The Good Girl
Clara
The mirror never lied.
I stared at my reflection on my wedding day and saw a stranger. White dress. White veil. White flowers trembling in my hands. Everything was white, pure, perfect.
Everything was a lie.
"You look beautiful, Clara." My mother stood behind me, dabbing her eyes. "Marcus is a good man. A wealthy man. You are so lucky."
Lucky. That word again. I had heard it a hundred times since my parents announced my engagement to Marcus Webb. Lucky to catch such a handsome husband. Lucky to marry into money. Lucky, lucky, lucky.
No one asked if I loved him.
No one asked if I wanted this.
I opened my mouth to speak. To tell her the truth. That Marcus's smiles never reached his eyes. That his hands lingered too long on my waist. That something cold lived behind his handsome face.
But the words died in my throat. Good girls did not complain. Good girls obeyed. Good girls smiled and said thank you and became whatever their husbands wanted.
I smiled. "Thank you, Mother."
---
The ceremony passed in a blur. Vows. Rings. A kiss that felt like a brand. Marcus's hand gripped mine too tightly as we walked back down the aisle. His thumb rubbed circles on my skin, but it was not gentle. It was possessive.
"You are mine now," he whispered in my ear.
I shivered.
---
The reception was at the Grand Belmont Hotel. Crystal chandeliers. Champagne towers. Important people in expensive suits shaking Marcus's hand and kissing my cheek. I smiled until my face hurt. I laughed when I was supposed to laugh. I posed for a thousand photographs.
Through it all, Marcus kept me close. His hand never left my lower back. When I tried to step away for air, his fingers dug in.
"Where are you going?"
"Just to the ladies' room."
"Hurry back."
It was not a request.
---
By the time we reached his penthouse, night had fallen. The city sparkled through floor-to-ceiling windows. It should have been romantic. It should have been beautiful.
I stood by the window, hugging myself, too afraid to turn around.
Marcus poured himself a drink. I heard the ice clink against glass. Then his footsteps. Closer. Closer.
His hands landed on my shoulders. I flinched. He noticed.
"Nervous?" His breath was warm against my ear. Smelled like whiskey.
"A little." My voice was tiny. "Marcus, I... I have never..."
"I know." He turned me around. His eyes traveled down my body, slow and hungry. "That is why I chose you. Pure. Innocent. Untouched."
He kissed me. It was rough, demanding, nothing like the gentle kiss at the altar. His hands moved where I did not want them. I tried to pull back.
"Marcus, please. Can we just... slow down?"
His face changed. The smile vanished. Something dark flickered in his eyes.
"You are my wife now." His voice was ice. "You do not tell me slow down. You do not tell me no."
"Please—"
His hand closed around my wrist. Hard. Painful.
"I have waited two years for you, Clara. Two years of your shy smiles and your blushing cheeks. Do you know what that cost me? Do you know how many women I turned away because I wanted something fresh? Something pure?"
Tears burned my eyes. "You are hurting me."
"Good." He pulled me toward the bedroom. "You will learn tonight. You belong to me now. Your body. Your heart. Your pleasure. All mine. You do not say no to me. Ever."
I tried to fight. I really did. But I was small and he was strong and good girls did not know how to scream.
That night, Marcus Webb took what he wanted. He took my body. He took my innocence. He took the last piece of myself I had been saving.
When it was over, I lay on the cold sheets, staring at the ceiling. Tears soaked the pillow. My body ached in places I did not know could ache.
Marcus slept beside me, one heavy arm thrown across my waist. Keeping me in place. Even in sleep, he owned me.
I did not move. I did not make a sound.
Good girls suffered in silence.
---
The months that followed were a nightmare.
Marcus controlled everything. What I wore. What I ate. Who I spoke to. He disconnected my phone. He fired the female staff and replaced them with men. He checked my computer history every night.
If I burned dinner, he screamed.
If I spoke to a male clerk at the grocery store, he accused me of cheating.
If I cried, he slapped me.
"You are mine," he said every night, forcing himself on me. "Say it."
"I am yours," I whispered.
"Louder."
"I am yours!"
He always finished. He always rolled over and slept. I always lay awake, staring at the ceiling, praying for morning.
I stopped looking in mirrors. I did not want to see what I had become. Hollow. Broken. Empty.
The good girl was dying.
She just did not know it yet.
---
One night, a year into our marriage, I made a mistake.
Dinner was late. Marcus came home angry from work. He found me in the kitchen, stirring the pot, still in my day clothes.
"Why isn't dinner ready?" His voice was quiet. That was the most dangerous sign.
"I am sorry. I lost track of time—"
"Lost track of time." He repeated the words slowly. "Doing what? Dreaming about other men? Planning your escape?"
"No! Marcus, no. I would never—"
He grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked my head back. I cried out.
"You think I do not see you?" His face was inches from mine. Spit hit my cheek. "You think I do not notice you pulling away? Flinching when I touch you? You are my WIFE. You do not get to pull away."
"I am sorry. Please. I am sorry."
He dragged me out of the kitchen, through the living room, toward the balcony doors.
"Marcus, please! What are you doing?"
"Giving you some air. You seem confined." He laughed. It was the cruelest sound I ever heard.
He threw open the balcony door and shoved me outside. The wind hit my face. Cold. Sharp. We were forty floors up. The city spun below me.
"Maybe a night out here will remind you how good you have it." He stepped back inside. "Think about your attitude. I will check on you in an hour."
The door locked behind him.
I stood on that balcony in my thin dress, shivering, crying, holding the railing. One hour. I could survive one hour.
But the cold seeped into my bones. My teeth chattered. My fingers went numb.
I looked down at the city below. The tiny cars. The distant lights.
What if I just let go?
No. No, I could not think like that. I was a good girl. Good girls did not give up.
An hour passed. Then two. Marcus did not come back.
I sank to the cold concrete, hugging my knees, rocking back and forth. The wind howled around me. My lips turned blue.
At some point, I stopped feeling cold. I stopped feeling anything.
The last thing I saw before my eyes closed was the stars. So many stars. Cold and distant and beautiful.
I wondered if they missed me yet.
I wondered if anyone would.
Then everything went dark.
