A knock on the door pulls me from the depths of slumber. My eyes flutter open, heavy with the remnants of sleep and the weight of last night's events. I sit up, smoothing the tangled mess of hair from my face, just as Mrs. Collins enters the room. In her hands, she carries a tray filled with breakfast. The scent of toast, eggs, and freshly brewed coffee wafts through the room, though my stomach curdles at the thought of food.
"Good morning, Mrs. Collins," I manage with a hoarse voice.
"Good morning, Miss Isabella," she replies kindly, setting the tray on the bedside table. I notice the slight tremor in her hands and the thin lines of worry etched across her face.
"Mr. Blackhart has already left for the day," she informs me, her eyes not meeting mine.
"Has he?" I ask, a wave of relief washing over me. A day free from Jackson's presence is a rare and welcomed gift.
"Yes, indeed, and that harlot from last night, she has also left," Mrs. Collins adds, her words careful, her tone gentle as if to buffer me from the harsh reality they depict.
"Thank you, Mrs. Collins," I manage to murmur, staring at my hands, my fingers worrying a wrinkle in the sheets.
"I could have come down to eat," I tell her. "You didn't have to bring this all the way up here."
She waves a hand to dismiss my statement. "Nonsense. It's my job. Now, let me look at you," she says as she inspects my face.
The bruising is slowly fading away but is still noticeable.
She smacks her lips as she steps away. "I'm sorry you have to deal with that monster."
"It's not your fault," I tell her. "Never apologize for that asshole's actions. As soon as I can get away, I'm gone."
As Mrs. Collins leaves the room, I sink back into the pillows, appreciating the solitude. I reach for the remote and flip through the numerous channels before settling on a mindless comedy show. The light-hearted banter fills the echoing silence of the room. In the quiet of the room, my mind inexplicably drifts to Damien.
His fierce gaze and harsh words at the dinner linger in my memory. There's a strength in him that's both intimidating and... oddly compelling. There’s an undeniable attraction. Its unwanted but there, nonetheless. I wonder if things would be different if Damien had been the one I married. I shake my head, frustrated at myself for even thinking about him.
My fingers dance over the screen of my cellphone, initiating a conversation with my only confidante. The bright light of the screen illuminates my face as I send a quick message.
Me: Are you busy? I really need to vent. Jackson, the jackass, is gone for the day.
I smile as her response chimes through almost immediately.
Sera: I’m helping my mom with catering right now. Call me later. Stay strong. We’ll get you out of there soon.
Boredom sets in as the hours pass. This room, my sanctuary, now feels like a gilded cage of its own. The television drones on, the comedy show long replaced by a documentary about some exotic wildlife. I glance around the room, and a flash of defiance sparks within me. If Jackson wants to be an ass to piss me off, he's in for a surprise.
I stride out of the spare bedroom with determined steps and a focused mind. The hushed silence of the mansion echoes around me. I reach Jackson's bedroom with the door looming ominously before me as a symbol of our twisted relationship. Swallowing my apprehension, I push it open and step into the room that was once my prison.
I move to the walk-in closet filled with a sea of designer dresses and high-end attire, all bought by Jackson to mold me into the perfect socialite wife. Ignoring them, I reach for my own clothes. Simple and comfortable, a reflection of the life I once lived before Jackson. My hands tremble as I pull them free from their hangers, each item a silent reminder of the woman I used to be. The woman I am still fighting to reclaim. I grab the suitcases stuffed in the back with more of my belongings that I never took out.
One by one, I carry my things into the spare bedroom. Each trip back and forth feels like a journey, a small victory in the battle against this gilded cage. The bedroom gradually fills with my possessions, pieces of my life seeping into the cold, impersonal space, making it a little more familiar, a little less daunting.
As the day stretches on, the room slowly transforms. My clothes hang neatly in the wardrobe, my favorite books line the bedside table, and family photographs are displayed with careful reverence. The room now radiates a sense of home, of comfort, of me. I stand in the middle of the room with a sense of accomplishment washing over me. This is not just a room anymore. It's a sanctuary, a safe haven through the storm that is my life.
The finishing touches are just in place as Mrs. Collins returns, bearing a tray filled with dinner. Despite the dread that has shadowed me all day, I'm grateful Jackson isn't home yet. Mrs. Collins hesitates at the threshold, her eyes sweeping over the transformation of the room.
"Miss Isabella," she starts, her voice wavering slightly. "Mr. Blackhart... he won't be pleased about this. About you moving rooms."
I lift my chin, meeting her gaze with a hard stare. "Well, Jackson can go fuck himself."
She flinches at my words but doesn't disagree. Instead, she sets the tray on the table and turns to face me, her hands wringing nervously.
"Miss Isabella," she says again, her voice a soft plea. "Wouldn't it be easier if you... if you just did what he wants?"
I freeze as my heart pounds in my chest. My defiance falters, and the reality of my situation crashes down around me.
I swallow hard before forcing the words out. "I can't, Mrs. Collins. I can't stop fighting. If I give in... that means they win. Jackson wins. My life... my life will never be my own. All I've ever wanted is to be on my own, to make my own choices, to be respected, to be loved..."
My voice trails off as the weight of my hopes and dreams settles heavily in the room. Mrs. Collins purses her lips before nodding her head slowly. Without another word, she turns and leaves the room, closing the door softly behind her. I'm left alone with the bitter taste of defiance on my tongue. I pick up the phone and dial Seraphina's number. The ringing echoes in my ear before it's replaced by her voice.
"Hey, Isabella. How are you doing?" she asks, her tone gentle but laced with worry.
