"Emily?" Derek said eagerly, throwing open the door. He'd spent all morning pacing in the foyer, waiting for the familiar knock on his door, desperate to see her once again, to quell the growing disquiet in his chest.
"Nope. Sorry," JJ answered, brow raised at his over-eagerness. "Just me." She tried not to smile too smugly lest she offend the strange man by revealing that she knew the depths of his true feelings for Emily.
"Where is she?" he demanded, perhaps too aggressively. He snatched the proffered paper bag of food from JJ's hand, making her stutter-step back slightly, not necessarily afraid, but definitely intimidated.
She shrugged, tucked her hands in the pockets of her jeans to hide the slight tremble to them. "No idea. I haven't seen her in almost a week. Maybe she's sick," she suggested. Truthfully, she was mildly concerned over her friend's absence as well, but she had to assume there was a good reason or she risked letting fear overtake her completely.
"She was fine when I last saw her."
"Well, this is Storybrooke – she can't have gone far," she joked weakly, smile even weaker.
Derek glowered at her, fire burning in the depths of his brown eyes. "Don't confuse stillness with safety," he said cryptically. If anyone knew the reality that bad things could happen in Storybrooke, it was him...
She raised a brow. "What do you think happened to her, then?"
"You'd know better than I," he challenged. "Who might wish her harm?"
Something Emily had recently said niggled at the back of her mind then. 'That doesn't change the fact that I have a husband who, by the way, would kill me if he knew I saw Derek today.' She pursed her lips, suddenly concerned that he might be right afterall...
"What is it?" Derek demanded, reading the sudden realization on her face clear as day. "What's happened? Where is she?"
"I need to go," she stammered. "But, umm, I'll look into it, okay?"
Emily awoke to the curtains being torn open, bright morning sunlight streaming onto her face. Squinting and trying to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness, she pushed herself to sit up in bed. "Ian?" she asked around a yawn. "Everything alright?"
"No, everything is not fucking alright!" he snapped, tossing a sheaf of paper at her. "What the fuck is this!?"
Face awash with confusion, she hesitantly picked up the nearest sheet of paper, eyes scanning the document. She could feel all the blood rushing away from her face as realization settled in her chest. "I... I don't know what this is," she lied, knowing he wouldn't believe it, but needing to buy herself time to come up with an explanation that wouldn't send him flying off the handle.
"Bullshit," he hissed, eyes narrowed in a downright hostile glare. "Tell me why my so-called loving wife has been researching how to file for divorce..."
She didn't have a good explanation for that. Or, rather, an explanation that wouldn't infuriate him. So, she did the only thing left for her to do: get mad at him in return. "What the fuck, Ian! You've been going through my browsing history? I thought you trusted me!"
"I assumed I could trust you...and yet, here's proof that obviously I cannot."
"You had no right!" she countered, moving through the room, throwing her possessions in a duffel bag.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing!?" he demanded, grabbed her upper arm and forcing her to face him.
"Packing," she said matter-of-factly, wresting her arm from his grip. "I'm not going to stay here and let you treat me like a prisoner!"
He laughed bitterly, then lashed out, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking so that she was forced to her knees. "You have no idea what it's like to be treated like a prisoner," he said, face inches from hers, voice deadly calm.
"Ian, stop!" Emily begged, as he pulled her helplessly along like a ragdoll. "Ian, please!"
"It's time that you learned to respect your husband," he declared, no longer looking at her. "If you want to be a prisoner so badly, I'll make you one." With that, he threw open the basement door and tossed her down the steps, slamming the door behind her.
"Ian! Ian, you can't do this!" she shouted, banging her fists on the door, but he was no longer listening to her pleas.
"You can't do this, Ian!" Emily raged as Ian descended the basement stairs with her breakfast. "You can't keep me here!"
"Seems I can, Love," he replied. "You are my wife, afterall."
"I'm not your fucking property because I married you which, by the way, I never should have done!" she shouted. "I should have known you were fucking crazy when my mother introduced us!"
"You seem to be under the impression you had a choice – men weren't exactly lining up to marry you," he said with a sneer as he set the tray of food in front of her. "You're lucky I took pity on you and married you – your mother warned me you were an ungrateful little brat and she was right."
"Oh, fuck you!" she snapped. "You're a piece of shit and you don't deserve me!" When he turned to leave, she threw the glass of water at him, the cup shattering against the wall by his head. "Someone is going to notice I'm missing and then you'll rot in jail where you belong, you bastard!"
"No one cares about you but me, Emily. And as soon as you learn that, you're free to go," he informed her without turning to look at her.
"You're wrong," she said under her breath. "And I don't care if I have to lynch you myself. I swear to God, Ian, when I get out of here, I'm going to make sure you pay for treating me like this!"
Hearing her muttered protestations clearly, he replied merrily, "If you get out of here..."