Control

Emily

I closed the door on Andrea, and the lock clicked like the final nail in a coffin. For a second, everything held still, but then the dam broke.

I fell to the floor right there in the entryway, knees to my chest, face buried in my arms. The sobs came hard and ugly, tearing up from somewhere deep I’d forgotten existed. Two years. Two fucking years of lies layered on top of the life we were supposed to be building. The miscarriage he’d reduced to me “falling ill.” The way he’d weaponized my grief to justify finding comfort elsewhere.

I cried until my throat burned and my eyes felt raw. Then, somewhere in the middle of the mess, realization hit.

It all made sense now.

Being weak had gotten me here.

Too weak to question the late nights. Too weak to demand transparency when his phone buzzed at 2 a.m. Too weak to finish my master’s because I’d drained my savings, every penny I’d set aside for tuition into his startup dream. I’d told myself it was love, partnership. I’d settled for teaching while he chased the big break. And in return? Pity. Convenience. A safety net he could step over whenever he felt like it.

No more.

I pushed myself up on shaky legs, walked to the bathroom, and flipped on every light. The mirror was merciless in its revelation. Deep circles under my eyes. Lines that shouldn’t have been there at twenty-six. Skin dull from too many nights spent crying myself to sleep. Hair hanging long and heavy like a curtain I’d hidden behind for years.

I gasped at the stranger staring back. I looked older than my own grandmother had before dementia stole her.

Jack had always loved the long hair. “It makes you look soft,” he’d say. “Feminine.” Once, half-joking, half-serious, he’d said, “Short hair gives off lesbian vibes, babe. Don’t do that to me.”

I stared at my reflection. Thought about Maira’s mouth on me thirty minutes earlier. The way my body had opened for her without hesitation. The way I hadn’t wanted to stop her.

Maybe it wasn’t a joke.

Maybe it was a prophecy.

I reached for the scissors on the counter, the sharp ones I used for fabric when I still pretended to sew. I gathered the length in one fist and began to cut. I cut until it was the length of a choppy pixie that framed my face. When I finished, the sink was full of my old life.

I swept it into the trash, turned on the shower, and washed what remained, letting the water strip away the last of the weight. I shaved my legs, taking my time to ensure they were smooth. Then I plugged in the flat iron and tamed the hair I’d spent years fighting because Jack liked it wild and natural.

Did I mention my hair was curly too?

When I stepped out, I felt like a different person.

This version of me wasn’t a coward. No, she was the kind that got things done.

I opened the closet shelf I hadn’t touched in years, the dusty box of things I’d bought early in the marriage, back when I thought lingerie could fix what was already cracking. A red lace bra. A matching thong. I put them on. Over it, the semi-sheer black robe that tied loosely at the waist. And a spritz of the perfume he used to call too much.

I thought about Maira’s script: feed his ego, cook for him, ravish him until he apologized.

But no.

Jack didn’t deserve my effort in the kitchen tonight.

I opened the delivery app and ordered Chinese, his favorites: kung pao chicken, vegetable fried rice, extra spring rolls.

The order arrived in twenty-five minutes.

I set the dining table with candles, dimmed the overhead lights, and turned off every light in the living room except the lamp I could flick on later. Then I sat on the couch in the dark, legs crossed, waiting.

Thirty minutes passed.

I texted: Where are you, babe? It’s our anniversary.

No dots. No reply.

Ten more minutes, then keys shuffled in the lock. There was a click, and the door opened. Jack stepped inside, fumbling for the light switch, muttering under his breath as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

I clicked the lamp on and he froze as soon as he saw me.

His eyes roamed over me, taking in the short hair, the robe, the way I stood slowly, walking toward him with a smile on my face. I wrapped my arms around his neck, kissed his cheek, and muttered, “Welcome home.”

He pulled back, eyes widening. He took my hand and led me to the sofa. “We need to talk.”

I let him guide me until I sat down. “Everything okay?”

He laughed, jagged, a few snorts laced through it. “Everything is not fucking okay, Emily. I cheated on you and you’re welcoming me like nothing happened. Did you hit your head somewhere or what? For fuck’s sake, stop being a fucking robot. React. Get angry. Yell at me. When was the last time you ever disagreed with me? Be a human being, Emily.”

Rage surged behind my ribs. My fist clenched behind my back so hard my nails drew blood. I wanted to scream every truth I knew, Andrea on my doorstep, two years of betrayal, the miscarriage he’d erased, the money I’d given him while he spent it on hotel rooms and anniversaries that weren’t ours.

But Maira’s voice echoed: feed his ego.

So I softened. Looked down, trying to keep my anger in check. “I understand,” I whispered. “Yes, I’m angry. I’m hurt. But I understand why you did it. I haven’t been… here. I’ve been like an NPC in my own marriage. No spark. No personality. I haven’t made you happy in years, Jack. And I’m sorry. The mistake is on both of us. But everything changes now. I’ll be the wife you deserve. I’ll make you so happy you’ll forget this ever happened. I forgive you. Can you forgive me too?”

He stared like I’d slapped him, mouth open, searching my face for the lie.

Before he could speak, my phone rang. I picked it up and put it on speaker.

“Good evening, Miss Emily. Barrister Matthew here. I regret to inform you your grandmother passed last week. She left you the ranch in her will. We’ll need to arrange a meeting for the transfer.”

“Thank you,” I said evenly. “I’ll be in touch.”

I ended the call.

Jack’s face paled. “Your grandma was alive?”

