GLASS SHARDS

LOLA'S POV

The glass slips from my fingers and shatters on the kitchen floor.

For a moment, I just stare at it. At the glittering shards spreading across the tile like tiny diamonds. At the water pooling around the pieces. It was an accident. My hands were wet from washing dishes and the glass was slippery and it just... slipped.

Just an accident. But I know that won't matter.

"What the fuck was that?"

Ethan's voice comes from the hallway and every muscle in my body locks up. My heart starts hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.

No. No, no, no.

"I'm sorry," I say quickly, already dropping to my knees to pick up the pieces. "I'm so sorry, it was an accident, I'll clean it up right now..."

He appears in the doorway and I see his face change. See the anger flash in his eyes like lightning before a storm.

"Are you fucking kidding me right now?"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, my hands were wet and it just slipped..." I'm picking up the glass too fast, not being careful, and a shard slices into my palm. Blood wells up immediately but I don't stop. Can't stop. "I'll replace it, I'll buy a new one, please, I'm so sorry..."

"That was from the set my mother gave me." His voice is deadly quiet now, which is worse than if he were yelling. "The crystal set. Do you have any idea how much that's worth?"

"I know, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..."

"You didn't mean to." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You never mean to, do you? You never mean to be such a useless, clumsy, worthless piece of shit." The first kick catches me in the ribs.

I gasp, the air rushing out of my lungs. I drop the glass shard I was holding, and try to curl into a ball but he's already grabbing my hair, yanking my head back so hard tears spring to my eyes.

"Did I say you could stop cleaning?"

"No, I..I"

The second blow catches me across the face. My head snaps to the side and I taste blood. He's still gripping my hair, holding me in place while he hits me again. And again.

"Useless. Fucking. Bitch."

Each word punctuated with a blow.

I try to protect my face with my arms but then he's kicking me in the stomach, in the ribs, and I can't breathe, can't think, can't do anything except try to survive.

"Please," I sob. "Please stop, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

"Sorry doesn't fix my mother's crystal, does it?"

Another kick. This one catches me in the kidney and the pain is so sharp I see stars. I don't know how long it goes on. Time stops meaning anything when you're in this much pain. All I know is his fists, his feet, his voice screaming at me that I'm worthless, that I ruin everything, that he wishes he'd never married me.

Finally, finally, he stops. I'm curled on the floor in a puddle of water and blood and broken glass, shaking so hard my teeth are chattering.

"Clean this up," he says, breathing hard. "And when you're done, you can sleep on the couch tonight. I don't want to look at your pathetic face."

He walks away. A moment later I hear his office door slam. I lie there for a long time, trying to remember how to breathe.

Everything hurts. My face, my ribs, my stomach, my back. The cut on my palm is still bleeding. There are probably pieces of glass embedded in my knees from when I was kneeling.

Slowly, carefully, I push myself up to sitting.

The room spins. I think I might throw up.

Don't. Don't throw up. That'll just be another mess to clean and he'll get angry again and you can't, you can't take any more today. I force the nausea down and look at the floor. Water and blood and crystal shards everywhere. I need to clean it. He told me to clean it.

My hands are shaking so badly I can barely pick up the pieces. Each movement sends fresh waves of pain through my body. I think he might have cracked one of my ribs. It hurts to breathe. It takes me twenty minutes to clean up the mess. By the time I'm done, my knees are bleeding and there are cuts all over my hands from the glass.

I rinse the blood down the drain. Watch it swirl pink against the white porcelain. Then I walk upstairs, moving like an old woman, each step agony.

I lock myself in the bathroom. Only then do I let myself look in the mirror.

Oh god.

My face is already swelling. There's a cut on my cheekbone that's going to need concealer for weeks. My lip is split and bleeding. A bruise is forming on my jaw, dark and ugly.And my eyes, My eyes look dead.

I turn on the shower as hot as it will go and sit down in the tub, still fully clothed. Let the water pour over me, I watch my blood and tears swirl down the drain together. I should leave. I should pack a bag right now and walk out that door and never come back.

