Page 55 of Split

“Who owns you?” he asks again in a low, gravelly tone.

“You,” I whisper defeatedly.

“That’s right,wife,” Roman murmurs in satisfaction. “I ownevery inchof you.” He tucks his dick away and zips his slacks, then steps up beside the couch and looks down his nose at me, his cruel expression devoid of compassion. “Remember that the next time you think about crossing me.”

24

Iwas never a very good student. Until the age of nine, I attended a fancy private school that boasted an exceptional curriculum, but I was lucky to squeak by with passing grades. After my mom died, my father pulled me out of school in the name of safety and paid a fortune for a private tutor who had no better luck in turning me studious. Mrs. Garrison said I was lucky I was pretty because marrying well would be the only way I’d get ahead in life. I put salt in her coffee.

I haven’t done a research project in a while and never particularly enjoyed them, but perhaps I was just never truly invested in the subject matter. This one has my full attention. Mrs. Garrison would be proud at the effort I’m putting in to test my theory against the information, and with any luck, I’ll have some answers soon. Still,fuck her.

The sheer sizeof the manor’s library is intimidating. I spend a full hour in there picking through the educational texts until I finally find some that are on point, and my biceps burn under the effort of hauling them upstairs to my bedroom. Now I’m settled in on my bed with a full stack of books behind me, poringthrough the text in search of a psychological diagnosis to explain my husband’s split personality.

The first book I tried to skim through was a bust, full of medical jargon that was impossible to follow. In this second one, though, I think I’ve just stumbled upon my answer in record time.I’m learning all about Dissociative Identity Disorder– a chronic mental illness that involves having multiple distinct identities within one person. Also known as multiple personality disorder.

The list of characteristics reads like a narrative of what I’ve endured while living with Roman Volkov.People with DID may experience emotional numbness or a sense of detachment.People with DID experience two or more distinct identities, each with their own mannerisms.An abrupt change in behavior typically signals the emergence of an alter.

My heart beats a riot in my chest as I continue to read, absorbing every drop of information like a sponge. I’m so focused that I startle when a knock suddenly comes at the door, reflexively slamming the book shut as it swings open.

Roman steps over the threshold, his evergreen eyes locking with mine before dropping to the book that I’m resting my palm on. I quickly snatch it up, turning at the waist to drop it on the top of the stack behind me. “What do you want?” I snap as I swivel back around, wincing at the pain in my butt as I shift my weight.

Probably not thebestapproach with someone who I’ve just confirmed is mentally ill, but it’s hard to fake niceties when I’m reminded of how he punished me for spying every time I sit down.

Roman advances into my room, ignoring my obvious disdain at having him in here. “I have something for you,” he states.

“No thanks,” I scoff, folding my arms over my chest and jerking my gaze toward the windows.

“Eliza,” he growls.

Curiosity wins out and I turn back to look at him, my breath catching when I see what he’s holding up.

Tears well in my eyes instantly at the sight of my mother’s Givenchy bag.I’d given up hope of ever seeing it again.

He crosses the room in a quick stride and drops down on the edge of the bed, extending the purse toward me in offering. I instantly snatch it out of his grip, hugging it to my chest as if it’s my mom herself.

“Thank you,” I whisper, peering over at him through my eyelashes. As much as I hate being vulnerable with Roman, there’s no hiding what this bag means to me.“It’s the only thing I have left of my mother.”

He stares back at me, his jaw set tight. “I imagine that’d be difficult, not to have anything to feel connected to her,” he murmurs. “When my own mother passed, my father made the house a shrine to her. There’s still a lot of Daria Volkov left here in the manor.” He glances around, the ghost of a smile coming to his lips. “She chose the art for this room.”

I follow his gaze, my eyes flitting over the stunning pastel landscapes, then coming back to his.“When did she die?” I ask sympathetically.

“When I was born. Trouble in labor.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, struck by a sudden sense of sympathy for the devil. “It’s awful that you never got the chance to know her.”

“But I did, through what she left behind,” he muses, sweepinganother glance around the room. “Her art, her books. That poetry book you called ‘sappy’ was her favorite, actually.”

I wince, a flush of embarrassmentheating my cheeks.

Strange, Inever even considered to ask whether Roman’s mother was dead or alive. You’d think that’d be the kind of thing that would come up in conversation when you’re marriedto someone, but I suppose normalcy has never applied to this union.

Daria Volkov.Now I remember seeing that name on one of the headstones in the cemetery.

“That’s life, though,” Roman murmurs absently. “It always ends in death, the only question is when.”

I scrunch my nose. “That’s a morbid way to look at it.”

“No more morbid than your father erasing your mother from your lives,” he replies, giving me a pointed look.

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