Page 1 of The Hand Surgeon's Housewife

1.

Pamela

Sitting cross legged on my bed, I hum to my favorite heavy metal song. I’m painting my nails a bright, defiant red, the brush gliding smoothly, leaving a glossy trail behind. I blow on them, grimacing at the smell of acetone in the air and immediately take whiffs of my strawberry-champagne hand cream to offset the stank.

For once I’m content. Lost in the simple, girly ritual when I hear the front door creak open, and it’s as if a dark cloud just passed over the sky. My heart jumps into my throat.

“Honey, I’m home.” The voice is unmistakable and the smooth, oily undertone makes my skin crawl.

I scramble to my feet, nearly knocking over the nail polish bottle. With my hands splayed awkwardly, trying not to smudge my still-wet nails, I hurry to the mirror. There’s disgust in my eyes, a fearful streak across my mouth. He can’t notice that. He’ll ask questions, start probing and then I’ll be in trouble.

The hallway feels longer than usual as I make my way to the kitchen, my pulse racing. The kitchen gleams under recessed lighting, everything’s painted bright white and a tacky blue I never liked. The smart fridge displays the weather forecast and a digital grocery list. We’re well off. On the outside, I seem to have everything anyone could want.

But it couldn’t be further from the truth.

I put on a pleasant-happy to see you-mask right when he appears. Raymond. My stepbrother. Older by a decade, and always wrapped in an authoritarian air of sleaze. He’s in his usual suit, the jacket slung carelessly over one shoulder, his tie loosened as if he’s just had a long day at the office. He smiles that predatory smile.

“Pammie,” he breathes, his eyes raking over me in a way that makes me itch. He steps closer, planting a kiss as close as possible to the corner of my lips. His hands find my waist, lingering far too long, squeezing just enough to remind me that he thinks I’m his. “I got us takeaway.”

“Great. I’m starving.” My voice is as neutral as I can make it, but it takes all my effort not to recoil from his touch. I force a smile, hoping it looks genuine.

He releases me but stays close, the scent of his sharp cologne invading my nose like an army full of rotting corpses. I swallow hard, my mind racing with thoughts of escape and strategy. He’s dangerous, I know that much. Powerful and like all powerful men I’ve known in my life he wants something from me. Just like my step-dad wanted something, like my tutor wanted something. They’re all the same, all abuse their power but I’ve never given them what they want. And I never will.

He moves to the kitchen island, setting down the bags of food. “I thought we’d eat together,” he says, his tone dripping with false warmth.

“Sure,” I reply, though my stomach churns at the thought. I hate sitting across from him, pretending to listen to his maniacal monologues.

“Good answer,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting as he pulls out containers of gourmet food.

I stand there, heart pounding, wishing for a way out. But there isn’t one. I found that out a long time ago.

My hands tremble as I set the table, trying to ignore Raymond's eyes burning into my back. I can feel his gaze inspecting every movement, every gesture, waiting for a misstep. The fine china clinks as I place it on the table, my fingers barely able to keep steady. The utensils are aligned perfectly, the wine glasses shining, but I know it will never be perfect enough for him.

We sit down, and I force myself to breathe evenly. I eat but can’t really taste anything other than bitterness on my tongue. Raymond starts talking about his day—meetings, deals, people I don't know and care even less about. I nod and make polite hums, pretending to listen while my mind drifts elsewhere.

“…and then I said to him you’re one ugly motherfucker,” Raymond laughs, cutting through my thoughts. I blink and try to focus, but his words fade into the background. Suddenly, his tone changes, becoming sharper. “Are you even listening to me?”

I snap back to attention, my heart racing. “Of course. You were talking about one of your clients.”

He smirks, and it sends a shiver down my spine. “I was talking about my boss.”

My face flushes with heat. “Your boss,” I repeat, staring at my plate. ”That’s what I meant to say.”

He leans closer, his eyes darkening with filthy lust.”You know before I left for work, I noticed your little razor on the bathtub.”

I squirm in my seat, desperate to pull away from him. “I shaved my legs this morning,” I reply, my voice thin.

”Did you shave down there too?” His smile tightens. “For me?”

The words hit me like a slap. ”Stop it,” I whisper, wishing I was strong enough to fight him.

”So shy.” Raymond laughs, a low, menacing sound. “And such a sweet, virgin blush,” he murmurs, reaching out to stroke my cheek. Instinctively, I flinch, and his hand freezes in midair. His eyes narrow dangerously. “Am I not allowed to touch you?” he asks, his voice soft and deadly.

I swallow hard, my throat dry. “Of course you are,” I say quickly, trying to placate him. ”I’m just a little a jumpy today. Think I drank too much caffeine.”

“Then you should probably cut down.” He holds out his hand, and I reluctantly place mine in his. His fingers close around mine, deceptively gentle. He studies my nails, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “By the way, who did you paint these for?”

“For myself,” I murmur, my voice shaking and Raymond’s jaw tightens.

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