Chapter 1
The sound of water rushing through the sink was the only thing that broke the silence in the kitchen. The water was tepid, the lather dissipating in uneven patterns across the sink’s ceramic surface. The same routine, every day. The same motions, the same clean plates and silverware. The same monotony. The gleaming ceramic dish she held in her hand felt heavier than it should have. The suds swirled in the sink like an indistinguishable blur. I could see nothing but the task, nothing but the endless list of chores she had no choice but to finish. I rotated the plate under the stream, watching the remnants of dinner swirl and vanish. The action was neither gratifying nor frustrating, merely required. I scrubbed, rinsed, and placed the dish onto the drying rack. Repeated. A pattern as immutable as the rest of my existence.
My life had come to this, an endless loop of tedious responsibilities. I had been a daughter once, then a wife. Now, I was something else entirely. A woman in a gilded cage. My husband’s wealth surrounded me like a fortress, but I had no control over the bars. I had everything she could want. Or at least, everything they told me I should want.
Then, a slip. A sudden, imperceptible sting.
A bloom of red unfurled in the water. I stared at it. My gaze held steady. The red drop of blood beaded up, rolling down the length of my finger. It was insignificant. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. The cut was shallow, yet it bled with surprising persistence. I did not move to rinse it or reach for a towel. Instead, I stood motionless, watching the bead of blood form, swell, and descend in a perfect arc toward the soapy water.
A voice startled me. ”Mom?”
Julian. My middle child.
I turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze only when he stepped fully into the kitchen. His eyes, the same shade as his father’s, darkened with something bordering on apprehension.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I blinked at him. “What?”
“You’re bleeding,” he said.
“It’s just a small cut,” I said, not looking at him, rinsing my finger under the water. The lie was mechanical. The words were hollow, but they were enough to satisfy him. He didn’t need to know what had been gnawing at me for months.
“You were just standing there. Spacing out.” His eyes flicked to the knife in her hand, to the tiny drop of blood that trailed down her finger. “You okay?”
I didn’t respond immediately. I wiped my hands dry, my eyes fixed on the towel, her mind already elsewhere. “I’m fine, Ethan,” I said.
The refrigerator door creaked as he pulled it open, retrieving a can of soda with habitual ease. He lingered, his fingers drumming idly against the aluminium before he spoke again.
"You’re scaring them, you know.”
I blinked. ”Who?”
“Julian and Lucas. They think something’s wrong. Even Lucas and he’s ten. He doesn’t get what’s going on, but he knows something’s wrong.”
I exhaled, setting the knife down. “There’s nothing to worry about.”
Ethan studied me. Too perceptive. Too much like me. Then, with a nod, he left, the fizz of his soda trailing behind him.
Alone again. The silence crept back in.
I continued to clean, my hands moving automatically as if on their own accord. I emptied the sink, dried the last plate, and put it back in the cabinet. The next chore awaited me. Laundry. Always laundry.
My face had been stone cold then, just as it was now. Nothing had changed.
---
Later, as I folded the shirts, one of my husband’s caught my attention. My fingers brushed against a familiar fabric, soft, expensive, pressed to artificial perfection. The scent struck me first. Not his usual cologne, but something sweeter, floral with an overtone of vanilla, cheap and cloying. I held the shirt at arm’s length.
A stain. A precise imprint of lipstick, perfectly centred on the collar.
I sighed.
Not in shock. Not in sorrow. Not in rage.
There was no emotion left for this discovery.
Months ago, maybe years ago, I would have felt something. Anger. Betrayal. Now, there was nothing. I had confronted him once, early in their marriage, when the knowledge had been fresh and sharp. His response had been simple. Cold.
When I had first discovered this, I had confronted him. His words echoed in my mind: "You should be grateful. Not many women come from families like yours and get the life I’ve given you. You wouldn’t understand the price of it.”
“You should be grateful,” he had said. “You have everything you could ever want.”
I folded the shirt, placed it back where I had found it, and left the room.
---
I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The air smelled like him. Woodsy cologne, arrogance. Charles returned at 11:42 PM. He did not announce himself. There was no need. His presence was predictable, his movements routine. The front door opened downstairs. Footsteps. The rustle of fabric, the muted clink of metal, belt, watch, cufflinks. The rustling of fabric. The weight of his body sank into the mattress beside me.
He did not speak.
I did not look at him.
Minutes passed. His breathing slowed. Sleep took him with practised ease.
I shifted beneath the covers, the space between us vast and insurmountable despite the confines of the bed. The air felt thick, pressing against my skin with the suffocating weight of familiarity.
I rose.
Without a word, I left the room, the soft click of the door behind me almost inaudible in the quiet house.
The living room greeted me with its sterile, impersonal silence. I sank into the couch, the weight of my body sinking into the cushions. I poured myself a glass of wine. The red liquid sloshed slightly in the glass as I brought it to my lips, coating the inside of my mouth with warmth. The television droned on, its blue light flickering against the walls.
