The Interrogation

I closed my eyes and felt tears burning behind my eyelids.

This is my life now.

The thought settled over me like a shroud. This beautiful prison. This is perfect hell.

And somewhere in the darkest part of my mind, a voice whispered: How much longer can you survive it?

The elevator ascended in suffocating silence. Thirty-five floors of polished metal and quiet judgement, my phone still clutched in Alexander's hand like evidence at a crime scene.

I counted floors. I tried to breathe. Failed.

The doors opened directly into our penthouse—three thousand square feet of minimalist perfection that had never felt like home. Alexander walked inside without looking at me, my phone still gripped in his hand, his silence more terrifying than any words.

I followed, closing the door softly behind me. My feet screamed in the Louboutins. I slipped them off immediately and felt the plush carpet beneath my aching soles. Small mercy.

Alexander disappeared into his study without a word.

Maybe he'd let it go. Maybe he'd had his say in the car, checked my phone, and found nothing because there was nothing to find. Maybe tonight I'll go to sleep.

I knew better, but hope was a stubborn, stupid thing.

I changed in our bedroom, peeling off the emerald silk dress that suddenly felt like a costume. Hung it carefully in the closet where it belonged, alongside all the other dresses he'd chosen for me. Pulled on soft pyjamas—grey cotton, modest, nothing that could be construed as provocative or suggestive or any of the thousand other things that might set him off.

I washed my face. Brushed my teeth. I braided my hair. All the rituals of normalcy.

When I emerged, Alexander stood in the living room doorway. My laptop in his hands.

My stomach dropped.

"I want to see your emails," he said calmly. Too calmly.

"You just checked my phone—"

"Your work emails, Elena." His voice was patient, like he was explaining something to a slow child. "I want to see your work correspondence."

"I don't have work emails anymore." The words tasted bitter. "You had me quit, remember?"

His face darkened. Storm clouds gathering. "Are you blaming me for that? I gave you a choice—"

"You threatened to have my boss fire me if I didn't resign." The words came out before I could stop them. Truth, sharp and dangerous.

Silence. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then: "Because that place was full of men who wanted to fuck you. I was protecting you."

Protecting. He always called it protecting.

He opened my laptop anyway, sat on the couch, and began scrolling. I stood in the doorway, arms wrapped around myself, suddenly cold despite the apartment's perfect climate control.

I watched him hunt. Browser history. Documents. Photos. Searching for evidence of sins I hadn't committed.

"Who's Thomas Brennan?" he asked suddenly.

My mind raced. Thomas Brennan. Thomas... "The gallery owner. Morrison Gallery. I'm on their mailing list."

"This email says there's an opening reception next week." He turned the screen toward me, showing me the innocuous gallery newsletter I'd forgotten existed. "Were you planning to go?"

"No. I just never unsubscribed—"

"Without telling me? You were going to sneak out and see another man?"

"Alexander, it's a mass email. They send it to hundreds of people—"

"That's not what I asked." His voice was ice. "Were you planning to go see Thomas Brennan?"

"No! I wasn't planning anything. I didn't even read the email."

"But you got it. You're still on his mailing list. Still maintaining contact with your old life. With men from your past."

"It's an automated email list—"

"Unsubscribe. Now."

He handed me the laptop. I stood there, holding it, fingers hovering over the keyboard. This was insane. This was a gallery newsletter. But I clicked unsubscribe, watched the confirmation message appear, and handed the laptop back.

"Better," he said, still scrolling. "What else are you hiding?"

"Nothing. Alexander, there's nothing—"

"Then you won't mind if I look."

He pulled up our phone records. I didn't even know he had access to those. Apparently, he'd always had access. Another thing I hadn't known, another way he'd been watching.

"You called your mother three times this week," he said, scanning the list of numbers.

"She's my mother. Is that a crime?"

"What do you talk about?"

"Normal things." I was so tired. Bone-tired. Soul-tired. "Family things."

"What kind of family things?" He looked up at me, his eyes cold and calculating. "Are you complaining about me? Telling her lies about our marriage?"

"No, Alexander. We talked about her garden. Her book club. Recipes. Normal mother-daughter things."

"I want to be on speaker next time you call her."

I stared at him. "You're joking."

His face was stone. "Do I look like I'm joking?"

"You want to monitor my calls with my mother?"

"I want transparency in our marriage. If you're not hiding anything, it shouldn't be a problem."

There it was again. That logic. If you're innocent, you have nothing to fear. If you object, you must be guilty.

"Fine," I said, because what else could I say?

"Good." He set the laptop aside, and leaned back on the couch. "Sit down. We need to talk about tonight."

I glanced at the clock. One thirty in the morning. "Alexander, can we do this tomorrow? I'm exhausted—"

"Oh, YOU'RE exhausted?" His voice rose slightly, the first crack in his careful control. "I'm the one who has to deal with a wife who can't be trusted. I'm the one who has to worry every time we go out in public. But sure, you're tired. How inconsiderate of me."

I sat. What choice did I have?

"Tell me about David Chen," he said.

"I already told you—"

"Tell me again. When did you work with him?"

"Five years ago. Before we met. He was an intern—"

"An intern you supervised?"

"Technically, yes, but—"

"So you had power over him. Authority."

I didn't like where this was going. "It wasn't like that—"

"Did he have a crush on you?"

"What? No. He was twenty-two and—"

"Did he ever ask you out?"

"No, Alexander—"

"Are you sure? Because you laughed pretty hard at his jokes tonight. Like you have history."

"We have work history. That's all."

"Work history." He repeated the words slowly, tasting them for lies. "And in all that work history, nothing ever happened? He never made a move? You never encouraged him?"

"No. Nothing happened. Ever."

"Then why did you look so happy to see him?"

"Because—" I stopped. There was no right answer. If I said I was happy to see an old colleague, it proved I'd been thinking about him. If I said I wasn't happy, I was lying because he'd seen my face. "Because it was nice to see someone from my old life. That's all."

"Your old life." His laugh was bitter. "The life before me. The life you wish you still had."

"That's not what I meant—"

"Then what did you mean, Elena? Explain it to me."

Two AM became three AM. The questions circled, repeated, and evolved. Same accusations in different words. I answered until my voice went hoarse. He followed me when I went to the bathroom. Waited outside the door. Continued talking through the wood.

I changed into pyjamas in the closet, hoping for a moment of privacy. He opened the door midway through.

"Are you hiding from me now?"

"No, I was just—"

"Just what? Avoiding this conversation? Avoiding taking responsibility for your behaviour?"

Three AM became four AM. I climbed into bed, hoping it would end. He sat on the edge, still talking. Every time I closed my eyes, his voice cut through the darkness.

"Are you listening to me?"

"Yes."

"Then answer the question."

"What question?"

"See? You're not even paying attention. This is exactly what I'm talking about. You don't respect me. You don't respect our marriage."

"Alexander, please. I'm so tired I can't think straight—"

"Maybe that's the problem. Maybe you think too much. Overthink things. Create narratives where you're the victim and I'm the villain."

I said nothing. I kept my eyes closed. Prayed for sleep. For silence. For anything.

Finally, sometime after four, his breathing evened out. He'd fallen asleep mid-sentence, exhaustion finally claiming him.

I lay perfectly still, afraid to move, afraid to wake him, afraid of starting it all over again.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Sarah. "Are you okay? You looked scared tonight."