CHAPTER 2: The Performance

My hand trembled as I reached for Bruce’s office door.

I could do this. I’d done it for five years — pretended everything was fine while dying inside. One more hour. Just one more hour of playing the obedient wife, and then I could fall apart in private.

I pasted on a smile and opened the door.

Bruce sat behind his massive mahogany desk, whiskey in hand, looking every inch the successful businessman. Tall, handsome, expensively dressed. The man every woman wanted. The man who’d chosen me.

Except he hadn’t. Not really.

Valentina was nowhere to be seen. Smart. They’d probably hustled her out the back entrance the moment they suspected someone was listening.

“There you are,” Bruce said, his voice smooth. Too smooth. “I texted you.”

“I know. Sorry. Charlotte wanted another story.” My voice came out steady. Good. I’d learned early in the marriage how to hide my fear.

His eyes swept over me, cataloging, judging. I knew what he saw — a plain woman in yoga pants and an oversized sweater. Soft where I should be firm. Round where I should be angular. Everything he’d spent five years telling me was wrong with me.

“Come here,” he said.

My feet carried me forward against my will. Muscle memory. Obedience trained through years of carefully measured consequences.

I stopped in front of his desk, hands clasped in front of me like a child awaiting punishment.

Bruce stood, rounded the desk, and pulled me into his arms. I went rigid. He rarely touched me unless he wanted something, and affection was never freely given.

“You look tired,” he murmured against my hair. His hands rubbed my back in what might have been soothing if I didn’t know the truth. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Fine,” I lied. “Just a long day.”

“Hmm.” His hand slid down to my hip, squeezed just hard enough to hurt. A reminder. A warning. “You know how important this week is, don’t you? Charlotte’s birthday. The family dinner tomorrow night. Papa Niel wants to see us — all of us — looking happy and united.”

There it was. The real reason for this sudden tenderness.

“Of course,” I said. “I’ve already confirmed with the caterers for Charlotte’s party. Everything’s arranged.”

“Good.” Bruce released me, but his hand caught my wrist. His thumb pressed against the bruise he’d left three days ago during an argument about the grocery bill. I bit back a gasp. “Wear something nice tomorrow. The blue dress. The one that actually makes you look presentable.”

“Okay.”

“And for God’s sake, do something with your hair. Maybe some makeup?” His eyes raked over my face with thinly veiled disgust. “I need you to not embarrass me in front of Grandfather.”

My stomach churned. “I won’t embarrass you.”

“See that you don’t.” He released my wrist and turned back to his desk, dismissing me like hired help. “Oh, and Emma?”

I paused at the door. “Yes?”

“After Charlotte’s birthday…” He smiled, and it didn’t reach his eyes. “We should talk about our future. I have some exciting news to share.”

Your divorce papers, I thought bitterly. Your freedom from the cow you’ve been playing house with.

“I look forward to it,” I said instead.

I made it to the bedroom before my legs gave out.

I sank onto the edge of the bed, hands covering my face as silent sobs wracked my body. Five years. Five years of this — the casual cruelty, the calculated coldness, the constant message that I was less than, other than, not enough.

And I’d believed him. God, I’d actually believed it was my fault. That if I just tried harder, loved him better, lost more weight, complained less, smiled more — maybe then he’d finally love me back.

But he’d never loved me. He’d never even liked me.

I was a checkmark on Papa Niel’s list. A broodmare. A means to $2.3 billion.

I pulled myself together through sheer force of will. Crying wouldn’t save me. Planning would.

I moved to the closet and pulled down the small duffel bag I’d hidden behind winter coats last year — a bag Bruce didn’t know existed, purchased with money skimmed from grocery receipts over months. Inside: $347 in cash. Not much, but it was something.

I added clothes quickly — jeans, t-shirts, underwear. Nothing Bruce would notice missing. Then I moved to Charlotte’s room and did the same, packing her favorite stuffed rabbit, several changes of clothes, and the inhaler she needed for her asthma.

My hands moved methodically, my mind racing ahead. Where could we go? My father wouldn’t help — he’d made it clear five years ago that this marriage saved his company. My mother would side with him. I had no siblings, no close friends. Bruce had systematically isolated me from everyone.

But I couldn’t stay. Not now. Not knowing what I knew.

I zipped the bag and shoved it back into its hiding place. Tomorrow. I’d leave tomorrow while Bruce was at work, before the family dinner, before —

A sound at the bedroom door made me spin around.

Bruce stood in the doorway, watching me with unreadable eyes.

My heart stopped. How long had he been standing there? What had he seen?

“What are you doing?” he asked quietly.

Think, Emma. Think.

“Looking for Charlotte’s white dress,” I said, surprised at how steady my voice sounded. “For the party. I wanted to make sure it still fits.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. He moved into the room, each step measured, predatory. I forced myself to stand still, to not retreat, to not show fear.

He stopped inches from me, so close I could smell the whiskey on his breath.

“You’ve been acting strange tonight,” he said. His hand came up to cup my jaw — gently, almost lovingly. But I felt the threat beneath it. “Is there something you want to tell me?”

“No,” I whispered. “I’m just tired.”

“Hmm.” His thumb traced my lower lip. “You’d tell me if something was wrong, wouldn’t you, Emma? We don’t keep secrets in this marriage.”

The irony nearly made me laugh. Instead, I nodded.

“Good.” Bruce released me and stepped back. “Come to bed. We have a big day tomorrow.”

My stomach turned. I knew what “come to bed” meant. But I couldn’t refuse. Refusing made things worse.

I followed him on numb legs, my mind screaming to run while my body went through the motions of obedience.

Tomorrow, I told myself as Bruce’s hands moved over me without tenderness, without care. Tomorrow I’ll run. Tomorrow I’ll be brave.

But tonight, I had to survive.

Afterward, Bruce fell asleep immediately, snoring softly beside me. I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, counting the hours until dawn.

Somewhere in the house, a clock chimed midnight.

Charlotte’s birthday was in exactly seven days.

Bruce thought he had a week to wait for his fortune.

I was giving him twelve hours.

I’d get Charlotte from school tomorrow, tell them I was taking her to a doctor’s appointment, and we’d drive. Anywhere. Everywhere. As far as our car and $347 could take us.

It wasn’t a perfect plan. It probably wasn’t even a good plan.

But it was the only plan I had.

I closed my eyes and let myself imagine, just for a moment, what freedom might feel like.

No more flinching.

No more fear.

No more pretending I was loved by a man who saw me as livestock.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow I’d find out if I was brave enough to save myself.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​