Page 6 of Split

“Thanks,” I mumble, still staring blankly at the sea of red fabric spread across the bed. Belatedly, I turn my head in her direction to ask who the hell Andrew is, but Clara’s already gone, leaving me alone in my massive new bedroom.

I toe my heels off, leaving them strewn on the floor and padding barefoot over to the door to close it. Then I march toward the bed, angrily sweeping the red dresses off the surface and onto the floor. The beautiful gowns land in a crumpled heap,but I can’t find it in myself to care. Not now. Not when my future looks so bleak.

Pulling back the thick, pillowy comforter, I slide into bed between the sheets, lying on my side and tucking my knees into my chest.

And for the first time since my father told me he was selling me off, I allow myself to cry.

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Idon’t come out of my room all day. I just lie in bed and wallow in my own self-pity, shedding a tear of mourning for every shattered dream and broken promise throughout my pathetic twenty-two year existence. Then, when I’ve got nothing left in me, I finally pull myself out of bed, strap on my metaphorical big-girl panties, and forge ahead with readying myself for my first meal asMrs. Volkov.

The en-suite bathroom connected to my bedroom is incredible. It’s wall-to-wall Calcutta marble with dual sinks, a giant soaker tub, and an enormous shower that could easily fit six people, if group showers were your sort of thing. It feels more like a day spa than a personal bathroom, and I spend entirely too long sampling the various soaps and body oils, washing and preening and plucking until I feel like a new woman.

I don’t do it forhim. I do it forme; as a symbolic way of washing away the scourge of my old life and starting anew. This marriage doesn’t have to be a death sentence. I’m a resilient girl; surely I can make the best of this fucked-up situation I’ve found myself in. Women in this world have to find a way to harness their own power and carve out a place for themselves, so damnit, that’s what I intend to do.

I don’t wear red. If I start out by complying with Roman’s demands, he’ll think he can walk all over me. I decide I need to assert my independence and show him I won’t be so easily cowed, so I thumb through the hangers in my closet full of expensive new clothes– all in my size– until I find a tasteful black silk gown with delicately thin straps, a high neck, and a plunging back. The dress fits me like a glove, clinging to the curves of my hip bones and accentuating my flat stomach.

I’ve starved myself for this body, so it’s my right to show it off. My father monitored every morsel of food I put in my mouth so I’d stay rail-thin and pleasing to the eye of potential suitors.God forbid I actually possess womanly curves. He molded me to his own ideal of beauty, and I had no choice in the matter. I was always just chattel to him, an object to be traded to the highest bidder… so I may as well let Roman see exactly what he’s bought.

The grotesque burn scar on my arm is on full display, and I sweep my long blonde hair up into a chignon, securing it with a beautiful pearl clip I find in the makeup vanity. I also find plenty of makeup and beauty products in there, everything brand new, just like the clothes. This room is stocked with all a girl could want or need, which tells me that this little arrangement was likely in the works for far longer than my father led me to suspect. It should come as no surprise that I’m the last to know, but the realization still sits bitter on my tongue.

Clara instructed me not to wear too much makeup, so naturally, I cake it on thick, taking time to create a dark smoky eye effect. I top off the look with a nude lip, tossing the tubes of red lipstick into the wastebasket as a last ‘fuck you’ to my new husband, then make my way downstairs ten minutes late, hoping I’ll find him half as agitated as he made me with his tardiness at lunch earlier.

When I reach the bottom of the staircase, however, I realize that I have no idea where the dining room is even located. I spend another ten minutes wandering around the dark, winding halls of the first floor before I finally stumble upon it, finding the formal dining room to be just as large and opulent as everything else in this pompous mansion from hell. Dark, arabesque patterned wallpaper lines the windowless walls, and the long dining table in the middle of the room is surrounded by twelve black velvet-upholstered chairs, flames flickering ominously in the candelabra centerpiece stretching across it.

Roman isn’t in the room when I arrive, and for a moment, I wonder if he’s already eaten and left. But then Clara rushes in, giving me a scowl of disapproval and hustling me over to a seat beside the head of the table, furthest from the door. She pulls the chair out for me, directing me to take a seat before scurrying back out of the room.

I sit there alone for the next ten minutes, the smells wafting in from the open doorway making my mouth water and my stomach rumble in protest. Then, right as the large grandfather clock in the hall chimes eight o’clock, my husband finally graces me with his presence.

He strolls into the dining room like he doesn’t have a care in the world, his posture tall and his stride confident. It isn’t until he pulls out his chair at the head of the table and takes his seat that he even glances my way, his glare of displeasure instantly obliterating my self-confidence.

He purses his lips, jaw ticking in agitation as he takes in my appearance. At first, I think the look of disgust on his face is in response to the hideous scar on my arm, but he only gives it a passing glance, focusing instead on my hair, makeup, and attire with an assessing eye. “Did Clara fail to instruct you on how to dress for dinner?” he asks, his voice a low, eerie monotone.

I square my shoulders, sitting up a little straighter. “I prefer black,” I say, all false bravado as I lift a hand to gesture around the room. “From the looks of this place, I figured you do, too.”

Clara enters the room carrying two plates of food, but Roman’s eyes don’t leave mine. He keeps me pinned beneath his intense green-eyed stare, tongue darting out to wet his lips as he speaks to his housekeeper while still looking at me. “Clara, if you’re unable to effectively instruct Mrs. Volkov on appropriate dinner attire, then perhaps your services here are no longer needed.”

Clara pales, stopping in her tracks and darting her wide-eyed gaze between me and my new husband. “I…”

“She told me,” I cut in, for some reason feeling like I need to defend this woman that I barely even know. “I just decided to do my own thing. I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

Roman stares at me for a moment longer, then heaves an exasperated sigh, picking up his black cloth napkin and unfurling it as he glances over at Clara. “Can you see to it that my wife understands what’s expected of her going forward?”

My fists clench atop the table. I hate how he’s speaking about me like I’m not even in the room; like I’m a child who needs to be reminded of her place. Rage bubbles in my veins, crawling beneath my skin, but out of fear for Roman carrying out his threat to fire the housekeeper, I stay silent. Clara and I may not be on friendly terms yet, but as the sole staff member in the house, she’s my only potential ally here in my new home. I need to keep her close.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Volkov,” Clara replies, casting a wary glance in my direction.

Roman swings his gaze over to me, narrowing his eyes. “Is your cooperation going to be a problem,Mrs.Volkov?”

My fists tighten at the way he accentuates‘Missus’to declare his ownership, fingernails digging crescents into my palms.

“No,” I whisper.

“Excellent,” he snaps, whipping his head back around to face his housekeeper. “Then Clara, you can leave the plates here and head on home for the evening,” he says, pressing a finger to the table in command. “It seems my new wife and I could use some time alone.”

I cringe as Clara rushes to obey, sliding both plates of food onto the table in front of Roman and scurrying out of the room. As soon as she closes the doors behind her, sealing us in the dining room alone, Roman turns his attention back on me, tapping his thigh.

“Come here, pet.”

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