Chapter Six: Living with Lies

The apartment was dark and silent when Novalee finally made it home. 

2:47 AM. The numbers on the microwave glowed green in the darkness.

Sunday. James's day off from Patterson Shipping.

He was home.

The realization hit her like a fist to the gut. She'd been running on autopilot, her mind fractured and scattered, and she'd completely forgotten. Sunday was his day off. He wasn't at work. He was here, in their apartment, probably asleep in their bed.

She couldn't fall apart. Not yet. Not where he could hear her.

Novalee stood in the entryway, still wearing her coat, her entire body shaking. She needed to move. Needed to get to the bathroom, lock the door, deal with this before he woke up.

She forced herself forward. Coat off—hands trembling so badly she could barely manage the zipper. Shoes kicked into the corner, too loud in the silence. Purse dropped on the chair.

The bathroom. She just needed to make it to the bathroom.

She padded down the hall as quietly as possible, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The bedroom door was open, and she could see James's form in their bed, the covers rising and falling with his steady breathing.

Asleep. Thank God.

Novalee slipped into the bathroom and locked the door with shaking hands.

Only then did she let herself breathe.

---

The shower water ran scalding hot, steam billowing in thick clouds that obscured the bathroom mirror. Novalee stood under the spray, eyes squeezed shut, scrubbing her skin raw with a washcloth. The water burned, but not enough. Nothing could burn away what had happened.

She scrubbed harder.

The washcloth moved over her thighs again. And again. And again.

Red welts rose on her skin, but she couldn't stop. Couldn't feel clean. Her period had ended—of course it had, just in time for the aftermath to feel even more violating.

Now she scrubbed.

She had to be quiet. Had to keep the water pressure low enough that it wouldn't wake James. Had to swallow her sobs, force them down into her chest where they burned like acid.

The washcloth moved methodically. Thighs. Stomach. Chest. Arms. Everywhere he'd touched. Everywhere he'd contaminated.

The water pressure dropped slightly—the building's old pipes protesting the early morning use. Panic seized her chest. What if the sound woke James? What if he knocked on the door, asked if she was okay?

She couldn't face him. Not yet. Not ever.

She turned the water hotter, as if heat could sterilize what had been done to her.

The pain helped. It gave her something to focus on besides the ghost sensation of his hands, his weight, his—

Stop. Don't think about it.

But how could she not? It was there every time she closed her eyes. Every time she moved. Every time she breathed, she remembered the way he'd covered her mouth, stolen her air, taken everything.

The water finally ran cold. She'd been in there long enough that the hot water heater had given up. Shivering, Novalee turned off the spray and stood dripping on the bath mat, staring at nothing.

She needed to move. To dry off. To put on clothes. To get into bed before James woke up and realized she'd been gone.

But God, she was so tired.

Finally, mechanically, she dried herself with a towel that felt too soft, too gentle against skin that deserved to hurt. She pulled on an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts—James's favorites, the ones he always said made her look cute. The irony made her want to scream.

She brushed her teeth three times, trying to scrub away the taste of blood and violation. Then she stared at her reflection in the now-clear mirror.

The bruise on her cheek had darkened to a deep purple-blue, spreading from her cheekbone to just below her eye. It looked worse than it had at the club. Worse than when she'd checked it in her car.

The drunk patron story. She'd have to stick to it.

Novalee unlocked the bathroom door as quietly as possible and crept toward the bedroom. James was still asleep, his breathing deep and even. She slipped under the covers beside him, moving carefully to avoid jostling the mattress.

He stirred slightly, and her heart stopped.

"Nova?" His voice was thick with sleep. "That you?"

"Yeah," she whispered. "Just got home. Go back to sleep."

"'Kay." He reached out blindly, his arm draping over her waist, pulling her close. "Love you."

The words hit like a knife. "Love you too," she whispered back.

Within seconds, his breathing evened out again. He was asleep, completely unaware that his wife was lying rigid beside him, every muscle tensed, fighting the urge to scream.

Novalee lay there in the darkness, James's arm heavy across her waist, and stared at the ceiling.

She didn't close her eyes.

She couldn't.

All she saw when she closed her eyes was white.

---

Morning arrived too quickly.

Novalee must have dozed off somewhere around six, because she woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and James moving around the bedroom. Her body felt like it had been hit by a truck—every muscle aching, her face throbbing, exhaustion weighing her down like a physical force.

