Page 70 of Silenced

CASSIE

It’swhile I’m having a meltdown over the fact that I allowed him to dothatto mewhen I learn he has more to do with his days than annoy me.

The second his cell phone vibrates with an incoming message, he quickly finishes his self-appointed task in the shower, drapes a toweling bathrobe across my shoulders then, while he pats me down, grabs his cell and checks the notification.

The text is in Cyrillic, and I bitterly regret my teenage rebellion of refusing to talk to my father if he spoke to me in Russian because I can’t read the message. Not even what I learned in college helps.

His brow furrows for a moment before his expression clears like someone hit the delete button on emotions in his software.

I huff at the sight but don’t argue when he races through the rest of my toilette. Still, he takes the time to change my bandages before he lowers me from the vanity as if I couldn’t manage the jump myself.

After spitting at him and trying to make him a mezzo-soprano, I half expect to be locked inside the bedroom for the day as a punishment but I’m not.

Maybe the prospect of breeding me has blown his mind, too, because he just dumps me on the sofa in the safe room, switches on the TV, and heads out the door.

I definitely don’t argue when he leaves me in the bathrobe—I get the feeling he forgot about it.

Then, just when I curse my luck, he makes a swift return. Expecting him to snatch my one item of clothing away, he stuns the shit out of me—a feat I thought had happened an hour ago—by ducking down and pressing a kiss to my temple as if we’re an old married couple before making a retreat.

Except, Harvey never did anything like that to me.

The unexpected tenderness is…

No.

I refuse to be disarmed.

After that, I’m left to my own devices.

The entire day.

So, of course, I think about nothing other than what occurred between us.

Of the fact I let a stranger do that to me.

Of how ironic it is to be grateful to have PCOS because it means I can’t get pregnant.

Of how it’d be even more ironic if Ididmanage the miracle of getting pregnant when it’d be to a stranger after mine and Harvey’s various issues never permitted it when I was in a somewhat stable marriage.

As a result, I spend the next few hours in a state of perplexed pouting over the various, terrible life choices I’ve made that led to this moment.

I know I should enjoy not being pawed at or being his idea of appropriate breakfast food, but I don’t. Not particularly.

I guess, and I can’t believe the thought crosses my mind… I’m lonely.

The safe room is comfortable and there are plenty of things to watch on his TV, but I find myself heading over to the YouTube channel I created when things had felt so much simpler than they do today.

During darker times, I’d made a career out of food blogging.

Some of New York’s eateries were on the map becauseIhad put them there.

But when I left the city, I couldn’t keep the blog going. Little-known eats in NYC were the backbone of my content—not restaurants in a buttfuck-nowhere town in the Bible Belt.

Watching the long-form videos I created is a special kind of torture. Success was mine, but I didn’t even show my face because I wasn’t talented enough with makeup to hide the bruises Harvey’s temper left behind.

“Definitely had enough practice,” I mumble.

Huddled in the damp bathrobe, I remain on the channel I’d made popular, viewing my creation, and decide to check out the blog too just for extra torment.

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