Breaking Me

HANNAH'S POV:

The days blurred into weeks. And I faded with them.

I stopped counting how long I'd been in the Martinez mansion. Same walls. Same silence. Same cold shoulders. Nothing changed except me. I was getting quieter. Smaller. Like I was slowly disappearing.

The only bright spot had been that one moment with the cake. After that, I'd made it a point to bake something every few days, leaving it in the kitchen for Elijah. He never thanked me. Never acknowledged it. But Mrs. Cheng would tell me quietly that he'd eaten whatever I made.

It was pathetic, really. Clinging to such tiny crumbs of recognition. But it was all I had.

I'd also started spending more time in the garden. The gardener, an elderly man named Thomas, had shown me how to tend to the roses and the herb garden. There was something peaceful about working with the soil, watching things grow. It made me feel less useless.

I still hadn't spoken to Elijah properly since that day in the study, weeks ago now.

He came home late every single night. I'd found myself sitting in the living room, reading books from his extensive library, waiting for him. I told myself I was just being a responsible wife, making sure he got home safely. But deep down, I knew the truth.

I was lonely. Desperately, achingly lonely.

Sometimes he came home drunk. Sometimes he was just distant and cold. He never looked at me. He'd just walk past me and head straight to his room, usually with a bottle of something expensive in his hand.

He was too handsome to be drinking himself into oblivion every night. But then again, maybe it was my fault. Maybe marrying me had driven him to it.

Though, he'd been drunk on our wedding night too. So maybe it wasn't all about me.

One night, I found another note on the kitchen counter, scrawled in his sharp handwriting: Don't touch the wine in the cellar. It's not for you.

I'd only had one glass of wine one evening while reading. He must have noticed. He noticed everything, apparently, except me.

The isolation was getting to me. I'd started talking to myself while writing in a journal Mrs. Cheng had given me. I was scared I was going crazy. Scared that if I stayed in this house much longer, I'd lose whatever was left of myself.

But then there were those small moments. Like when I made him that chocolate cake and he'd actually eaten it. Or when I burned my hand and he'd asked what happened, even if his voice had been flat and emotionless.

Maybe he wasn't entirely made of stone. Maybe there was a part of him that could see me as something other than a scheming liar.

Tonight, I was lying in bed fully clothed, staring at the ceiling. It was past midnight and Elijah still wasn't home. I'd given up waiting on the couch. My body was tired from a day of gardening, my hands slightly dirty despite scrubbing them.

The moonlight crept through the window, casting long shadows across the room.

I imagined what it would be like to just vanish. To walk out the door and never look back. To find somewhere in the world where no one knew my name or my shame.

But I had no money. No friends. No one who cared if I lived or died.

Not even myself anymore.

I must have fallen asleep at some point because I don't remember closing my eyes. But I definitely remember how I woke up.

The door to my room slammed open. Hard. The sound was like a gunshot in the quiet.

I shot up in bed, my heart jumping into my throat.

"Elijah?" I blinked, confused and disoriented.

He stood in the doorway, swaying slightly. He was clearly drunk—his collar was open, his hair was messy, his eyes were unfocused and bloodshot. He didn't say anything. He just stood there, staring at me, breathing heavily.

"I thought you weren't coming home tonight," I said cautiously, pulling the blanket up to my chest. Something about the way he was looking at me made alarm bells ring in my head.

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. The click of the lock made my pulse spike.

"Elijah..." I said carefully, my heart starting to race. "Are you okay?"

He didn't answer. He just walked toward the bed with deliberate, unsteady steps.

And then he was on me.

I barely had time to process what was happening before his weight was pinning me down against the mattress.

"Stop—wait," I gasped, panic flooding through my entire body. "You're drunk. Please, you need to—"

He kissed me, harsh and without any warmth, without any tenderness. His hands were rough, grabbing at me like I was an object, not a person.

"I'm your wife," I whispered desperately, trembling beneath him. "But not like this. Please, not like this."

He didn't hear me. Or he didn't care.

I tried to push him away, but he was so much stronger than me. The smell of alcohol rolled off him in waves, and I realized with horrible clarity that he wasn't seeing me. Not really. He was lost in whatever demons were chasing him tonight.

"Please," I begged one more time, tears starting to stream down my face. "Elijah, please stop."

But he didn't stop.

