Just Paying A Debt

Chapter Six

Julian stood up, adjusting his tie.

"Good. Dr. Miller said the new dosage will help regulate your sleep patterns. I have instructed Betty to make sure your lunch is served in the study today so you don't have to walk all the way to the dining room."

"Julian, I can walk to the dining room," I said, forcing a small, cautious smile. "The dining room is just twenty feet from the bedroom. My doctor said gentle movement is good for the joint."

Julian's brows raised slightly, a sign of disapproval showing on his face. "Eleanor, we've discussed this. Excessive stress causes nerve fatigue. When your nerves are stressed, your pain increases, and when your pain increases, you have panic attacks. I am doing everything possible to keep your environment completely controlled so you don't relapse."

"I know," I said, lowering my eyes. "I just... I feel like I live in a museum, Julian."

He knelt down again, placing his warm hands over my knees. The contrast between his living warmth and the ice pack on my calf was stark.

"You don't live in a museum, Eleanor. You live in a sanctuary, a place of refuge," he said, his voice firm, leaving no space for argument. "I particularly built this place for you. I rounded every corner. I had soft carpets laid over the marble for ease of passage. I deliberately hired Betty to handle the household chores so you never have to strain yourself. You saved my life. The least I can do is protect yours."

You saved my life.

There it was. The foundation of our entire marriage. The repayment for saving his life, not a product of genuine love.

He didn't say I love you. He had never made that statement, not when he proposed to me six months after the accident in my hospital room, not when we stood before a judge in a quiet courthouse ceremony, or during the three years we had shared this luxurious high-rise cage.

He married me because he was acting as a righteous man from an influential family, and his moral belief dictated that he could not abandon the woman who had ruined her own body to keep him alive. Our marriage was not a union of hearts; it was a lifetime financial and physical debt repayment plan.

"I know how much you do for me," I whispered, reaching out to gently touch his cheek.

His skin was cool. Although he did not resist, he didn't lean into my hand either. He simply tolerated the affection, accepting it like a pat given to a very diligent caregiver.

"I have a busy schedule at the office today," Julian said, standing up and looking at his gold wrist watch. "The board is reviewing the preliminary budget for the new downtown cultural center."

As I heard him mention the cultural center, a little flare of my former self triggered deep in my chest. "Do you mean they are still considering the glass atrium layout? I remember reviewing those blueprints two years ago. The structural load on the east wall was too heavy for that design."

Julian picked up his leather briefcase from the side table, avoiding my face. "I believe the engineering team settled that months ago, Eleanor. You don't need to stress your mind with corporate blueprints. Just focus on your recovery."

"I'm not stressing my mind, Julian. I just... I still think about architecture."

"Thinking about your past career only exacerbates your frustration," he said, his tone firm and authoritative. "Dr. Miller warned us about reflection. It keeps your nervous system in a state of high anxiety."

I made an effort to close my mouth, disallowing the words that wanted to spill out. I wanted to tell him that my mind wasn't broken, even if my leg was. I wanted to tell him that missing my work wasn't a symptom of a psychological disorder; it was a natural human feeling for a woman who had spent five years studying structural design at the top of her class.

"I'll be back home by seven," Julian said, walking toward the wide entrance of the penthouse. "Betty will be here at eight to prepare breakfast. Keep the ice pack on for another fifteen minutes, then put your compression sleeve on, okay?"

"Okay," I said. "Have a good day at work, Julian."

"Don't stress yourself," he replied.

He walked away as the heavy front door clicked shut behind him, the electronic lock responding with a sharp, final beep.

The acute silence of the penthouse returned back over me as soon as he left. It was a frustrating, heavy silence, broken only by the low sound of the central air conditioning system.

I leaned back against the sofa cushions, pulling the wool blanket higher over my chest. I looked around the massive, open-concept living space.

It was particularly beautiful; it was a masterpiece of modern interior architecture. The uncommon facilities included deep gray velvet, warm oak paneling, hidden ambient lighting, and panoramic views of the city skyline. But everywhere I looked, I saw the imprinted marks of my imprisonment in the cage called a mansion.

The sharp glass coffee table I had chosen when we first bought the place was gone, replaced by this soft, foam-edged one. The sleek, hard-edged dining chairs had been replaced by heavily cushioned armchairs. The doorstep between the living room and the hallway had been smoothed down so I would never stumble over a raised wooden lip.

Julian had spent hundreds of thousands of dollars to ensure I would never fall, never cut myself, never strain a muscle, and never encounter a physical obstacle.

He had built a paradise for a helpless invalid. And in doing so, he had convinced me that I was one.

I looked down at my left hand. The simple, elegant diamond band sat there on my ring finger, unappealing to my skin.

I genuinely loved Julian. I had loved him since the very moment I met him at an architectural gala four years ago, back when he was just a brilliant, brooding corporate vice president and I was an ambitious junior architectural designer. I had loved him enough to throw myself into a burning sports car without a second thought.

And for three years, I had held onto the credulous, unrealistic hope that if I was patient enough, if I was affectionate enough, if I recovered enough, his overwhelming sense of duty would slowly transform into genuine love. I had believed that one day he would look at me not with pity or obligation, but with the incredible, passionate warmth a man feels for his wife.

I walked down and gently touched the ice pack over my leg. The cold was much now, numbing the sharp nerve pain until my calf felt like a block of wood.

"Three years," I whispered to no one in particular but the empty room.

The fog outside the window was beginning to burn off under the rising sun, revealing the sharp, majestic silhouettes of the city's skyscrapers. Among these, the glass tower of Vance Enterprises stood tall and cold, reflecting the pale morning light like a giant mirror.

Julian was either there now, or on his way there, stepping into his own world of power, decisions, and high-stakes finance. A world where he was completely in command.

And I was here, sitting on a padded couch in a padded room, waiting for the housekeeper to come and make me oatmeal because my husband saw me as someone who was too fragile and weak to stand in front of a stove.

I closed my eyes briefly and let out a long, deep breath. Deep down my heart, and beneath the physical pain and the lingering fear I nursed, a tiny, buried voice whispered a rhetorical question which I had been afraid to ask myself for three years:

How much longer can you survive on someone else's pity?