"Morning, sleepyhead," James said cheerfully, pulling a t-shirt over his head. "Didn't think you'd sleep this late. It's almost eleven."

Eleven. She'd lost hours.

Novalee sat up slowly, and the movement made her head spin. "What time did I get home?"

"Not sure. I was dead to the world." James grinned at her. "Must've been pretty late though. You smell like you showered already."

She had. At three in the morning, scrubbing her skin raw.

"Yeah, I... there was smoke at the club. From the fog machines. Felt gross." The lie came easily. Too easily.

James moved to the bed, leaning down to kiss her forehead—and froze.

"Nova." His voice changed completely. "What the hell happened to your face?"

She'd forgotten. In her exhaustion, she'd completely forgotten about the bruise.

"It's nothing," she said quickly, her hand coming up to cover her cheek. "Just an accident at the club last night."

James's expression shifted from concern to alarm. He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands gentle as he moved hers away to see the damage. "That's not nothing. That's a serious bruise. What happened?"

"Some drunk guy." The story spilled out, practiced and smooth. "Swung around while he was dancing, his elbow caught me in the face. Security threw him out before I could even get his name."

"Did Greysen see it happen?"

Shit. "Yeah, they were right there. Made sure I was okay."

"And you didn't think to text me when you got home? Nova, you could have a concussion. We should go to urgent care—"

"I'm fine." She forced a smile. "Really. It looks worse than it is. Just bruising. I took some ibuprofen and iced it last night."

Another lie. She hadn't done either of those things. She did not deserve the relief.

James studied her face, clearly wanting to argue, but finally sighed. "Okay. But if you start feeling dizzy or nauseous or anything, we're going to the ER immediately. No arguments."

"No arguments," she agreed.

He pulled her into a gentle hug, careful of her bruised face. Novalee let herself be held, her arms coming up mechanically to return the embrace. James smelled like laundry detergent and sleep. Everything safe and good.

Everything she was destroying just by being here.

"I'm glad you're okay," he murmured into her hair. "You scared me."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

They held each other for a moment before James pulled back. "Hey, since we're both off today, you want to do something? We could go to that farmers market you like, grab lunch somewhere?"

The thought of going out in public, of pretending to be normal for hours, made her want to curl into a ball and never move.

"Actually," Novalee said slowly, "I'm not feeling great. I think I might just stay home, rest a bit. The bruise is kind of... I don't really want people staring at me."

"Oh. Yeah, of course." James's disappointment was obvious but he hid it quickly. "Want me to stay home with you? I can make us lunch, we can watch movies or something?"

"No, no, you should go out. Enjoy your day off and we need groceries." She forced brightness into her voice. "I'll probably just sleep anyway."

James hesitated, clearly torn. "You sure?"

"Positive. Go have fun."

"Okay." He kissed her forehead again. "But I'm getting you your favorite soup from that deli you like. And some of those cookies. Non-negotiable."

Despite everything, a small genuine smile tugged at her lips. "Thank you."

"Anything for you, love."

He got dressed—jeans and a t-shirt, his usual casual Sunday look—and grabbed his wallet and keys. At the door, he paused.

"Text me if you need anything, okay? Or if you start feeling worse. I'll come right home."

"I will. Promise."

The door closed behind him, and Novalee was alone.

She made it exactly thirty seconds before the facade crumbled.

The sobs came violently, tearing out of her chest in great heaving gasps. She curled into a ball on the bed, clutching James's pillow to her face to muffle the sounds. Her body shook with the force of it, every wall she'd built since last night finally collapsing.

She cried for her lost sense of safety. For her violated body. For her shattered marriage to a man who didn't know his wife was already gone. For the person she'd been yesterday morning, who'd thought the worst problem in her life was an irritating customer.

That person was dead.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand.

She should ignore it. Should throw the phone away, get a new number, disappear.

But she looked anyway.

**Unknown: Good morning, little star. Sleep well?**

**Unknown: I trust you made it home safely to that husband of yours.**

**Unknown: That bruise suits you. A beautiful reminder of who you belong to.**

Novalee's sobs turned to silent screams. She grabbed the phone and hurled it across the room. It hit the wall with a satisfying crack, the screen splintering.

It didn't help.

Nothing helped.

She lay on the bed, James's pillow still clutched to her chest, and let herself break.

---

By the time James came home three hours later, Novalee had pulled herself together. Sort of.

