2. Love

Elena

The house felt like a museum after hours—cold, silent, and smelling faintly of the lemon wax I’d used to scrub away every trace of the previous night’s failure. I had spent the day in a trance of domestic penance. I’d gone to the market, selected the most expensive cut of sea bass, and prepared a light, unobtrusive lemon-caper sauce. No “pathetic" Coq au Vin tonight. No candles. No expectations.

I

dressed in a simple, high-necked cashmere loungewear set in a soft cream. It was the kind of outfit that said I am here, I am soft, and I am compliant. I just hoped he’d like it when he got home.

When Marcus finally walked in at 9:15 PM, the tension in my shoulders was so tight it felt like a physical weight. I didn't wait for him to critique the air. I met him in the foyer, taking his briefcase before he could set it down.

"Marcus," I said, my voice practiced and steady. "I wanted to say I’m sorry about last night." I plastered a small smile on my face as I took small steps toward him.

He paused, one hand on the banister, his dark eyes scanning my face for any hint of the "hysteria" he’d accused me of earlier. He looked for a crack in the porcelain. I didn't give him one. "I have called you first," I continued, looking at his silk tie rather than his eyes. "I realized today that I was being selfish. I didn't ask what you wanted for our anniversary, or if you even had the mental space for a celebration. I just pushed my own agenda on you. I’m sorry."

The silence stretched, long and deliberate. Marcus was a master of the pause, he knew exactly how many seconds it took for an apology to turn into a plea.

"Well," he said finally, a small, satisfied smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. "I’m glad to hear that, Elena. Truly. It shows a level of growth I wasn't sure you were capable of lately. It’s good that you’ve finally learned your mistake."

My mistake? The words hit but I just hum and nod. Accepting his words as usual.

He patted my hand, the same dismissive, paternal gesture from the night before—and walked past me into the kitchen. He didn't ask how my day was.

He didn't thank me for the apology. He simply accepted it as his due, like a king receiving a late tax payment from a peasant.

Dinner was a quiet affair. He ate the sea bass, nodding once to signal his approval, while I picked at a salad I couldn't taste. I watched him, searching for a way back into his graces. I wanted to feel like his wife again, not just his housekeeper.

After dinner, I cleared the dishes into the sink. When we finally went upstairs, the air in the bedroom felt thick. I watched him undress, the lean muscles of his back tensing as he pulled off his shirt. It had been over a month since we’d been intimate. A month of cold shoulders and constant murmuring of the same words “I’m exhausted, Elena.”

I felt a desperate, localized ache in my chest—a need to be held, to be reassured that I wasn't as repulsive as his silence made me feel.

As he climbed into bed and reached for his tablet, I moved toward him. I let my hand slide over his chest, my fingers tracing the line of his ribs.

"Marcus?" I whispered, leaning in to press a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

He didn't move. He didn't even look away from the news article he was reading. "Elena, please. I’m exhausted."

"It’s been a while," I said, my voice trembling slightly. I tried to make it sound playful, but it came out sounding like a beggar asking for coins. "I missed you today. I thought maybe tonight..."

He sighed, a sharp, irritated sound that made me flinch. He set the tablet down and looked at me with a coldness that made the cashmere feel like ice. "I just want to sleep. Is that too much to ask? Or are we going to have another 'special' night where you demand my performance?"

The rejection stung, but the irritation finally sparked over the shame. I sat up, pulling the duvet to my chest. "What is the problem, Marcus? Truly? It’s been more than a month. I’m your wife. Why don't you want to touch me?"

He sat up too, his eyes flashing. "You really want to do this now? You want to talk about why I’m not exactly rushing to get you into bed?"

"Yes," I snapped. "I do."

"Fine." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Our sex life is a disaster because of you, Elena. You make it... complicated. You make it weird." He retorted causing me to flinch slightly.

I knew exactly what he was referring to. Three months ago, in a moment of rare, terrifying honesty, I had asked him to hold my throat and choke me. Just a little pressure, just enough to feel the boundary of his control. He had pulled away as if I were a leper. He had called it extremely weird and 'unbecoming of a woman of my stature.' He had walked out of the room and slept on the sofa for two days.

"I asked for one thing," I whispered. "One time. Because I wanted to feel... something."

"You wanted to feel like a common whore," he spat, his voice low and cruel. "I married a lady, Elena. Or at least, I thought I did. But you have these... urges. These dark, twisted preferences that I find revolting. How am I supposed to be attracted to a woman who wants to be degraded? It ruins the image I have of you. It ruins everything."

I felt the tears prickling, hot and fast. I fought them back. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing me break again. "It’s not degrading if it’s what I want, Marcus. It’s trust."

"It’s weird filth," he corrected. "And until you can learn to be satisfied with a normal, respectful sex, I suggest you stop asking. It’s pathetic."

