Made to watch

ELARA

It’s been four days since Lucy died, and somehow, the house feels even colder now than it did the night she stopped breathing.

The air is heavy, like it carries weight I can’t see. The staff avoid my eyes. The corridors echo with silence. Even the flowers in the vases look like they’re wilting faster. Grief doesn’t make time slow—it makes it unbearable.

But it’s not just grief that suffocates me.

It’s Mateo.

It’s always Mateo.

I lie in bed long after morning has crept in through the sheer curtains, the sunlight weak and pale on the floorboards. I don’t move. I can’t. My hands are folded tightly over my stomach like I’m bracing for something. I stare at the ceiling until the lines between the panels blur.

Then I hear it.

Laughter.

A woman’s.

Light. Effortless. Obnoxiously loud.

It travels up from the lower level like smoke from a burning room—impossible to ignore, impossible to breathe through.

My throat goes dry. My mouth feels like sandpaper. I try to swallow, but even that hurts.

He brought another one.

Of course he did.

It’s only been days since Lucy’s body left the house in a bag, but Mateo’s appetite for destruction doesn’t believe in mourning periods.

I sit up slowly, my body aching in places I didn’t know could ache. I slide my feet into the slippers by my bed and pull on my robe, knotting it tightly like armor. My hands tremble as I push open the door and step into the hallway.

It’s quiet, deceptively so.

But beneath that silence is the unmistakable hum of something wrong.

I move past the gallery wall, my steps careful on the marble. The house feels like it’s watching me—like even the shadows have opinions. I make it to the landing, and I’m about to turn toward the kitchen when I hear it.

A moan.

A low, breathy sound that makes my heart slam into my ribs.

I freeze.

Another moan. Louder.

Then his voice.

Mateo.

Rough. Deep. Intoxicatingly cruel.

“No. Like that.”

I don’t want to look. I tell myself not to look. But my feet betray me. My head turns.

The living room door is open. Wide open.

I see them.

Mateo is sprawled on the velvet couch like a king, his shirt unbuttoned, chest bare, his slacks pulled low on his hips. A woman straddles him, her back arched, her dress riding up past her ass. Her heels are digging into the cushions, her body grinding against his.

I choke on the air. It’s thick with sex and power and everything I never wanted.

I should turn around. Run. But I don’t. I can’t.

Then he sees me.

His eyes snap to mine—stormy grey, sharp as knives—and something flickers behind them.

Recognition.

Satisfaction.

And then—he smirks.

“Keep going,” Mateo says, not to me, but to her.

She obeys like a puppet. Her hips keep moving, her moan rising, louder, bolder.

I take a step back.

“Come closer, Elara,” he calls.

The sound of my name in his mouth makes my stomach twist. “I—I was just going to get some tea,” I whisper.

“I didn’t ask why you were down here.” His voice cuts through the room like a blade. “I said, come closer.”

I hesitate.

His eyes narrow. “Now.”

My body moves before my brain catches up. I step into the room, each movement heavier than the last. The rug under my feet is too soft. The room is too warm. I can’t breathe.

She’s still moving. Still clinging to him like he’s a god and she’s starving.

I reach the edge of the couch. I can’t look at them directly. I just stare at his knees. His hands are on her hips, guiding, owning.

Mateo leans back, eyes locked on mine. “Watch.”

My mouth goes dry. “What?”

He nods at her. “Watch how it’s done. Maybe you’ll stop being such a disappointment.”

Tears sting the back of my eyes. I shake my head. “Please…”

“Don’t look away,” he says.

He’s not yelling.

That’s the worst part.

He doesn’t need to yell. His voice is low, measured. It makes the humiliation hit harder.

The woman climbs off his lap and slides down to her knees between his legs.

My stomach drops.

I know what’s coming.

I try to move. To run. To disappear.

But I don’t get the chance.

Her head dips.

And she put his huge cock into her mouth.

Mateo tilts his head slightly, watching me. Not her. Never her.

Always me.

I stumble back, a sob clawing its way up my throat. My hand flies to my mouth. The sound of wet suction fills the room, obscene and deliberate.

Mateo doesn’t break eye contact.

“Do you see now, wife?” he asks softly, his voice laced with venom. “This is what a man needs. Not your shaking hands and lifeless eyes.”

“Stop,” I whisper.

But he doesn’t.

The woman moans. Her hands clutch at his thighs, and he lets out a quiet, satisfied breath.

I can’t watch anymore.

I turn and run.

---

I don’t remember how I made it up the stairs.

The world is a blur of walls and sobs and the sound of my heartbeat trying to escape my chest.

I slam my bedroom door shut and lock it with trembling fingers. My knees give out, and I collapse to the floor.

I can't breathe.

The sobs that rip out of me are raw and broken. I clutch my stomach, doubling over. Every part of me aches—from the humiliation, from the rage, from the fear.

Why is he doing this?

Why does he hate me this much?

I curl up on the floor, the robe clinging to my sweat-damp skin. I wish I could disappear into the floorboards. I wish I could stop feeling.

But the image won’t leave.

Her mouth. His eyes. That smirk.

I drag myself onto the bed, my body leaden. I yank the covers up to my chin and stare at the ceiling again.

That same ceiling.

Only this time, it’s spinning.

I don’t cry anymore. There’s nothing left to spill. Just an empty ache in my chest, pulsing with every breath.

I'm here.

Trapped.

Married to a monster with eyes like storms and a heart made of cruelty.

There’s no one left to save me.

No one coming.

Just the sound of my own breathing and the echo of his voice in my head.

“Watch.”

I close my eyes.

But the image stays.