She'd showered again. Put on clean clothes. Washed her face. Retrieved her broken phone and tried not to think about the messages still sitting in her notifications.

She was sitting on the couch when he walked in, her broken phone in her lap, staring at nothing.

"Hey, love." James held up a bag from the deli. "Got your soup and—" He stopped, taking in her appearance. "Nova, have you been crying?"

"Just a headache," she said quickly. "The bruise is really bothering me."

"Did you take anything for it?"

"Yeah." A lie. "It's getting better."

James set the bag down and came to sit beside her, his eyes on her broken phone. "What happened there?"

"Dropped it." Another lie. "Clumsy."

"We can get it fixed tomorrow if you want. Or I can—"

"It's fine. Still works." She pressed the power button to demonstrate. The cracked screen lit up, showing five new messages from different unknown numbers.

She locked it quickly before he could see.

James pulled out containers of soup and set them on the coffee table. "Eat. You'll feel better."

They ate in silence, Novalee forcing down spoonfuls of soup that tasted like nothing. James kept glancing at her, clearly worried but not wanting to push.

"You sure you're okay?" he finally asked.

"Just tired." The same excuse she'd used a hundred times. "The club was loud last night. Didn't sleep well."

"You can take a nap if you want. I'll be quiet."

"Maybe later."

Her phone buzzed. Then again. Then again.

James frowned. "Someone's really trying to get a hold of you."

"Probably Greysen. They always spam text instead of calling." Novalee turned the phone face-down. "I'll text them back later."

The rest of Sunday passed in a blur. James puttered around the apartment, doing laundry and cleaning. Novalee stayed on the couch, staring at the TV without seeing it. Every time her phone buzzed, her heart jumped. Every time James came near her, she had to force herself not to flinch.

By the time evening came, she was exhausted from the effort of pretending.

They made dinner together—or rather, James cooked while Novalee sat at the kitchen table, too tired to help. He made her favorite pasta with garlic bread, and served it with the same love and care he always did.

She barely tasted it.

"You're really out of it today," James observed, reaching across the table to take her hand. "You sure you don't want to go to urgent care? Just to be safe?"

"I'm sure. I just need rest."

"Okay." He squeezed her hand. "I have to work the limo tomorrow. Private client, all day job. You going to be okay here by yourself?"

The limo job. His part-time gig driving for some fancy car service. He'd picked it up six months ago to help save for a down payment on a house.

"I'll be fine," Novalee said. "I'm off tomorrow too. I'll just... rest. Maybe clean a little."

"Don't overdo it." James stood and started clearing plates. "And if you need me, just call. I can always tell the client there's an emergency."

"I won't need you," she said, and hated how true it sounded.

They spent the rest of the evening on the couch, James watching a game while Novalee curled against his side, her broken phone clutched in her hand. It buzzed periodically. She ignored it.

At ten PM, James kissed her goodnight and headed to bed—he had to be up early for the limo job.

At ten-thirty PM, Novalee was alone with her thoughts and her buzzing phone.

She finally looked at the messages.

Fifteen texts from different unknown numbers. All from Dante.

**I'm watching you.**

**Did you enjoy your Sunday with James?**

**Such a loving husband. It would be a shame if something happened to him.**

**Don't ignore me, little star.**

**I don't like being ignored.**

**We'll see each other soon. Very soon.**

Novalee turned off her phone and sat in the darkness, listening to James's soft snoring from the bedroom.

Tomorrow he'd be gone all day. Tomorrow she'd be alone.

And Tuesday, she'd have to go back to work and pretend everything was fine.

She didn't know how she was going to do it.

But she had to try.

Because the alternative—telling James, going to the police, fighting back—would get him killed.

So she sat in the dark and counted the hours until she had to pretend again.

---

Monday arrived with James leaving at seven AM for his limo job, kissing her goodbye while she pretended to be asleep.

The moment the door closed behind him, Novalee opened her eyes.

Alone. Finally, completely alone.

She didn't get out of bed. Didn't shower. Didn't eat. Just lay there staring at the ceiling, her mind replaying Saturday night on an endless loop.

His hands. His weight. His eyes.

The bathroom floor. The pain. The fear.

Her phone—still turned off—sat on the nightstand like a bomb waiting to explode.

She should turn it on. Should check if work had tried to reach her, if Greysen was worried, if her family had called.

But she couldn't. Couldn't face the messages she knew would be waiting.

Hours passed. The sun tracked across the ceiling. Novalee didn't move.

