LOVE HIS ENEMY: My Husband's Downfall

Elizabeth Bell

I watch myself pressing the makeup sponge to my bruised cheek. The mirror is unforgiving, reflecting back a face I barely recognise, hidden beneath layers of foundation. My black eye stands out despite everything I try to mask it with.

How did I get here?

How did I let things go so wrong?

"Elizabeth," Christopher’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and angry.

“Hurry the fuck up in there. Don’t make me wait. And make sure you look presentable. I don’t need people asking questions.”

I swallow hard, forcing down the anger that rises every time he talks to me like that. I answer him quietly, "I’m done."

Standing up, I smooth the glittering black dress clinging to my body, its sequins catching the light.

My hair is a glossy sheet of black that falls to my shoulders, and my hazel eyes—once full of life—look dull now. I swipe a finger over my red lips, fixing the lipstick. I know, objectively, I look beautiful. But right now, it feels like a mask.

I step out of the room and see him leaning against the doorframe, his eyes scanning me from head to toe. His gaze stops on the faint outline of the bruise peeking through the makeup, and he frowns, displeased.

“Go back and fix your face, Lizzy,” his voice is not as cold. He walks towards me. He pulls me towards him, gently rubbing my hair.

“See what you made me do to you, baby. I didn’t mean to. I am sorry. Now please fix your eye.”

I nod, understanding that he does not mean that as a gentle request.

Finally, I look back up. He nods in cold approval.

“Good. You look beautiful,” he says. “I’ll meet you in the car. Go say goodnight to Edward if you have to. Just don’t take too long.”

“I won’t,” I mutter.

I turn towards our son’s room, walking down the hall, my heels quiet on the plush carpet. The tension in my chest loosens slightly as I near Edward’s door. I close my eyes for a moment, taking in a calming breath. He’s the only light left in my life, the only reason I haven’t walked away from all this. Somewhere inside me, I still hold onto the idea that maybe things will change and that Christopher might somehow become the man I once knew.

As I enter Edward’s room, the dim nightlight illuminates the small figure under the blanket. I see his little legs kicking playfully beneath the covers, his soft laughter filling the room. His big blue eyes lock onto me, lighting up with excitement.

“Mama!” he squeals, his small hands reaching out toward me.

I melt instantly. “Hello, my little lion,” I say, my voice soft. “I just came to kiss you goodnight, sweetheart.”

Edward holds out his arms, and I lean in, scooping him up into a hug. He giggles as I plant a loud, exaggerated kiss on his cheek, holding him close, wishing I could freeze this moment. For just a second, all my troubles fade.

“Love you, Mama,” he murmurs, his small arms wrapping around my neck.

“I love you too, Edward,” I whisper, my voice barely holding steady. I settle him back into bed, tucking the blanket around him and brushing a lock of his soft hair back. “Sleep well, my little lion.”

As I close his door, the warmth fades, and the reality of my life hits me like a punch to the gut.

The mask slips back on.

How much longer can I keep this up?

I hate this life. I hate the lies and the empty, soulless world I’ve been drawn into.

Christopher wasn’t always like this, I remind myself. We were high school sweethearts. We were in love, or at least I thought so. We came from the same wealthy world, full of privilege and dark secrets. My father had begged me not to marry him, but I was so determined to prove him wrong.

I walk down to the car, each step heavier than the last, knowing that the evening ahead will be as empty as the rest of my life. As I settle into the passenger seat, Christopher doesn’t even glance at me. The silence is suffocating. Tonight, as always, he has his Friday poker game. And as always, I’m expected to be by his side, the perfect, smiling trophy wife.

When we arrive, he holds out his hand for me to take, his fingers tight around mine. It’s not a gesture of affection—it’s a command. He expects me to smile, to play along, to hide the pain he’s inflicted. I grit my teeth, pasting on a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes.

The room is filled with billionaires and politicians laughing too loud, exchanging money and stories. Most of the women here are high-end escorts, hanging on to their clients, laughing at jokes that probably weren’t funny. I don’t recognise most of them, but it doesn’t matter. They’re here for the night, bought and paid for.

I glance at Christopher, who sits at the poker table, his jaw tight, his gaze dark. He’s losing. I can tell from the way he clenches his glass, the way his fingers tap against the table. I know what that means for me. A night like this always ends the same way.

“How do you know Chris?” A voice suddenly interrupts my thoughts, soft and curious. I turn to find a young woman standing beside me. She’s blonde, fresh-faced, and too young to be in a room like this. Her eyes are wide as she looks at me, clearly expecting a friendly answer.

I swallow the bitterness rising in my throat, glancing back at the table. “He’s my husband,” I reply, my voice flat.

Her face brightens, and she tilts her head, giving me an envious smile. “Oh, you’re so lucky. You bagged yourself a rich, handsome guy,” she says, her tone full of admiration.

I turn to her, my face calm, but there’s a sharp edge to my voice. “I bagged nothing, sweetheart. His money is the last thing I will ever need.”

She blinks, a look of confusion passing over her face, but I don’t explain. I turn back toward the table, just in time to see Christopher lose another hand. His face darkens further, and a small group of men around him exchange amused glances, clearly enjoying his discomfort.

Then, someone leans forward at the table, his voice booming over the quiet murmurs of the room.

“Are you calling it a night, Chris?”

The man’s voice is low and thick, with a hint of something mocking in it. I look at him, not recognising his face. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, with dark eyes that glint in the dim light. He smiles, a lazy, predatory grin that sends a chill down my spine.

Christopher glares at him, his fingers drumming against the table, but he doesn’t respond. The man leans forward, his gaze never leaving Christopher’s.

“How about one last round?” he drawls, his voice full of challenge. “Just you and me. If you win, I’ll give you my entire stake. But if I win..." His eyes flicker to me, and I feel a cold, sinking dread. “If I win, I get a night with your wife.”

The words hang in the air, and my heart stops. I stare at the man, my breath caught in my throat, shock turning my body to ice. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening.

I look at Christopher, praying that he’ll end this. That he’ll say no, that he’ll stand up for me for once. His face is impassive, but I can see him weighing the offer, calculating. My stomach twists as he meets my gaze, the look in his eyes cold, detached. And then he nods.

“Deal.”