Mrs DeLeon

The woman, Eleanor, stayed silent. Her face was expressionless. She helped Violetta to her feet and led her down the hall. They moved away from the broken vase, away from him.

They entered a new room. It was larger. The bathroom had white marble and gold accents. A simple, severe white dress hung on the door. It looked cold to wear.

Eleanor went to work. She cleaned the cut on Violetta’s foot and put a bandage on it. Then, she helped her into the dress. The fabric felt stiff and smelled unfamiliar. Eleanor brushed Violetta's hair and pinned it up with cold, sharp clips that tugged at her scalp.

No words were exchanged. The only sounds came from their breathing and the quick pounding of Violetta’s heart.

Eleanor stepped back and examined her work. She nodded sharply. It was complete.

The door opened to reveal Damon. He had changed into a darker, sharper suit. He looked at her, his gaze moving over the dress and her face without showing any emotion.

“It’s time,” he said.

He didn’t offer his arm, just turned and expected her to follow. Her bandaged foot moved on its own.

They did not go to a church. Instead, they entered a library inside the mansion. Books towered to the ceiling. A man in a suit stood there. He wasn’t a priest but a lawyer holding a book.

Damon stood next to her, not looking at her but at the man.

The man read words from the book. Legal terms. Cold terms. They concerned rights, property, and obedience.

Then he looked at her. “Do you take this man?”

She said nothing; her throat felt tight, her body stiff with ice.

Damon spoke in a flat tone. “She does.”

The man turned his gaze to Damon. “Do you take this woman?”

“I do,” Damon replied. It wasn’t a promise; it was a fact.

The man closed the book. “It is done.”

Damon turned to her and took her hand. His fingers were cold as he slid a heavy ring onto her finger. The large, cold diamond weighed her hand down.

“This way, Mrs. DeLeon,” he said.

He led her outside where Eleanor stood, holding a camera. The flash was bright and painful, capturing her pale, empty face and his cold, perfect profile.

Then it ended.

He took her back upstairs to the bedroom with the large bed. He released her hand and closed the door.

He looked at her, saying, “The contract is in the drawer. Read it if you wish.”

He walked to his side of the bed, took off his jacket, and placed it on a chair. He removed his shoes and set them neatly.

He climbed into bed on his side and turned off the light on his bedside table. The room was dark.

“Go to sleep,” his voice came from the shadows.

Violetta stood alone in the dark with her husband. The diamond on her finger felt like a shackle, marking her as a wife, as someone owned.

She didn’t move or get into bed; she remained a statue in the dark.

Minutes turned to hours. Her body ached. The cut on her foot throbbed.

The man in bed didn’t stir. His breathing was even and slow. He was either asleep or pretending.

Eventually, her legs gave out. She didn’t climb into bed but slid down onto the floor. She pulled her knees to her chest, feeling the cold marble through her thin dress.

Resting her head on her knees, she couldn’t cry; she felt too empty for tears. She was just a thing in a beautiful room, a painting on a wall, a wife.

The moon moved across the floor, sending a sliver of light to the ring on her finger. It made the diamond sparkle, a cold, hard star in the dark.

Then there was a soft click from the door, and the handle turned.