"I'm okay. I’m hanging in there," I respond, trying to keep my voice steady. I take a deep breath before I dive into the truth of last night. "The asshole brought a woman home last night. I caught them in the same bed we sleep in.”
Silence hangs in the air, heavy and palpable. "Seriously?" she whispers, the shock evident in her voice. "I'm so sorry. Did you... did you have to see them?"
I wince at the memory as the image of them together burns in my mind. "Yes," I say quietly, my voice barely a whisper. "I saw them, Sera. It's like he's trying to torment me, to degrade me even more."
Seraphina's sigh of empathy travels through the line. "I wish I could take away your pain, Isa," she says, her voice choked with emotion. "But remember, you’re going to get out of there. You can come over tomorrow, and we can create an escape plan." Her words are comforting, even if what she’s saying sounds like an impossibility.
I force a smile even though she can’t see it. "Thank you, Sera. I don't know what I'd do without you."
We talk a little more about our day before she has to leave to attend an event with her mother. I disconnect the call and cradle the phone close to my heart. Seraphina's words echo in my mind, reminding me that there's a way out of this nightmare. Slowly, I get up, and my body is heavy with exhaustion. I cross the room to the bed, pull back the covers, and sink into the soft sheets.
I settle in, pull the covers up to my chin, and close my eyes. Despite the anxiety bubbling just beneath the surface, I feel a strange sense of peace. As I drift off to sleep, Seraphina's words replay in my mind like a mantra. If only it were that easy to leave.
A sharp pain slices through the fog of sleep, catapulting me into wakefulness. I shriek in pain. My voice echoes around the room as my hair is yanked viciously by something pulling me off the bed. My heart hammers in my chest as terror grips me. My eyes snap open, instinctively searching for the source of my pain. The reality of my situation crashes over me like a horrifying wave.
“You think you can move rooms, bitch?” Jackson snarls as he continues to pull me out of the room.
“Let go of me, you despicable bastard!” I scream as I fight against his grip.
Pain explodes through my scalp with each vicious tug. His fingers are like iron bands in my hair. I can barely breathe, let alone think, as I claw futilely at his hand with my screams ricocheting off the walls. I can feel my heart pounding like a wild drum against my ribs. Each beat is a sharp testament to my terror.
"Stop, stop," I gasp in a voice barely a whisper, but my pleas fall on deaf ears.
“My wife sleeps in the same bed as me,” he says as if I hadn’t spoken.
We reach the bedroom, his grip unyielding as his booted foot kicks the door shut with a deafening slam. In an instant, I'm airborne as he hurls me onto the bed. The back of my head hits the plush comforter, the impact jarring but at least cushioned. Before I can so much as draw a breath, he's climbing on top of me using his weight to pin me down. Panic floods me and my heart is stuck in my throat. I look up at him, trying to mask my fear, but his eyes bore into mine, cold and unfeeling.
“You think you can disrespect me in my own house?” he asks. “I think its time I show you what it’s like to fully be my wife.”
“You’re delusional,” I spit at him as he unbuckles his pants. “I will never sleep with you!”
“You don’t have to be willing, Isabella,” he says as he starts ripping my clothes.
“I wish you’d die and rot in the deepest, darkest pits of hell,” I scream as I fight him.
I kick, scream, and fight against him. He punches me in the face, and I’m momentarily dazed. The pain has my face throbbing, and it’s hard to focus until I realize his hands have moved to my pants. My focus comes back, and I resume fighting harder. Just as he raises his fist again, someone bangs on the door. Jackson leaps off the bed, fixes his clothes, and opens the bedroom door.
“What the fuck do you want?” he snarls at the butler.
“Sir, your brother called. He says there’s an important matter that you forgot to take care of and to meet him at the warehouse,” he says. “He sounded very upset.”
“Shit!” Jackson hisses before turning back to me. “Your ass better be in this fucking bed when I return.”
As the door slams shut behind him, I let out a shaky breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. My heart is still hammering in my chest. The silence in the room is deafening, amplifying the lingering echoes of my screams. My body trembles as the adrenaline slowly ebbs away, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away the tears pricking at the corners.
The fear I felt... it was like a living thing, a monstrous beast clawing its way up my throat, threatening to swallow me whole. It wrapped around my heart, squeezing until I thought it would burst. It was the kind of fear that left you gasping for breath, your body cold and rigid, your mind trapped in a whirlwind of terror and hopelessness. I can still feel its icy tendrils, a chilling reminder of the nightmare I'm living in.
With trembling hands, I push myself up off the bed. My body is already aching from the struggle. The room spins for a moment as I stand, and I brace myself against the dresser until the dizzy spell passes. Glancing at my reflection in the mirror, I barely recognize the woman staring back at me.
"I am not a victim," I whisper to myself as a look of determination replaces the fear in my eyes.
I gingerly remove my torn clothes, dropping them onto the floor with a grimace. The shower is quick, impersonal, merely a means to wash away the taint of his touch. Once done, I dress in new clothes, choosing the most comfortable ones in anticipation of what's to come.
As I put on my clothes, every movement is measured, every sound calculated. If he dares to come back, to try and take what isn't his, he'll be met with resistance he never expected. I make my way quietly downstairs, each step more calculated than the last. The house is covered in an eerie silence. The only sound is the pounding of my heart against my chest. As I reach the kitchen, I feel around the drawers until my fingers close around the cold steel of a kitchen knife.
The weight of it in my hand lends me a bit of courage. Back in the room, I slide the knife beneath my pillow as a silent promise to myself. If he comes back, if he dares to force himself on me again... I'll be ready. I'll kill him if I have to. This nightmare will end, one way or another.