He strode forward, grabbed the edge of the easel, and threw it aside. The canvas hit the floor with a thud, paint splattering across the wall.
“What the hell, Emerald?” he shouted, his voice shaking with rage. “You dare paint again? After I told you how useless that hobby is? You should be focusing on me—on your duties as my wife!”
I looked at him, my throat tight, my heartbeat loud. “I’m tired, Nathan,” I said, the words trembling out of me. “Do you understand that? I’m tired.”
He laughed—sharp, cruel, the kind of laugh that cuts you in half. “Tired? From what? Living comfortably? Being my wife? Have you forgotten what you signed up for when you married me? I am your husband! You just don’t get tired.”
He stepped closer, and before I could even blink, his hand came down hard across my face. The sound cracked in the room like thunder.
I stumbled back, shocked. My cheek burned, my vision blurred. For a moment, I thought I misheard—that it couldn’t be real. Nathan had never hit me before. He’d shouted, yes. Controlled, yes. But never this.
We used to be sweet once—so sweet it almost feels like a lie now. He was gentle, protective, the kind of man who would cover me with a blanket when I fell asleep on the couch, or hold my hand while crossing a busy street.
He used to tell me he couldn’t stand seeing me hurt, that he’d rather take the pain himself. Back then, I believed him. I believed every word, every promise, every soft kiss that told me I was safe.
I still remember one night, long before everything fell apart. We were lying on the couch after dinner, his head resting on my lap, the city lights flickering through the curtains.
“Em,” he said softly, tracing circles on my wrist, “if you ever cry, I want it to be because you’re happy. Not because of me.”
I laughed then, brushing his hair away from his eyes. “You say that now, but someday you might forget.”
He sat up, serious for once, his gaze steady. “No,” he whispered. “I could never hurt you. I’d rather die than see you in pain.”
And I believed him. Completely.
But that version of him was gone.
He hit me again. And again.
The second slap made me taste iron. The third made something inside me snap.
I stared at him, trembling, my face wet with tears I hadn’t realized were falling. He stood there breathing hard, like I had offended his existence.