Chapter 2.

⚠️ TRIGGER WARNING ⚠️

This chapter contains mature and dark themes involving a toxic and abusive marriage. Please proceed with caution.

Key Triggers: Domestic Violence, Physical Assault, Pregnancy Loss, Coercion, Emotional and verbal abuse, Blackmail, and Trauma Responses.

~ Sienna's Pov ~

The door slams shut behind him, and I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding. I drag my body off the bed and start moving towards the bathroom.

The bathroom light is bright as I step in, and I avoid the mirror to prevent myself from seeing the state of my body. I turn on the shower, twisting the knob until steam begins to rise before stepping under the spray when it is finally hot enough.

I gasp as the hot water hits my skin. 

Grabbing the soap and the washcloth,  I start scrubbing my arms, my chest, my thighs—anywhere he touched. Anywhere he hurt. The washcloth is rough against my skin, but I scrub harder until my flesh turns angry red.

My sobs are more violent, now ripping through my chest as I slide down the shower wall, pulling my knees to my chest, the hot water beating down on my back and stinging every bruise and every scar. 

For nine years, I worked beside him. Nine years of perfectly brewed coffee delivered at exactly 7:47 AM. Nine years of memorizing his schedule, anticipating his needs before he voiced them, staying late to proofread contracts while he was out with Chloe doing whatever it is they do whenever they are together. 

Nine years of watching him from across the desk and feeling my heart race faster.

I was so pathetically, hopelessly in love with him.

He never saw me. Not really. I was efficient and reliable which was exactly what he needed in an assistant and nothing more.

I told myself it was enough, that just being near him was enough. I told myself a lot of lies back then.

But then, I still had my dignity and my freedom intact.

My nightmare started the day Chloe left.

