NO RESCUE COMING

LOLA'S POV

I hear Ethan's office door slam and I know.

I know what's coming.

I'm still in the bedroom where Ocean found me, sitting on the edge of the bed with my hands clasped so tightly my knuckles are white. My heart is pounding so hard I can hear it in my ears.

Ocean saw. He saw everything. My face, the bruises I couldn't hide, all the evidence of what Ethan does to me. And he confronted him. I heard raised voices downstairs, muffled through the floors but unmistakable. Ocean was angry. Really angry.

For one brief, stupid moment, I let myself hope. Maybe this would be enough. Maybe Ocean would make it stop. Maybe someone finally cared enough to...

"LOLA!"

Ethan's voice echoes through the house and every muscle in my body locks up in terror.

Oh god. Oh god, no.

"Get down here. NOW."

My legs won't move. I'm frozen, rooted to the spot, because I know what's about to happen and I can't, I can't do this again...I can't

"I said NOW!"

Something crashes downstairs. Glass breaking. He's throwing things. I force myself to stand. Force my legs to move. Because if I don't go down there, he'll come up here, and that will be worse. It's always worse when he has to come find me.

Each step down the stairs feels like walking toward my own execution. He's in the living room. His face is red, veins bulging in his neck. There's a lamp shattered on the floor. He's breathing hard, fists clenched at his sides.

The moment he sees me, his eyes narrow into slits.

"You fucking bitch."

"Ethan, I'm sorry, I didn't..."

"You didn't what?" He takes a step toward me and I automatically step back. "You didn't think? You didn't consider what would happen if you let my father see your face looking like that?"

"I didn't know he was coming! You didn't tell me, I was just..."

"You embarrassed me." Another step forward. I'm backed against the wall now. Nowhere to go. "My own father thinks I'm some kind of monster because you couldn't be bothered to put on makeup and hide your fucking bruises."

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry..."

"Do you have any idea what you've done?" He's right in front of me now, so close I can smell the coffee on his breath. "He threatened me. My own father threatened me because of you."

Tears are streaming down my face. "I didn't mean to..."

"You never mean to." His hand shoots out and grabs my throat. Not squeezing hard enough to cut off my air completely, but enough to make breathing difficult. Enough to make panic explode in my chest. "You're always sorry. You never mean to. But somehow you keep fucking up anyway."

"Please," I gasp. "Please, I'll do better, I promise..."

"You promised that last time." His grip tightens slightly. "And the time before that. And the time before that. Your promises don't mean shit, Lola." Black spots are dancing at the edges of my vision. I claw at his hand, trying to pull it away, but he's so much stronger than me.

"You made me look weak," he hisses. "You made my father think he can tell me what to do in my own house with my own wife. Do you understand what you've done?" He releases my throat suddenly and I collapse, gasping for air. My lungs burn as I drag in breath after breath.

But I don't even have time to recover before his fist slams into my stomach. All the air rushes out of me again. I double over, retching, trying to breathe but my lungs won't work properly.

"Get up."

I can't. I'm still trying to remember how to breathe. His hand tangles in my hair, yanking me upright. I cry out in pain but he doesn't care. He never cares.

"I said get up."

He drags me across the living room by my hair. I stumble, my hands trying to pry his fingers loose, but it's useless. He throws me onto the couch and I land hard, my already injured ribs screaming in protest. "You know what I learned today?" He's pacing now, like a caged animal. "I learned that I need to be more careful. My father is watching now, isn't he? Looking for evidence. Looking for reasons to interfere in my marriage."

"Ethan, please..."

"So no more face hits. No more visible bruises." He stops pacing and looks at me with something cold and calculating in his eyes. "Can't have dear old dad seeing any more evidence, can we?"

My blood runs cold. Because I understand what he's saying. He's not going to stop. He's just going to be more careful.

"From now on," he continues, his voice eerily calm, "I'll make sure everything is where you can hide it. Your stomach. Your ribs. Your back. Places that are covered by clothes. That way, when my father comes snooping around, you'll look just fine."

"Please don't do this," I sob. "I'll be more careful, I'll make sure no one sees..."

"You're right. You will be more careful." He walks back over to me. "Because if my father sees any more bruises? If he has any more reason to question me? I'll make you regret it in ways you can't even imagine."

He grabs my arm and yanks me off the couch. I try to resist but it's pointless. He's too strong and I'm too weak.

"Ethan, please, I'm sorry..."

The first punch lands in my stomach again. Then another. And another. Each one drives the air from my lungs, leaves me gasping and retching. But he's careful. So careful. Doesn't touch my face. Doesn't leave marks where anyone can see.

He throws me to the ground and I curl into a ball, trying to protect myself. But there's no protection. Not really. His foot connects with my back, my ribs, my legs.

"This is your fault," he says, punctuating each word with a kick. "You did this. You made this happen."

