Sob Contrato

Olivia pov

"Who is she, Damian?"

The words came out small, but they filled the quiet kitchen. I stood by the marble island, holding a small piece of paper. My hands shook so badly that the paper rattled like a dry leaf. It was a receipt from the Grand Aurora Hotel, dated last night. It listed a room service dinner for two and a bottle of expensive champagne. Damian had told me he was working late at Carter Innovations.

Damian did not look up from his tablet right away. He took a slow sip of his black coffee. He looked perfect, as he always did. His dark blond hair was combed neatly. His designer suit had no wrinkles. When he finally looked at me, his blue eyes were bright and warm. He smiled his famous magazine-cover smile.

"Olivia, sweetheart, you are letting your imagination run away with you again," he said. His voice was smooth and calm. "It was a business dinner. I had to entertain an investor from out of town. You know how important these new acquisitions are for the company."

"The receipt says room service, Damian," I said. I forced my voice to stay steady, even though my heart was hammering against my ribs. "It has your personal credit card number on it. And I found this in your coat pocket."

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small velvet box. I opened it. Inside sat a gold bracelet with a diamond charm. I did not wear gold. I had not received a gift from him in years.

Damian’s smile stayed on his face, but his eyes turned completely cold. The warmth left his expression so fast it made me catch my breath. It was like watching a window freeze over in a split second.

"You went through my pockets," he said. He set his coffee cup down on the marble counter. The ceramic made a sharp, clicking sound against the stone.

"I was putting your coat away," I whispered. "The box fell out. Why are you buying diamond bracelets, Damian? Who is she?"

Damian stood up from the stool. He was tall, over six feet, and he used his height to crowd my space. He walked around the island until he stood right in front of me. The sweet smell of his expensive cologne filled the air. It made my stomach twist into a tight knot.

"You need to drop this, Olivia," he said. His voice was lower now, stripped of all the charm he used on the world outside. "You are making a fool of yourself. You always do this when you get anxious."

"I am not letting it go," I said. I looked up at him, my vision blurring with tears. For seven years, I had stayed quiet. I had stayed home like he wanted. I had stopped working. I had let him take over our bank accounts. I had listened when he told me I was too messy, too loud, or too careless. But looking at the velvet box in my hand, something broke. "I know you are seeing someone else. I know about the others, too. I cannot keep doing this. I cannot pretend everything is fine."

Damian reached out and grabbed my wrist. His grip was tight, his fingers digging into my skin. "I said, drop it."

"No!" I cried out. I tried to pull my arm back, but he held on tight. "Let go of me, Damian! Just tell me the truth for once!"

"The truth?" Damian laughed. It was a sharp, mean sound that echoed off the high kitchen ceiling. He squeezed harder, and a dull ache spread up my forearm. "You want the truth, Olivia? You cannot handle the truth. You live in a fantasy world."

"You are lying to me," I said, tears finally spilling over my cheeks. "You have been lying to me for years. Every time you stay out late, every time you hide your phone. I am your wife. I deserve to know."

"You deserve what I give you," Damian snapped. He threw my hand down, knocking the velvet box out of my fingers. The gold bracelet slid across the hardwood floor and stopped near the refrigerator. "Look at yourself. You are tracking my receipts like a crazy person. Do you think I want to come home to this? To you?"

"I only wanted a real marriage," I said. I pressed my hands against my apron, trying to stop the shaking. "I loved you, Damian. I gave up my job for you. I stayed away from my parents because you said they were bad for us. I did everything you asked."

"And look how much better off you are," Damian said, stepping even closer. He tilted his head, looking down at my body with pure disgust. "You think you could have survived out there without me? Look at you, Olivia. You have let yourself go completely. You are fat. You are soft. You spend all day in this house doing nothing, and then you have the nerve to question me?"

"My weight has nothing to do with you cheating on me!" I shouted. It was the loudest I had spoken in years. The sound of my own voice shocked me.

Damian’s face darkened. The skin around his jaw tightened until his bones showed white. "Do not raise your voice to me in my own house."

"It is my house too," I said, though my voice cracked on the last word.

"You did not pay for a single brick of this place," Damian said. He raised his hand.

I saw the movement and flinched, pulling my shoulders up to protect my head. But I was not fast enough. His hand came down hard against the side of my face. The slap was loud, like a whip cracking in the quiet kitchen. The force of it knocked me sideways. My hip hit the edge of the kitchen island, and then my feet slipped on the smooth floor.