The memory crashes over me like a wave, pulling me under. 

~~~~~

FLASHBACK

~ Three years ago ~

That night. He called me at eleven PM, his voice thick and slurred, asking me to come to his penthouse.

No... not asking. Vincent Ashford doesn't ask. He demands, and I, the loyal, pathetic fool, obeyed. Just like I always did.

I found him on the floor of his living room, surrounded by empty bottles. 

I have never seen him like that. 

The great Vincent Ashford, reduced to a devastated shell because the manipulative bitch he was dating had finally left him. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair a mess and his tie hanging loose around his neck.

And when he lifted his face to finally look at me, his eyes were red-rimmed, unfocused.

He looked…. lost.

“Sienna.” He called out to me as he tried to sit up straighter and failed. “You came.”

Of course I came.

I should have called someone else. One of his friends. Anyone but me. But I didn't.

Instead, I sat beside him on that cold marble floor, and when he reached for me with trembling hands, I didn't pull away.

“Don't leave,” he murmured against my hair, his breath hot and reeking of whiskey. “Please, Sienna. Don't leave me too.”

And God help me, I didn't.

Then, he kissed me like he was drowning and I was his air. The kiss was desperate, clumsy, tasting of expensive scotch and desperation and I kissed him back, telling myself that this was real, that he wanted me, that he had finally seen me.

We stumbled to his bedroom. And the kiss turned into a night I will never forget. Because the morning after, I woke up to find him staring at me with disgust in his eyes.

“What did you do to me, Sienna? JUST GET DRESSED!”

Seriously.

The second I was fully dressed, he was in my face.

“We'll never speak of this again. Understood?”

I nodded. 

And we never spoke of it again. 

Then, six weeks later, the nausea started.

The pregnancy test sat on my bathroom counter for three hours before I summoned the courage to look at it. Two pink lines. 

I told him in his office after everyone else had gone home, because I stupidly believed he had a right to know. 

I watched his face cycle through shock, denial, and finally worst of all, a cold rage.

“We'll get married,” he said, already pulling out his phone. “Quietly. My lawyer will draft a prenup.”

Not ‘are you okay?’ Not ‘what do you want to do?’ Just immediate damage control, like I was a PR crisis to be managed.

“Vincent, we don't need to—”

“This isn't up for discussion, Sienna. I won't have a bastard child. We marry, or you're fired and on the street by the end of the week. Your choice.”

Two weeks after that we got married in a courthouse with two witnesses who looked like he paid them to be there.

No white dress, no flowers, no pretense of love. Just signatures on paper and a diamond ring on my finger.

The baby lasted only three months.

It happened during another fight about Chloe.

The fights were always about Chloe. 

He had seen her at some gala, and I’d made the mistake of asking if he was okay. 

He exploded, screaming that I was a pathetic whore, that I could never replace her, that I trapped him, that touching me was a mistake he regretted every second.

I don’t remember what I said back. I just remember his hand connecting with my face, the sharp crack echoing through the apartment. 

I remember falling, my stomach hitting the corner of the coffee table. I remember the warm wetness between my legs and the cold terror flooding my veins.

I remember the blood.

And next, the doctor's gentle voice: “I’m so sorry, Miss Hayes. The baby is gone.”

Also, I remember Vincent's cruel words of how the problem took care of itself when I finally came home that day.

I cried for days. Not just for the baby, but for the final, brutal death of every stupid, girlish dream I'd ever had.

After that incident, the violence became routine. A slap here. A shove there. Bruises I learned to hide with long sleeves and careful makeup. And through it all, his voice, telling me I deserved it, that I brought this on myself, that I was nothing without him.

A week after I lost the baby, I decided that I was done being his punching bag and tried to leave. I packed a bag and ran.

I only made it three days.

Three days in a dingy motel two states away before he found me.  

I woke up to him standing over my bed, his face a mask of anger.

“Did you really think you could run from me?” His voice was deadly. “Did you really think I'd let you go?”

I tried to scramble away, but he was faster. His hand fisted in my hair, yanking me off the bed. 

I hit the floor hard, the cheap carpet burning my knees. Then his fists came, and I curled into myself, trying to protect my face, my ribs, anything vital.

“You! Belong! To! Me!” Each word was punctuated with a blow. “You will never be free of me until I say so. Do you understand?”

I sobbed out something that might have been yes, might have been please, might have been nothing at all.

He then dragged me back to New York that same night.

 His lawyer was waiting in his study with papers spread across the mahogany desk as Vincent dragged me in.

“Sign it!” Vincent ordered, shoving a pen into my trembling hand.

Through my tears and the throbbing pain in my head, I tried to read, but the words were blurry because of my tears. However, some terrifying phrases stood out: voluntary agreement... breach of marital obligations... liquidated damages of one million dollars... attempted abandonment...

“I don't have a million dollars,” I whispered, my voice broken. “Vincent please—”

“Then I suggest you don't leave.” His smile was cruel. “Unless you want to spend the rest of your life drowning in debt. I’ll sue you for every penny, Sienna. I’ll take everything you have ever cared about and make sure you and your sister are out on the streets. Is that what you want?”

My hand shook so badly I could barely hold the pen. 

But I signed. What choice did I have? 

My mom left when I was eight, my dad died about six years ago, and my sister, a sophomore in boarding school, depended on me.

And just like that, I placed myself at his mercy with no hope or help in sight. 

Going to the cops wasn't an option. Vincent is well connected. My sister and I would disappear from the face of the earth before the ink was dry on the police report.

After I was done signing, Vincent had smiled then, running his thumb over my split lip, the sting making me flinch. “Good girl. See? You’re so much better when you're obedient.”

END OF FLASHBACK 

~~~~~

The water has gone cold. I don't know when. My skin is bright red and raw. The tears are gone and I’m just… empty.

I force myself to stand, and now on shaky feet, I turn off the shower and step out.

Standing in front of the mirror, I carefully apply ointment on my bruises, the sting causing me to whine every time it touches my skin. 

I’ve gotten good at this over the past three years. Foundation to cover the marks on my neck and jaw. Long sleeve shirts to hide my arms. A fake smile to hide everything else.

After applying the ointment, I dress in a navy blouse and gray slacks, pin my hair up, and apply my makeup with a steady hand. 

By the time I’m done, I look almost normal. Almost like Sienna Hayes, the competent professional, and not Sienna Ashford, the woman who is falling apart with each passing day.

~~~

The office is already buzzing with activities when I arrive. I slip into my space, grateful that Vincent’s office was empty.

But why is his office empty? He wasn’t at home when I left for the office, and he has a line up of important meetings that need his presence, so where is he? 

“Sienna!” Maya calls out as she walks over to me, her eyes bright in a way that tells me she is here to spill some beans.

She’s sweet, but completely oblivious. She has no idea her coworker goes home to the CEO’s bed every night. 

No one does. 

Vincent made sure of that. Separate entrances, no public acknowledgment, nothing that could connect us. 

“Did you hear the news?”

“What news?” I ask.

“Chloe Martinez is back!”