I went still. I stopped fighting. Because I realized something in that moment, something that shattered whatever tiny piece of hope I'd been clinging to:

He didn't see me. He never had. And he never would.

I wasn't a person to him. I was just a body. A convenient outlet for his anger and frustration and whatever else he was feeling. I was the shadow of the girl he actually wanted. A mistake he was forced to live with. A punishment.

I wasn't even someone he acknowledged as human. I was nothing.

As he took what he wanted, as I lay there with tears sliding down into my hair, I heard him mutter something against my neck.

"I thought this was what you wanted," he said, his voice slurred and bitter. "You're my wife, aren't you? I can do whatever I want with you. Isn't that what you schemed for? To be Mrs. Martinez? To have access to all of this?"

His words cut deeper than anything physical could.

"That's what she said," he continued, and even through his drunken haze, I could hear the pain in his voice. "Janet said you'd do anything to keep this position. That you'd manipulate and lie and play the victim. And you know what? She was right. You're just like she said."

Janet. Even now. Even in this moment. Her shadow was here, poisoning everything.

"I didn't..." I whispered, but my voice was so broken, so small, it didn't matter.

He wasn't listening. He'd never been listening.

When he was finally done, he rolled off me and passed out almost immediately, one arm thrown over his face, his breathing deep and heavy.

I lay there for a moment, completely still, feeling like my body wasn't my own anymore. Like I'd left it entirely and was watching from somewhere far away.

Slowly, carefully, I got up. My legs were shaking so badly I could barely stand. I wrapped a robe around myself and walked to the bathroom on autopilot.

I didn't plan on crying. I'd told myself weeks ago that I was done crying in this house.

But when I caught my reflection in the mirror, I stopped breathing. Not literally, but in every way that mattered.

The hickey on my neck. The dried tears on my cheeks. The bruise forming on my arm where he'd grabbed me. My eyes, hollow and dead.

I didn't recognize the girl looking back at me.

And I cried. I cried for that girl. For Hannah, who'd once dreamed of being loved. Who'd once hoped that someone, someday, would choose her. Who'd believed that if she was just good enough, kind enough, useful enough, she might finally matter to someone.

That girl was gone now.

Whatever was left of her had died tonight.

I slid down to the bathroom floor and hugged my knees to my chest, sobbing silently so I wouldn't wake him. So I wouldn't have to see the disgust in his eyes when he woke up and realized what he'd done.

Though, knowing him, he probably wouldn't even remember.

And if he did remember, he wouldn't care.

Hours passed. Or maybe just minutes. Time didn't feel real anymore.

Eventually, the tears stopped. I was simply empty.

I looked at myself in the mirror one more time. At the bruises and the broken expression and the girl who'd been slowly dying in this house for weeks.

And I made a decision.

*

*

*

Before the sun rose, I was already dressed.

I moved quietly, carefully, grabbing a small bag from the closet. I didn't pack much. A few changes of clothes. My ID and passport. The little money I'd managed to stash away from the household allowance Elijah's assistant had been giving me for "personal expenses."

And his wallet, which he'd left on the dresser. I knew it was wrong. But he owed me something for what he'd taken from me. For what they'd all taken.

I took whatever cash was inside—several hundred dollars—and left the wallet itself behind.

I walked down the marble stairs barefoot, carrying my small bag. The mansion was completely silent. No one was awake. The staff wouldn't start arriving for at least another hour.

Everything was still. Quiet. Peaceful, almost—if you didn't know what kind of ghosts lived inside these walls.

I paused at the entry table and looked down at my hand. The wedding ring caught the early morning light, glittering mockingly.

I pulled it off and set it down on the polished wood surface. It made a small clicking sound that seemed to echo through the empty foyer.

The ring didn't deserve to come with me. And I didn't deserve to wear it.

Then I walked to the front door, my hand shaking as I turned the handle.

It opened easily. No alarm. No locks I couldn't open from the inside.

I could just... leave.

So I did.

I stepped out into the cool morning air, closing the door softly behind me, and started walking down the long driveway.

No one stopped me.

No one came running after me.

No one called my name.

And that was how I knew—really, truly knew—that I'd never been wanted here.

Not as a wife.

Not as a daughter.

Not even as a human being.

I was just a mistake that everyone was relieved to forget.

I didn't know where I was going. I just knew I couldn't stay. If I stayed one more day in that house, I'd disappear completely. There'd be nothing left of me at all.

So I walked. And walked. And didn't look back.