eyes drawn to the faint shadow under his eyes, the weariness in his posture. For a moment, I thought he might say something, but instead, he turned to me, his expression hardening again.
“You’ve lost weight,” he said flatly.
The comment caught me off guard, and my hands instinctively moved to my sides, as though to shield myself from his scrutiny. “It’s nothing,” I muttered, looking away.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. His eyes darkened, but he said nothing more. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence swallowing what little space remained between us.
I couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead, I stared at the floor, my chest tightening with every second that passed. The tension in the room was suffocating, and when he finally touched me, his fingers brushing against my jaw to tilt my face upward, I had to fight the urge to pull away.
His movements were deliberate, calculated. He didn’t rush, but there was no tenderness, no hesitation. Every touch reminded me that I was nothing more than a vessel for his frustrations, a place for him to leave whatever chaos he carried inside.
And my body responded as it always did—tense, resistant at first, before eventually succumbing to the inevitable. I hated myself for it, for the way my mind screamed in defiance while my body obeyed his commands.
This is it, I thought, my breath hitching. Another part of me that dies tonight.
Afterward, I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my body aching, my mind hollow. I could feel the bruises forming beneath my skin, the physical reminders of his dominance. But it was the silence that hurt the most, the way he left me without a word, as though I didn’t exist.
When I finally forced myself to move, the pain radiated through me, but I welcomed it. It was proof that I was still alive, even if I didn’t feel it. I pulled the blanket around me, shivering despite the warmth of the room.
As I sat there, I noticed a small crack in the corner of the wall. It hadn’t been there before—or maybe it had, and I’d never paid attention. But now it felt significant, like a reflection of my own fractured state. How long before I broke completely?
I glanced at the unopened envelope on the dresser, the one from the art school. It should’ve been a lifeline, a step toward reclaiming something of my own. But I couldn’t bring myself to open it. What was the point? Luca owned every part of me now.
When I finally dragged myself to the mirror, I barely recognized the person staring back. My reflection was pale, gaunt, and lifeless, the shadows under my eyes a stark reminder of the nights I spent sleepless, dreading his return.
“How much longer until there’s nothing left of me?” I whispered to the empty room, my voice trembling with the weight of my despair.
- Writer