And the worst part is, I believe him. If I'd been more careful. If I'd heard Ocean coming. If I'd put on makeup faster. If I'd hidden better.

This is my fault.

I don't know how long it lasts. Time stops meaning anything when you're in this much pain. All I know is hurt and fear and the desperate wish for it to be over. Finally, he stops. Stands over me, breathing hard.

"Clean yourself up," he says. "And remember. No more visible bruises. No more ammunition for my father. You keep your mouth shut and you make sure no one sees anything wrong. Understand?"

I can't speak. Can barely breathe. But I manage a small nod. "Good." He steps over me like I'm trash on the floor. "I'm going out. I expect this house to be spotless when I get back. And I expect you to look presentable." I hear him grab his keys. Hear the front door open and close. Hear his car start and pull away.

Only then do I let myself cry. Really cry. Great, heaving sobs that make my injured ribs scream but I can't stop. Ocean's intervention didn't help. It made everything worse. Now Ethan will be more careful. More strategic. He'll hurt me where no one can see. Where there's no evidence. No proof.

I'll still be in hell. I'll just be better at hiding it.

I don't know how long I lie there on the floor. Eventually, the sobs slow. My body goes numb. I stare at the ceiling with empty eyes. Ocean tried to help. I know he did. He saw what was happening and he confronted Ethan and for one brief moment I thought maybe, just maybe, someone cared.

But it didn't matter. It only made things worse.

Because this is my life. This is all it will ever be. And no one can save me. Not Ocean, not anyone.

I'm alone. Completely, utterly alone.

And any hope I had left, any tiny spark that maybe things could get better, dies right there on the living room floor.

I finally force myself to sit up, wincing at the pain that shoots through my entire body. Everything hurts. My stomach, my ribs, my back. I run my hands over my torso carefully and feel the bruises already forming. Deep, ugly bruises that will last for weeks.

But they'll be hidden. Under my clothes where no one can see.

Just like Ethan planned.

I drag myself to my feet, holding onto the couch for support. The room spins and for a moment I think I might pass out. But I steady myself. Force my legs to hold me up.

The house is a mess. The broken lamp. Furniture pushed askew from our struggle. I need to clean it before Ethan gets back.

I always need to clean up after he hurts me. Erase the evidence. Make everything look perfect again.

Like nothing happened.

Like I'm not dying inside.

I start picking up the pieces of the broken lamp with shaking hands. Each movement sends fresh waves of pain through my body but I don't stop. Can't stop. Because if the house isn't spotless when he returns, he'll be angry again. And I can't take any more today. I just can't.

As I clean, my mind is blank. Numb. I'm not even really here anymore. I'm just going through the motions. An empty shell performing the tasks required to survive another day.

Ocean's face keeps flashing in my mind. The look in his eyes when he saw my bruises. The anger. The concern. But it doesn't matter. His concern doesn't matter. His anger doesn't matter.

Because at the end of the day, I'm still here. Still trapped. Still being destroyed piece by piece with no way out. And now it's going to be even harder to get help. Because Ethan will make sure there's no visible evidence. No proof. Nothing for anyone to see.

I'm more alone than ever.

The hope that briefly flickered when Ocean confronted Ethan is gone now. Completely extinguished.

Because hope is dangerous. Hope is what gets you hurt worse.

I learned that today.

Ocean tried to help and now I'm paying the price for it. I'll probably be paying the price for days, maybe weeks, as my body heals from this beating. I finish cleaning up the living room. Make it look perfect. Then I go to the kitchen and start preparing dinner even though the thought of food makes me want to vomit.

But Ethan will expect dinner when he gets home. Will expect me to act normal. To smile and serve him and pretend like nothing happened.

So that's what I'll do.

Because that's all I know how to do anymore.

Pretend. Hide. Survive.

And never, ever hope again.

Hope is the cruelest lie of all.

I move through the kitchen like a ghost, my body on autopilot while my mind drifts somewhere far away. Somewhere that doesn't hurt. Somewhere safe. But there is nowhere safe. Not anymore. Not for me.

By the time Ethan comes home three hours later, the house is spotless and dinner is on the table and I'm wearing a long-sleeved shirt that covers all the damage. I smile when he walks in. Serve him his food. Act like everything is fine.

And he smiles back, satisfied that I've learned my lesson. That I know my place.

That I'll never tell anyone what happens in this house again. Because who would believe me now anyway? With no visible bruises, no proof, just my word against his?

No one. That's who.

I'm trapped in this nightmare with no escape.

And Ocean's intervention, his moment of caring, has only made my cage smaller.

That night, lying in bed next to a husband who sees me as nothing more than property to abuse, I close my eyes and let go of the last shred of hope I was holding onto.

There is no rescue coming.

There never was.

There's only this. Day after day. Year after year.

Until one of us dies.

And honestly? I'm starting to hope it's me.

At least then it would be over.

At least then I'd finally be free.