“She lost her memory after my parents died. It felt like she was already gone.” I shrugged. “We should finish our discussion.”

He exploded. He began pacing, gesturing as he listed his grievances: I was too quiet, too agreeable, never challenged him, didn’t keep things exciting. Every complaint circled back to how I’d failed to be enough for him.

I nodded through it. “I’ll change,” I assured him with a squeeze of his hand. “I just want to protect our family.”

He stopped. His gaze softened, then he pulled me into a hug.

I hugged back, let him think he’d won me over. But I knew why he’d decided to make up.

The inheritance had piqued his interest.

Maira was right. He would fall for it.

The call was fake. I’d owned the ranch for years. I’d dreamed of raising kids there. I never informed Jack because I didn’t want him to become more laid back than he already was. I had planned to surprise him after we had our first child.

Turns out I was right.

I pulled back gently. “Come eat. I made your favorite.”

I led him to the table, gesturing at the meal.

He smiled. “You made my favorite?”

“Of course.”

He hesitated, eyeing the plate.

I laughed, poured wine for both of us, took a sip, then reached over and took a deliberate bite from his plate, the thing he’d always hated. “What,” I said, smiling, “you think I poisoned it?”

He flushed. “No. Sorry. Heard too many stories.”

We ate in quiet. Him stealing glances at my hair, my robe, the new edges of me. He complemented my outfit but didn’t say anything about the hair. He didn’t need to, it was obvious he didn’t like it. But he didn’t complain, so that was progress.

It was certain he thought he was getting his old Emily back, improved but still obedient.

He had no idea the woman sitting across from him had already left the building.

And she wasn’t coming back.

I cleared the table after we finished. He offered to help once, half-heartedly, then wandered off to “check emails.” I washed the dishes by hand, while I thought about how many nights I’d done exactly this, cleaning up after him while he scrolled through his phone, probably texting her.

When the kitchen was spotless, I climbed the stairs. The shower was already running in the master bathroom, as I approached the door, I heard muffled sounds. I paused outside, pressing my ear against the door.

“…yeah, I know. She’s acting weird tonight. Different. We should stop seeing each other for now, perhaps we—”He stopped. He probably heard me shift my weight on the floor. “I gotta go. Talk later.”

I waited five full minutes, counting them in my head, then pushed the door open.

The bathroom door was open, Jack stood under the shower, his back to me, head tipped back as he rinsed shampoo from his hair. Water streamed down the muscles I used to trace with my fingertips when I still believed we were building something real.

I threw the robe off my shoulders. It pooled at my feet. The red lace bra and thong stayed on… for now.

I stepped into the shower behind him, pressed my chest to his back, sliding my arms around his waist. My hand drifted lower, fingers wrapping around him. He was already half-hard, probably from thinking about her.

He stiffened. “Em?”

I didn’t answer with words. I stroked him, feeling him thicken in my palm. His breath hitched as I sank to my knees on the wet tile, water pounding my shoulders, plastering my short hair to my skull.

He turned.

“Emily—”

I looked up at him through the water, holding his gaze as I took him into my mouth.

He groaned, surprised. His hand flew to the wall for balance. I didn’t tease. I took him deep, tongue flat against the underside, hollowing my cheeks the way I knew he liked, the way I’d learned years ago, back when I thought pleasing him would keep him. His hips jerked forward once, involuntarily. I let him hit the back of my throat, swallowed around him, felt the shudder that ran through his whole body.

“Fuck,” he rasped.

I pulled away just long enough to breathe, then went back, faster, wetter, messier. Water dripped from my lashes. My knees ached against the tile, but I didn’t care. This wasn’t about love. This was about control. About reminding him what he was throwing away. About reminding myself I still had power here.

He hauled me up suddenly, hoisting his hands under my arms roughly. He spun me so my back hit the wall. His mouth crashed onto mine, hard and desperate. I kissed him back just as hard, biting his lip until I tasted blood. He growled into my mouth, yanking the lace bra down so my breasts spilled free. His thumbs brushed my nipples, already tight from the cold tile and the heat of everything else. I arched into his touch.

He shoved the thong aside, no patience for taking it off. His fingers found me slick, not from the water. From earlier with Maira. From the rage, the wine, and the way my body still remembered her. He didn’t question it. Just pushed two fingers inside, curled them, pumping continuously.

I moaned loud, unashamed. He lifted one of my legs, hooking it over his hip. Then he was inside me, stretching me open. I gasped against his neck. The angle was deep and brutal. He thrust into me like he was trying to prove something. I met every stroke, hips rolling, nails digging into his shoulders. The water pounded against our skin, drowning out the sounds we were making.

He took me like he was angry. Like he was sorry. Like he was claiming something he thought he still owned.

I let him. But in my head, it wasn’t his face I saw. It was Maira’s dark eyes looking up at me from between my thighs.

It was Andrea’s calm smile as she told me to set him free. It was my own reflection in the mirror downstairs, no more doormat.

He came first, buried deep, groaning my name like a prayer he didn’t mean. I clenched around him, holding him through it, then let my own release follow, nothing like the shattering sobs I’d given Maira earlier. Just enough to make him think I was still his.

We stayed like that, panting, the water cooling around us, until he pulled out and rested his forehead against mine. “I love you,” he whispered. “I’m sorry.”

I cupped his face and kissed him softly. “I know.”

I didn’t say it back. I smiled at him instead. “Hey, babe. Happy anniversary.”

He smiled back. “Happy anniversary.”