Everyone's looking at her.
She's pristine. Beautiful. Mesmerising.
She sips her champagne and as she turns her black, backless dress blows softly.
Everyone's looking at her and he knows it. He delights in the fact that everyone wants her. That no one can have her. Because she's his. All his.
Everyone's looking at her and yet she can only feel his eyes burning into her.
Her hair is long, tresses of dark gold fall over her bare back. He likes her hair long.
She shivers. It's cold tonight. She'd picked out a long sleeved dress for that reason. He likes this one though. So she wore this one.
'Darling' His hand touches her unclad back and she shivers for an entirely different reason. 'Let's go'
'We've only been here half an hour'
'I think we've shown our faces long enough hm?' He smiles down at her lovingly and she smiles back.
Truth be told she doesn't want to be here. Hadn't wanted to come at all. These are the people he works with. They worship the ground he walks on. She doesn't like this scene one bit.
But he does. He likes parading her around on his arm. He likes showing her off and she hates it.
Hates the way people talk to her through him, as though she's incapable of answering, as though she hasn't a voice.
She feels like she hasn't. She feels like she lost her voice a long time ago.
He kisses her when they reach the car. He tells her he's sorry because he knows she hates these things. He tells her he'll make it up to her. He tells her she's beautiful in a low husk that tickles her cheek.
It calms her. That tone always makes her remember. It reminds her of the beginning of their relationship. Reminds her of a time when it was so easy. She gets wrapped up in those memories and on the short car journey home she quietly relives them, remembers those first dates, first kisses, the way he'd made her laugh, how he'd made her feel safe, how she'd fallen in love with that person and then they're home and she doesn't want to get out of the car. Doesn't want to go inside, doesn't want to come back to the now. Because the present isn't as idyllic as the distorted memories she likes to conjure up. Because he's not that person. He never was.
She's in the kitchen of the large house when she notes how quiet it is and then she's thinking of the two things that keep her going; that give her life meaning.
'I might as well go pick the kids up from-'
He jerks her back against his chest and his touch cuts off her words, startles her into silence. His hand delves under her dress and presses roughly against her underwear.
She gasps and her head falls forward against the fridge door as lust jars her.
But it's all despised.
She hates it all. Hates the way her body insults her with it's desire for more. She doesn't want more and that little thrill that he ignites in her is just a charade, a defence mechanism, because she knows, knows if she doesn't play along, doesn't will herself to go through the motions then this would never be bearable. And she knows by the way he's been looking at her all night. Knows what's to come. Knows that one too many men spoke to her and he doesn't like it when other men speak to her. Doesn't like it when she indulges them, that's what he calls it, she calls it having a conversation.
Sometimes it's okay. Sometimes he's gentle.
But she knows tonight isn't one of those times because he wants her to know that she's his. All his. He likes to remind her of that frequently.
And then he's turning her around and lifting her and she can barely see straight and the teetering line between pain and pleasure snaps as he presses her violently into the wall.
His broad chest is suffocating against her and makes her feel so small and fragile.
And she doesn't matter, she knows he doesn't care of her discomfort. She's his, his to mark. Every mark, every bruise left behind is his claim on her body. But he needn't work so hard. His words are constantly interfering with her intelligence, his games completely fuck with her mind and have her surrendering over and over again.
She'll do anything he wants. Be anything he wants. She learnt that lesson a long time ago.
From the very beginning he'd been moulding her into this. She'd not even known it then. She'd let herself get swept up by his romantic words and as that person had slowly crumbled before her eyes she'd clung on, forgiven his behaviour because at first it was minute, was forgivable. But now it's beyond that. And she doesn't know how she got here.
This is the last time. She closes her eyes tightly and repeats it like a mantra to herself.
She's not going to be this person anymore.
She doesn't know how many times those thoughts have drifted through her mind. She always promises herself it's the last time. Failed promises, promises that she never keeps.
His hands snag her tights. Rip her underwear away and she goes somewhere else.
She wonders if she ironed the shirt she knows he'll want to wear tomorrow because he has a meeting. She tells herself to go and check when this is over. He hates having to work on the weekend. He hates it when his shirts aren't ironed. She'll go check. She loves it when he works at the weekend. She loves it when he has to work fullstop. It'll be nice to have a Saturday alone with the children. Her baby's. Adele and Alexa. Addie and Lexie. Her babies. Maybe they can go to the park. Lexie's just learnt how to make the swing go without her sister's assistance. Adele is quite the budding acrobat and likes to hang from the monkey bars.
Her line of thought is interrupted.
He growls into her ear and she grimaces as he pushes into her in one swift motion and forces her leg high.
She blinks. Her hands lock around his neck and she digs her nails into her palms to try and keep herself grounded.
He hoists her leg impossibly higher and she thinks she might just break but she says nothing. Won't protest. Can't. She's learnt her lesson one too many a time. She knows the rules of his sick games.
He's always there. Lurking around every corner. Predetermining her every move.
He half groans, half barks and her eyes water and her hands move to his broad shoulders and she wants to push against them so badly, her hands instinctively want to fight because this isn't pleasure, this is pain. She's thankful when he pins her wrists back, thankful because her arms are shaking under the strain of resisting her desire to fight him, to engage in battle. It's a futile battle that she knows the outcome of. It's best to stay quiet. Best to endure.
She closes her eyes and reminds herself to breathe.
Maybe she'll take them to get ice cream. They're always so excited when she takes them for ice cream. They always sit on the pier after. Adele always chooses vanilla. Lexie chocolate. They always share, lick each others and giggle as she sneaks a mouthful here and there and she'll smile because their laughter is her only reason for breathing. Her only reason for carrying on. And she doesn't understand how they've turned out so sweet. Because god knows they've witnessed things they shouldn't.
He grunts loudly and then he's still and it's over and he's looking into her face and she forces a smile. He kisses her lips and somehow that sweet kiss makes her feel even more sick than his violence. She wants him to let her go. Let her slide down the wall and crumble. Wants him to walk away and leave her there. But he doesn't. Never does that, because he's her husband and he'll carry her to bed, undress her and hold her and tell her he loves her and she'll say it back. His hands will smooth over the bruises he's just made and she'll grimace into her pillow and close her eyes tightly and pretend she's not here because she's not this girl. She's never been this girl.