Page 141 of Bitter Poetry
The comforting weight of his arm is gone, but his scent lingers. He’s no longer in the bed. I roll over slowly to check and find an indent where he was.
My stomach aches. The first couple of days of my period are never fun.
When I roll back, I notice a bottle of Advil and a glass of water on the nightstand. I smile. When was the last time somebody who wasn’t a maid did something kind for me?
Jessica, maybe, when she was still living at home. And before that, my mother.
My smile fades. I sit up and take a couple of Advil.
A flashback slams into me. Weight pressing down on me… The dusty sheet blocking airflow, and a sensation of joints and tendons straining to their limit… like they’re about to break.
Like I’m about to break.
A sob catches in my throat.
I can’t breathe, again.
It’s like I’m there, trapped, and helpless.
One one-thousand.
I’m alone.
Two one-thousand.
I’m safe.
Three one-thousand.
I can do this—I can just breathe.
God, I wish there were a magic eraser for the memories, the sense of helplessness and vulnerability.
I keep counting and reassuring myself until my racing heart and ragged breathing settle into a steady rhythm.
I cry. The specifics behind my tears elude me beyond that they’re part of a collective ball of misery, and that what happened is fresh and the scar is core-deep.
Being here is like stepping outside a timeline. It offers a sense of respite but not closure.
Once upon a time, I was naïve, but that time is long gone. The fallout from my disappearance will be unfolding. I’m terrified that my father or sister will get caught up in this, despite Dante’s reassurance that they would not… What does he really know? My husband is a powerful, vengeful man. Losing me will reflect poorly on him—he will pursue all avenues to recover me.
I rise and pace, restless, trying to distract myself from those disturbing ruminations. My eyes go to the closed bedroom door. Maybe Dante is still in the apartment and merely left me to sleep.
My stomach takes a slow tumble at the thought of him being nearby. My hands shake as I pick up the glass again and finish the water.
I head to the bathroom, with its polished marble floor and walls, to wash my hands and face, then leave the bedroom and enter the lounge area.
He’s not here. Well, I suppose he might have an office in his apartment, but something tells me he’s gone. I can’t say I noticed much about the apartment on arriving, but it’s stunning. The expansive living area is open plan with matte stone floors, plush rugs, and minimalist decor that flows into a dining and kitchen area. The views from the windows showcase the marina and the edge of Lake Michigan. In the distance, I can just make out the city skyline.
It’s elegant, but at the same time, it feels a little cold… maybe impersonal.
My purse, sitting on the low coffee table between two tailored couches, snags my attention. Christian must have picked it up when he brought me to the apartment. I’ve probably lost a few things after the contents went rolling around in the back of the van before I could scramble to pick them up.
Christian didn’t seem particularly interested in the contents beyond taking my cell phone, which I’m confident Ettore had a tracker installed on. Likely why Christian took it.
I couldn’t care less about my cell phone. I barely use it for more than messaging Jessica and my father, which I already know would be a very bad idea right now. My friends have all dropped away over time. Ettore disapproved of anyone he had not personally vetted, and besides that, maintaining friendships added a different kind of pressure. It wasn’t like I could tell anyone about the hell my life was sinking into. While I trusted my friends, there was still a risk that anything I said would get back to Ettore. And even if it didn’t, watching them go off to college and flourish while I lived in my gilded cage hurt too much.
Their pity was even worse.