“Normal?” I chocked on a sob. He ignored me, and threw the covers back, grabbed his towel, and stormed into the ensuite. The sound of the shower starting was like a roar in the quiet room.

I sat there, frozen, the words filth and pathetic echoing in my skull. I felt small. I felt dirty. I felt exactly like the broken thing he wanted me to be.

I reached for my phone on the nightstand, but my hand landed on his instead. It was vibrating. A soft, rhythmic hum against the wood.

The screen lit up.

One New Message: Kristen.

I’m thinking about that night in Chicago. Wish you were here instead of back there. Call me when she’s asleep.

The blood drained from my face so quickly I felt dizzy. Kristen. His ex-girlfriend. The one who had cheated on him three years into their relationship. The one he had told me was "dead to him." The one he used as the ultimate example of why he couldn't trust "fickle" women.

The shower cut off.

I didn't think. I didn't plan. I picked up the phone, the glass cold against my palm.

Marcus walked out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, steam clinging to his skin. He saw the phone in my hand immediately.

His expression shifted from irritation to a cold, predatory stillness.

"Why is Kristen texting you, Marcus?" my voice was a ghost of itself.

He didn't blink. He walked over and snatched the phone from my hand with a force that made my knuckles ache. "What the hell are you doing going through my things?"

"It was on the nightstand! It lit up! She’s talking about Chicago, Marcus. She talked about me. Are you cheating on me?"

"Don't be ridiculous," he hissed, his face inches from mine. "I’m not cheating. Kristen is going through a rough patch with her husband. She reached out for legal advice, and I gave it to her because I’m a decent human being. Not that you’d understand that."

"Legal advice? She wants you to call her when I'm asleep! That’s not legal advice, Marcus. That’s an affair!"

"It’s nothing!" he roared, the sound echoing off the walls. "I cannot deal with this right now. I cannot deal with your insecurity, your bizarre sexual demands, and your constant, suffocating need to control my every move.

“Constant suffocating nee-!” I walked behind him “I’m not suffocating or controlling! I just need reassurance and proof that my husband isn’t cheating on me!”

“I’m going to work."

I scoffed, a jagged, hysterical sound. "Work? Marcus, you just got home! It’s eleven o'clock at night!"

"I have a brief to finish, and I clearly can't do it in a house where my privacy is violated every five minutes." He was already pulling on his trousers, his movements frantic and angry. "Stay here. Obsess over my text messages. I’m done."

He didn't look back. He grabbed his keys, his coat, and his phone, and vanished. The front door slammed so hard a picture frame in the hallway fell and shattered.

I collapsed onto the bed, the cream cashmere feeling like a shroud. I reached for my own phone, my fingers fumbling as I dialed the only person who knew the truth behind the "perfect" Vance marriage.

"Elena? It’s nearly midnight, is everything—"

"He left again, Maya," I choked out, the first sob finally breaking through. "He left, and I found a text... it was Kristen. He’s talking to Kristen."

Maya, my best friend since college, let out a long, weary breath. "Elena... honey. How many times are we going to do this? He keeps gaslighting you. He’s hurting you. He’s probably been talking to her for months."

"He says it’s my fault," I wept, curling into a ball. "He says I’m the one who ruined our sex life because of what I asked for. He makes me feel so... disgusting, for having needs, Maya."

"You are not disgusting," Maya said, her voice firm. "You are a woman with needs that he is too small to meet. Elena, listen to me. Maybe it’s time. Maybe you need to look at the paperwork. Divorce isn't as difficult as some people paint it out to be.”

"I can't," I whispered, closing my eyes. "I love him, Maya. When things are good... when he’s not like this... I love him."

"Is he ever 'not like this' anymore? Or are you just in love with the memory of who he pretended to be?"

"I don't know," I said, the honesty of it hurting more than the lie. "I just... I have to try. I have to be better. Maybe if I fix the sex thing, a-and myself then the rest will follow."

"You don’t need fixing El. And fuck him for making you feel that way! You also can't fix a house when the foundation is rotten, El. The problem is your asshole husband. Call me tomorrow. Try to sleep."

The line went dead.

I stayed in the dark, the silence of the house pressing in on me like a physical weight. I thought about Marcus’s hands—how they felt when they were patting my cheek in dismissal, and how they never reached for me in the dark. I thought about the text message and the way he’d looked at me when I caught him not with guilt, but with a pure, unadulterated rage that I’d dared to question more.

I pulled the duvet over my head, breathing in the scent of his expensive detergent and the faint, lingering trail of his cologne.

I love him, I told myself. I love him.

But as I lay there, shivering in the center of my perfect, empty bed, a small, treacherous voice in the back of my mind asked a question I wasn't ready to answer.

Is love really enough?

I closed my eyes, but sleep didn't come. Only the ticking of the gold clock downstairs, counting down the seconds of a life that felt more like a prison every single day.