But where would I go?

I have no money. Ethan controls everything. I have an allowance for groceries and household items, but he monitors every purchase. I don't have my own bank account, my own credit cards, my own anything. I have no family. I'm an orphan. I grew up bouncing between foster homes until I aged out of the system at eighteen. I have no friends because Ethan made sure of that. He cut me off from everyone I knew before we got married, and doesn't let me form new relationships now.

I'm completely alone. And even if I did have somewhere to go, even if I somehow got enough money together to run... in this world, in Ethan's world, you don't just leave your husband. You don't get divorced. You don't walk away. Women who try to leave end up dead.

Or worse.

I heard the stories at the few mafia events I've attended. Whispered conversations between the other wives when the men weren't listening. About women who tried to leave, who filed for divorce, who thought they could escape.

One ended up in the Thames with her throat slit. Another was sold to a brothel in Eastern Europe. A third simply disappeared, and everyone knows what that means. In this world, marriage is forever. Until death.

And if I tried to leave Ethan, death would come very quickly. So I'm trapped. Trapped in this house, in this marriage, in this life that's slowly killing me piece by piece. I pull my knees up to my chest and wrap my arms around them, even though the movement makes my ribs scream in protest.

The water is scalding hot but I don't turn it down. Let it burn. Let it hurt. At least this pain I'm choosing. I don't know how long I sit there. Long enough that the water starts to run cold. Long enough that my skin is wrinkled and my fingers are numb. Finally, I turn off the shower and climb out.

I strip off my wet clothes. They're ruined anyway, stained with blood and dirty water. I dry off carefully, assessing the damage. Bruises are blooming all over my torso, dark purple and blue and yellow. My ribs are definitely damaged. Each breath sends a sharp pain through my side.

I put on pajamas, long sleeves and long pants even though it's warm. I cover everything.

I look at my face one more time.

The swelling is worse now. By tomorrow, I'll look like I went three rounds with a professional boxer.

How am I supposed to hide this?

But I'll figure it out. I always do. More makeup. Stay inside for a few days until the worst of it fades. Tell anyone who asks that I'm sick.

Lie. Hide. Pretend.

Survive.

That's all I can do. Just survive one more day. And then another. And another.

I open the bathroom door quietly. The house is silent. Ethan must be asleep, or still in his office.

I creep downstairs, each step careful and measured. Get a blanket from the linen closet. Make up the couch like he told me to.

I lie down and stare at the ceiling.

My body hurts everywhere. But somehow that's not the worst part. The worst part is the emptiness. The hollow, aching knowledge that this is my life now. This is all it will ever be.

I used to dream. When I was younger, in the foster homes, I used to dream about having a family. About belonging somewhere. About being loved.

I used to think that if I could just find the right person, if I could just find someone who wanted me, everything would be okay.

What a stupid, naive girl I was.

There is no escape. No rescue. No happy ending.

There's just this. Day after day of walking on eggshells, trying not to upset him, failing anyway. Getting hit. Getting hurt. Getting broken down until there's nothing left. I close my eyes and a single tear slides down my cheek, burning where it touches the cut on my face.

Tomorrow I'll get up. I'll cover the bruises as best I can. I'll make his breakfast and clean his house and smile and pretend everything is fine. Because that's what I do. That's all I know how to do anymore.

Just survive.

Even when surviving feels like dying slowly.

I pull the blanket up to my chin and try to sleep, but every position hurts and my mind won't stop racing.

I think about Ocean. About the way he looked at me today. Like he saw something. Like he noticed.

But even if he did notice, what difference does it make? He's Ethan's father. He's part of this world. And in this world, wives are property.

No one is coming to save me.

I'm alone.

I've always been alone.

And I always will be.

The thought should make me cry more, but I'm all out of tears. So I just lie there in the dark, hurting and empty, and wait for morning to come. Because morning always comes.

And with it, another day in hell.