Glass crunched under her shoulder, razor sharp splinters splitting her flesh under the weight of her body as it crashed to the stone pavement. Her body slid several feet from the force that had sent her through the sliding glass door, coming to a quiet and stunned halt.

Glass dust glittered in the night air for several moments, hanging in the ambience of colored lights around the ornate patio garden. She drew a ragged breath, her palms resting with a crunch on the glass as she prepared to push herself up. Her guts inside were breaking, not from the abuse, not from the constant berating, but from the impossibility of her situation. She pulled herself together; thoughts resting on a serene place. A calm ostinato echoed her head, gentle piano, a lonely fiddle that her father had once played in the dusk on the porch by the ocean. The smell of salty air, the feel of sea soaked breeze refreshing her skin. It comforted her, reminded her of her duty, of her job; and that job right now was to be meek.

"Did you hear me!" the voice was severe, striking hard against her face through her beautiful mane of curly scarlet hair.

His cologne was overpowering, mixed with the stench of fresh shoe polish on Italian leather. Fingers suddenly grabbed her curls, yanking her neck back to bare her throat. The bob of diamond chandelier earrings tickled her neck.

"I heard you," she said quietly, sniffling, pulling up the sleeve of her torn silk blouse. The soft edge of an Irish lilt was carefully hidden, discarded.

His fingers snapped and Spanish talked to her softly, urging her to move as the maid cleaned up the broken glass from the patio as their boss had commanded. Rosalia, a wonderful woman… but still looked the other way when her husband beat her.

Slowly getting to her feet, she was now ignored as her master's domain was restored to its pristine condition, and she was left on her own to do the job to herself. She was crying, again. Wiping her eyes, the meticulously placed makeup began to run on her cheeks. Her skin shivered as she reached to pull several shards of glass from her shoulder. Several were very deep, sliding out and scraping enough nerves to make her flinch. She dropped them to the floor only to be whisked away by the maids. He was still there, behind her, watching her pull herself together with satisfaction.

"An hour," his voice said again.

She nodded carefully, staring at the floor as she pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, her curls matted against the make-up on her cheeks. Blood was trickling across her collarbone, down her arm. She retrieved her sandals, lost by the force of the attack and retreated to their master suite to fix the damage.

The damage to his precious trophy.

She peeled her clothes off, putting her pants in the hamper to be cleaned, and the ruined shirt in the trash. Fingers fumbled on the stainless steel and gold plated knobs to the shower. She climbed in, the spray seething a gasp from her lungs as it hit broken flesh. Standing in the shower, she fought back the burning tears of frustration. She'd been here for almost six months and was no closer to a solution than she had been when she started. The heated water lit her lungs, refreshed her spirit only to darken once more as she watched the blood from her shoulder spiral down the ornate drain.

She stood there until the bleeding stopped, climbing out and holding towels to her shoulder. Sitting naked on the side of the bath, she tossed band-aid label after band-aid label into the trash as she covered the cuts on her shoulder. He wasn't worried. He wasn't worried at all that his friends and business associates would never see or suspect he abused his wife.

It was her responsibility to cover his work successfully, make him trust her.

She stood up, her lithe body reflected back at her with stunning clarity.

Scars.

Her shoulders, arms, stomach: glass, expensive crystal tumblers, a watch doubled over knuckles; she was covered with them.

Lavish curls were pinned up, her bare neck donned with the most expensive of jewelry. Dark red lipstick was stunning, hiding the split on her bottom lip just peering from the inner flesh of her mouth. She was exquisite, fit, tan and sharp, her eyes boring a hole into men's souls once. Now, a pale reflection of what had been; lonely lost and haunted.

She dressed carefully, meticulously, as she knew her husband would want. To be the perfect hostess, to make her husband the man everyone wanted to be; if only to be at her side, or in her bed. An emerald green suit dress skimmed the top of her knees, complete with all the trimmings only reserved for the wife of a casino owner.

The cars were already pulling into the front circle, the laughter giddy in the foyer, glasses clinking. She stepped out, a brilliant smile on her lips, to walk down the stairwell and be by her husband's side to meet guests. They were rich, wealthy, dangerous, and she knew much more about them than her husband ever could have suspected. He wanted to build in another place, and was greasing the wheels this evening. It would be a party she needed to be observant of.

He kissed the side of her cheek lovingly and intertwined her arm with hers.

She picked up a glass from a servant tray, the hair on the back of her neck shivering as she felt it. Her eyes blinked slowly, capturing each shot of the guests in her mind like a camera.

Senators, casino owners, hotel moguls, the powerful of Las Vegas.

The sprinkle of glass suddenly littered her face with a 'thwpt' as someone screamed.

The senator that had been shaking hands with her husband fell against the wall and slumped.

Panic reigned.

Diamond studded women were running everywhere, heels clacking; bodyguards had drawn their guns.

She was still holding the stem of a shattered wine glass, the merlot spattering her arm and dripping from her hand. Blinking slowly, she knew things had just taken a ghastly turn for the worse…