Please Don't Leave Me

That evening, I spent most of my time in the room, a prisoner of my own thoughts. I wondered if I'd done the right thing by staying, or if I should just cut my losses and leave.

All day, I'd eaten, stared blankly ahead, eaten again, and then retreated back to the bed. The day had been a blur of forced smiles and stilted conversations with Danielle, and I was exhausted.

She'd been too nice, and it was grating on my nerves.

I was dressed in my favorite pajamas from New York-a ridiculously soft, long-sleeved top and trousers in bright blue, a matching set Susan and I had bought together. It felt like a lifeline to a life that felt a million miles away.

Our laughs, our pizza and Coca-Cola nights, our late-night talks, and our binge-watching sessions.

Before I could fully process the day's events, Sam stumbled into the room, reeking of alcohol. He glanced at my pajamas and sneered. "Cheap," he slurred, his words dripping with disdain.

Really? Not only was he a creep, but he was also hateful.

A wave of anger washed over me, but I swallowed it, forcing a neutral expression. I cracked a smile. "You're too drunk to talk about other people's clothes," I said, my voice dangerously low. "You should go to sleep."

A sly smirk spread across his face, and he shook his head. He didn't listen. He simply sprawled across the bed, his presence a suffocating weight. "Get out," I snapped, my voice rising in frustration.

He chuckled, a sound that grated on my nerves. He seemed pleased with himself.

"We're married," he stated, surprisingly sober for a moment. "Supposed to be on our honeymoon. But I won't do anything you don't want, you know... I'm married, and you're my wife."

That's when I lost it. We had an agreement: separate rooms!

"Get off the bed!" I demanded, but he just pretended to sleep.

In a surge of rage and pure self-preservation, I planted a hard kick square in his side. I would have done it again and again if he hadn't moved.

He hit the floor with a thud, groaning. "That's tacky," he hissed. "I'll fix you. I can fix you," he added, clarifying his threat.

"Fix yourself first," I retorted, my anger simmering. "Fix your drunk *ss."

Sam laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. "You don't have a mind of your own," he said. "Your parents know it. That's why they gave you to me."

He didn't just say that.

Rage blinded me. I scanned the room frantically, and my eyes landed on a small table lamp beside the bed. Without thinking, I heaved it at him, aiming for his head. It barely missed.

He yelled, a string of insults flying at me. "D*mn it! You don't know how to behave!" he roared, holding his head and looking at his palm.

Like I said, it barely missed, so he was fine, and that p*ss*d me off even more.

"First of all," I shot back, my voice shaky but firm, "I wasn't 'given' to you. I agreed to this marriage because of a family issue, not because I wanted you!" My voice rose. "And you dare not call me names. My family is just as rich as yours; I can have anything I want!"

The more I spoke to him, the more I thought about John, my ex. He wouldn't have treated me badly if I had cautioned him from the start.

Sam smirked. "It's still their money," he sneered, his gaze condescending. "You're a small woman, Katherine. You'll be fine in the morning when you're less emotional."

Oh, he didn't just say that.

He rolled onto the bed and fell asleep, leaving me seething. A rush of fury and a strange sense of relief washed over me. I had stood up to him, finally. A small flicker of pride began to grow. He had dared to belittle me, to talk down to me. And for the first time, I had refused to back down. If only I had been like this from the start of my life.

'It's still their money.'

His words lingered, though. I did have an inheritance; I did have accounts in my name. But his arrogant certainty, his dismissive tone, ignited something in me. I would prove him wrong. I would prove them all wrong.

I got off the bed and left the room, my throat tight. I didn't know if it was from the unshed tears or the stark reality of what he'd said. I walked downstairs, my steps uncertain.

The grand dining area stretched out before me, but it didn't offer the comfort I sought. Loneliness clung to my soul, heavy with regret and a deep-seated resentment toward my family for what they'd done to me. My fingers brushed against the soft fabric of my pajamas, a reminder of Susan, my best friend, the one person I'd foolishly believed would always be there for me. A bitter laugh escaped my lips.

"...us girls should stick together..."

I thought about making myself a snack, a simple thing, but the memory overwhelmed me. Susan and I used to spend hours making elaborate snacks with potato chips, washing them down with cheap wine and endless chatter. The kitchen seemed a million miles away in this unfamiliar mansion. It was getting too hard not to hate it here.

I stumbled along the corridor, navigating like I was in a maze, trying to find the kitchen. Another wrong turn, and I saw her: a housekeeper appearing from a doorway.

"I am Susan. Can I help you with anything, ma'am?" she asked.

My blood boiled. I didn't know if it was because of her name or the smile on her face. Everyone had been smiling at me since morning, and... I snapped.

"Go screw yourself," the words harsher than I intended.

Her smile vanished. She bowed slightly, apologized, and shrank back into the shadows.

Alone in my anger and sadness, I sank to the floor and wept. Everything was wrong! My ex, my best friend, my parents, my sister! I had trusted them all.

The scent of citrus cut through my despair. Benedict. I knew it was him before I even saw him. As I heard his footsteps approaching, I wiped my face. I looked up to see a small, sympathetic smile on his face.

"Even you?" I yelled at him. "Get away from me with your act."

He ignored my outburst, kneeling beside me. His arms slowly opened, an invitation.

"It's going to be okay, Katherine," he whispered, nodding gently.

I wanted to believe him. I wanted to be certain I would be fine, but all I could focus on was his outstretched arms. No one had ever offered me that.

"It's going to be okay," he said again, this time more reassuringly.

Still sobbing, still furious, I allowed myself to be drawn into the safety of his embrace. He wrapped his arms around me tightly, holding me like I was going to run away.

"Breathe. You're doing great," he whispered.

No one had ever said that to me before. And it broke me even more. At that moment, I couldn't tell if I was just broken or utterly unloved.

"Please don't leave me" I held tighter "please" I whispered.

"I won't do that, again" he said.

It was low. More like a grunt but I sure heard him clear. Those words stuck in my brain like a vivid dream.