I fell hard onto the wood. The pain in my face was immediate, a hot, burning heat that made my eye water. My shoulder throbbed where it had slammed against the floor.

"Get up," Damian said. He stood over me, his arms crossed. He did not look worried. He looked annoyed, as if I had spilled milk on the floor.

I stayed on the floor, my breath coming in short, ragged gasps. I put my hand to my cheek. It felt huge and hot. I could hear the rain starting to tap against the large glass windows of our dining room.

"I said, get up," Damian repeated. When I did not move fast enough, he reached down and grabbed the collar of my oversized sweater. He hauled me to my feet using raw strength. My shirt tore slightly at the neck. He shoved me backward until my back hit the wall.

"Please, Damian," I whispered. I held my hands up between us. My fingers were slippery with my own tears.

"You want to talk about my affairs?" Damian hissed, his face inches from mine. He struck me again, this time with a closed fist against my jaw.

The world went dark for a second. A loud ringing filled my ears. I felt myself sliding down the drywall, leaving a smudge of grease or tears against the white paint. I landed on my knees. My mouth tasted like copper. I reached up and wiped my lip. My hand came away red.

Damian did not stop. He kicked my thigh, his heavy leather dress shoe sinking into my leg. I curled into a ball on the floor, covering my head with my arms, trying to make myself as small as possible. He hit my back, then my shoulder. Every blow felt heavy and dull, shaking my whole body. It was the worst he had ever done. In the past, it had been a shove, a hard squeeze, or a single slap that he apologized for the next morning. This was different. This was total.

"You think some other man is going to look at you?" Damian shouted over my crying. He kicked the side of my hip again. "Look at you lying there like a broken sack of flour. No man would ever want a fat woman, Olivia. Look at your arms. Look at your waist. You are disgusting."

I kept my eyes squeezed shut. I did not answer. I just tried to breathe through the pain in my ribs.

"You should be grateful I stayed this long," Damian said. His voice was getting calmer now, his anger burning itself out. "I gave you a beautiful home. I bought you food. I let you keep my name. Any other man would have divorced you five years ago when you started gaining weight. You are lucky I have the patience to tolerate you."

He stepped back. I heard the sound of his shoes walking across the kitchen floor. He picked up his tablet from the counter. He tapped the screen a few times, then slid it into his leather briefcase.

I stayed on the floor, listening to the rain get louder outside. The sky through the kitchen window was gray and dark.

"I am going out to clear my head," Damian said. He adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, pulling them down so they showed perfectly beneath his suit jacket. He did not look at the blood on my lip or the bruises that were already forming under my clothes. "When I get back tonight, this kitchen better be clean. And you better have a proper apology ready for me. I will not tolerate this kind of disrespect in my home."

He walked down the hallway. The heavy oak front door opened, and then it slammed shut with a deep thud that shook the house. A moment later, I heard the engine of his sports car roar to life in the driveway, followed by the sound of tires splashing through the puddles as he drove away.

I lay on the cold floor for a long time. The house was completely silent now, except for the steady hum of the refrigerator and the rain on the glass. My jaw throbbed. My ribs hurt every time I took a breath.

Slowly, I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. Every muscle in my body protested. I dragged myself over to the cabinet and held onto the handle to pull myself up. I walked to the small mirror in the hallway bathroom and looked at my reflection.

My chestnut-brown hair was wild and tangled. A dark purple bruise was already rising on my cheekbone, and my bottom lip was split and swollen. My hazel eyes looked dull and terrified. I looked like a stranger. I looked like someone who had been disappearing for seven years.

But as I stared at the blood on my chin, something changed.

The terror inside me did not grow. Instead, it shrank. It became small and cold, turning into a hard ball in the center of my chest. The crying stopped. My breath slowed down. The constant noise of worry and apology in my brain suddenly went completely quiet and still. It felt like a door had closed inside my mind, locking away the fear. It felt like a decision was being made deep within me, without my permission, solidifying like ice.

I turned away from the mirror. I did not clean the kitchen. I did not look for the gold bracelet on the floor.

I walked up the stairs, holding the railing tightly to keep my balance because my leg was shaking. I entered our large, empty bedroom. I walked over to the door and turned the heavy brass lock, clicking it firmly into place.