At some point, she must have fallen asleep, because she woke to darkness and James's key in the lock.

"Nova?" he called out. "You awake?"

She sat up quickly, her head spinning. "Yeah, I'm here."

James appeared in the bedroom doorway, still in his driver's uniform—black suit, white shirt, black tie. He looked exhausted.

"Long day?" she asked.

"You have no idea." He loosened his tie. "Client had me driving all over the city. Rich people and their errands." He shook his head. "How was your day? You feeling better?"

"Yeah. Much better. Just rested." The lies were getting easier.

"Good." He started changing out of his uniform. "I'm wiped. Think I'm just going to shower and crash. You mind?"

"Not at all."

He disappeared into the bathroom, and Novalee exhaled slowly.

One more day down.

One more day of pretending.

Tomorrow she'd have to go back to work. Face people. Act normal.

She didn't know if she could do it.

But she was going to try.

Because what other choice did she have?

---

Tuesday morning came too soon.

Novalee's alarm went off at 7:30 AM. James had already left for his shipping shift at 10 PM the night before, wouldn't be home until 8 AM. She had thirty minutes to get ready and leave before he got back.

She moved through her morning routine like a robot. Shower. Clothes. Makeup to cover the fading bruise. Hair brushed. Bag packed.

Her phone—she'd finally turned it on last night—showed forty-seven unread messages. She deleted them all without reading them.

At 8:45 AM, she walked out the door.

The storage facility loomed before her like a prison when she pulled into the parking lot at 8:55 AM. Novalee sat in her car for five minutes, building up the courage to go inside.

She could do this. Just answer phones. Process paperwork. Smile at customers.

Pretend everything was fine.

Hera was already at the front desk when Novalee walked in, filing her nails and scrolling through her phone. She looked up and whistled low.

"Damn, Nova. Hard weekend?"

"Accident at a club and just a lot of stupid drama." The story came out smooth, practiced.

"Fun." Hera went back to her phone. "Oh, Mr. Henderson was looking for you yesterday. Something about light bulbs."

"Thanks."

Novalee made it to her desk and dropped her bag on the floor, staring at the ancient computer as it booted up.

She'd made it. First hurdle cleared.

She could survive this.

She had to.

The morning passed in a blur of phone calls, paperwork and meeting up with Mr Henderson at the company unit to go over the light bulb shortage she already knew about. Routine. Mindless. Exactly what she needed.

At noon, she returned to the office with the walk through complete and in hand. Looking over the items she needed to fix when Hera spoke up. "You've got a delivery."

Novalee's stomach dropped. "What kind of delivery?" Wide eyes looked up from the papers.

"Flowers. Big ones."

No. No, no, no.

Hera disappeared into the break room and returned a moment later carrying an enormous bouquet of red roses in a black vase. She set it on Novalee's desk with a confused expression.

"Somebody's trying to make up for something," Hera said. "James apologizing for not being around while you were hurt?"

"Probably," Novalee heard herself say. Another lie. This time about her loving caring husband.

Hera stayed a moment in hopes of getting more details. When none were given she gave a small huff and wandered off to the bathroom muttering something about fixing her makeup.

Alone, Novalee stared at the roses. There had to be three dozen of them, deep red and perfect, their scent sickly sweet.

There was a card.

Her hands shook as she pulled it from its envelope.

**In gold script: "Until next time, little star. - D"**

The world tilted. Novalee gripped the edge of her desk, fighting the wave of nausea that crashed over her.

She grabbed the vase and threw it into the trash can beside her desk. The vase shattered against the metal, water and roses spilling across the floor in a mess of glass and crushed petals.

"What the hell?" Hera appeared in the doorway, staring at the wreckage. "Did you just—"

"Allergic," Novalee said flatly. "Tell anyone else who delivers flowers I'm allergic to roses."

Hera blinked. "Uh. Okay?"

"I need to run to the supply store. Can you cover the desk?"

"I guess, but—"

Novalee grabbed her keys and fled.

She made it to her car before the panic attack hit.

Gasping. Shaking. Vision blurring.

She couldn't do this. Couldn't keep pretending. Couldn't—

Her phone buzzed.

**Unknown: Did you get my flowers?**

**Unknown: I'll send more tomorrow. I'm a generous man.**

**Unknown: Sweet dreams, little star.**

Novalee closed her eyes and tried to remember how to breathe.

This was her life now.

And she had no idea how to survive it.