***
I come to, unsure of how much time has passed.
I’m alone on the kitchen floor.
Picking myself up, I get to my knees. The tiles are hard and unforgiving against my shins. My head is throbbing, and pain is radiating down my side. I hold my hand to my ribs. Not broken, just bruised. I’ve had broken ribs before, so I know how bad they feel. I clutch my hand around my ribs in an attempt to contain the pain as I get to my feet.
Seeing the heat is still on the stove, I move quietly to turn it off. The click of the knob echoes loud in the silence. I freeze. Making myself invisible is what counts right now. I don’t want to attract Forbes’ attention.
Turning my head, I see him in the living room, through the crack in the door. He’s sitting on the sofa, beer in his hand, staring down at it.
I know what will come next. We play this role regularly.
Moving lightly on my feet, I open the door carefully and slip down the hall, heading straight to the bathroom.
Closing the door quietly behind me, I pull the first-aid kit from the cabinet, then check my face in the mirror.
No bruises. Forbes doesn’t usually hit me hard enough in the face to leave a bruise, just like Oliver didn’t.
People question bruises on the face.
I check my lip. Spilt on the inside. Caught on my tooth.
I down a couple of Advil to take the edge off the pain in my ribs, then get some antiseptic cleaner out and work it onto a cotton swab.
Pulling my lip forward, I dab the antiseptic against the cut.
“Shit,” I whisper.
A tear of pain leaks from my eye. I rub it away on my forearm.
When I’m done, I throw the cotton swab away in the trashcan, close up the first aid kit up, and put it away.
With care, I lift my shirt so I can examine my ribs. My skin is red and swollen. There will be a bruise showing in a few hours. A bad one.
Movement in the doorway catches my eye.
Forbes.
I freeze. My shirt drops from my grip, covering me. Covering what he did to me.
“I did that to you.” Regret is in his voice. Tears in his eyes.
I hate you.
“God, I’m so sorry, Mia.” He rushes me, grabbing me, pulling me against him.
He doesn’t care that I wince from the pain in my ribs. All he cares about right now is himself. All he ever cares about is himself. Making Forbes feel better, no matter the cost to me.
“I’m so, so sorry, Mia. So sorry.” He’s pressing kisses over my face, along with his insufficient words.
His tears wash against my skin. They make me feel angry. Used. Weak. Consumed.
“I’m okay,” I whisper.
Scripted. My life is one big goddamn script.
“It’ll never happen again. I promise you. I love you so f**king much, Mia. I just get so jealous of the thought of you with another guy, and I’ve been under so much pressure lately, with my dad and…”
I switch off to his empty excuses and apologies, just ensuring I speak in all the right places.
“It’s okay, Forbes. It’s going to be okay.”
“I love you,” he breathes. “I can’t lose you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
I feel his mood shift, and I know what’s next. It always happens after he beats me.
His hand moves to my jeans and he starts unzipping them, slipping his hand inside, and into my panties. “I love you so much, Mia. Let me make this better. Please.”
I close my eyes and nod my assent.
I don’t fight him on this. I don’t fight him on anything.
So I close my eyes and let Forbes strip my clothes from me. I let him have sex with me against the wall because it’s all I know.
And as wrong as this sounds, a part of me craves to feel good. To feel loved. Even if it is fake … but for this moment, here, listening to Forbes tell me how much he needs me, how there’s no one like me, how he could love no other—I can close my eyes and pretend that it’s real; that I’m being loved in the way I can only dream of.
When Forbes is done, he carries me through to my bedroom.
Lifting the cover back, he lays me down and climbs in behind me, pulling me up tight against him. His arms cage me in.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’ll never hurt you again. Never.”
I close my eyes, and force the words out, “I love you too.”
After a time, I feel Forbes’ breaths even out, so I slip out from under his grip.
I walk into the dark kitchen, not bothering to turn the light on, and open the refrigerator door. The light glows through the room. I stare at the contents, pain and self-loathing stabbing like needles in my skin.
I just want to escape. I want to be free.
Free again, like I was the day Oliver died.
I felt like a giant that day. Like I could do or achieve anything.
But all I’ve managed to do was replace Oliver with Forbes. What does that say about me?
It says that I’m screwed up. Damaged.
Things I already know.
And I can’t get away from Forbes. It’s not like I can just break up with him. Women like me don’t get to break up with men like Forbes.
I’m only free when he says so.
And he won’t.
I know this because I’m ideal for the life he wants.
I’m pliable. Controllable. Visually, I look the part. I come from money, and I have the right breeding as I overheard his father telling him once. I’m training to be a doctor, a surgeon like Oliver was. It wasn’t my chosen career path, but Oliver told me I was going to be a surgeon, so I’m going to be a surgeon.