Chapter 8 8

I must've fallen asleep on the floor.

Or maybe I just blacked out for a while. Time passed differently when you were hurt, like your body no longer trusted the clock. When I opened my eyes, the light from the hallway had shifted. The apartment was dimmer, quieter. Still.

My ribs ached when I moved. My cheek throbbed in time with my pulse. I pulled myself up with shaky arms, crawled to the bathroom, and rinsed the blood from my lip with trembling hands.

I didn't cry.

I hadn't in hours.

There were small cuts along my arm, bruises blooming like ink stains across my skin. I dabbed antiseptic over them with what little was left in the cabinet and pressed gauze to my side where the bruise would turn deep purple by morning.

I was still holding the cloth when the door opened.

The slam was lighter this time.

No fury. No yelling. Just the heavy rhythm of his shoes against hardwood, the familiar sound of keys tossed on the table, and the soft clink of a half-empty glass being poured again.

He was calm now.

That was worse.

I didn't move from the bathroom doorway. Just stood there, one hand gripping the counter, the other pressing the cloth to my ribs. The mirror caught my reflection, smeared mascara, split lip, a cheek that was beginning to swell. I looked like someone else. Someone smaller.

His footsteps stopped behind me.

I didn't turn around.

"I shouldn't have done that," Marcus said softly. Not apologetically. Just like he was stating a fact.

I waited.

He came closer.

"You know how I get when I'm pushed." His voice was smooth now, almost gentle. "You shouldn't have lied to me, Isla."

I nodded once.

Not because I agreed. But because I wanted it to be over.

His hands came around my waist, fingers pressing lightly at first, then firmer. My body flinched under his touch, but he didn't notice. Or maybe he did and just didn't care.

"You're so quiet," he murmured, his mouth near my ear. "You used to talk to me."

I swallowed the lump in my throat.

"I'm tired," I said.

"You can rest after," he whispered, his hands sliding under the hem of my shirt. "I need you tonight."

I didn't move. Didn't resist.

Because fighting never made it better.

Because silence was safer.

He turned me slowly, ignoring the hiss I couldn't hold back as my ribs protested. His fingers found the edge of the bandage on my wrist, peeled it back with lazy interest.

"You let him do this?" he asked, eyes narrowing.

"He was helping."

Marcus didn't respond. He kissed the spot, softly, like that made it better, instead it made my skin crawl.

I didn't kiss him back.

I didn't meet his eyes.

I just let him touch me, mechanically, methodically, like I was something owed to him. Something he'd paid for and now expected to use. His lips trailed down my neck, his breath warm against skin that felt cold from the inside out.

When he lifted me onto the bathroom counter, I bit down on my lip to keep from crying out. My side flared in pain. He didn't notice. Or didn't care.

His fingers gripped my hips. His mouth pressed against mine with a hunger I didn't share. I closed my eyes and went somewhere else, somewhere distant and far away where my name didn't belong to him.

"Look at me," he said at one point, voice tight.

I did.

Because it was easier than what would happen if I didn't.

The counter was hard. My body screamed with every motion. My wrists trembled where he pinned them above my head. And still, I said nothing. Gave nothing. Not a sound. Not a plea. Just silence.

When it was over, he kissed my cheek like we were lovers.

Like it was love.

He didn't see the blood that smeared onto his collar.

He didn't ask if I was okay.

He zipped up, poured another drink, and wandered into the bedroom like.

Slowly the hours dragged by...the next day soon came and Marcus was out without even checking if I was fine or not.

I wore black.

Long sleeves. High collar. Slacks instead of a skirt because tights would cling too much to the cuts on my thighs. My blouse was loose, draped just enough to conceal the stiffness in my posture.

It took me twice as long to get dressed. My ribs flared every time I lifted my arms, and the bruises along my hips screamed with every step. But I moved like I was fine. I moved like nothing happened.

That was the trick, wasn't it?

Pretend long enough and it almost looked real.

I didn't look in the mirror before I left the apartment. I didn't need to. I could feel the way my body ached. I could still feel his breath against my skin. His hands. The weight of silence between us.

The ride to work blurred past me. I stared out the car window like the streets were unfamiliar, like I didn't walk this same path every weekday morning. People moved with purpose, talking, laughing, holding coffee cups like weapons of routine.

I envied them.

When I stepped into the building, I held my breath.

The lobby smelled like lemon polish and wealth. The floors gleamed, the glass elevators hummed quietly, and the security guard gave me the same polite nod he always did.

I nodded back.

The elevator ride was short. Too short.

By the time I stepped into the executive floor, I'd braced every part of myself. Shoulders squared. Eyes forward. Hands tucked into the sleeves of my blouse so no one would see the fresh bandage on my wrist or the blooming bruise just beneath it.

Sebastian's door was open.

He was inside, standing near the window, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder. He didn't look at me right away, but I felt it the second he did.

His eyes were like a scalpel, quiet, sharp, dangerous when they lingered too long. And they lingered now.

"You're late," he said without turning around fully.

"Traffic," I replied smoothly, my voice steady.

He set the folder down on the edge of his desk, then finally turned to face me.

His gaze swept over me once.

I stood still, arms crossed lightly over my stomach, hiding the way my body leaned too heavily on one leg. I didn't flinch when his eyes narrowed. Didn't shift when he took a slow step forward.

"You look pale."

"I didn't sleep much."

"You never do."

There was a pause. Tension curled in the space between us, unspoken, taut.

Then his eyes flicked to my sleeves.

And stayed there.

"New blouse?" he asked.

"Old one. Just buried in the back of my closet."

"Strange choice for July."

I forced a soft smile. "It's cold in here."

Sebastian didn't move.

Didn't speak.

Just watched me like he was unraveling something thread by thread. I shifted slightly, turning toward my desk, hoping he'd let it go. But his voice followed me, low and quiet.

"Isla."

I stopped.

His tone wasn't sharp. It wasn't even cold. But it cut through me like glass anyway.

I turned just enough to look over my shoulder.

"Yes?"

He studied me for a long moment. Then, without warning, he said, "Tell me the truth."

My stomach twisted.

"About what?"

His jaw ticked. "Why you look like you've been running from something."

I blinked once. Twice.

"I'm not."

His eyes darkened. "You're a terrible liar."

I didn't answer.

Because he was right.

Sebastian stepped closer. Not invading, just... narrowing the space. His eyes flicked to my hands again. I resisted the urge to pull my sleeves down further.

"You weren't like this yesterday," he said.

"I was tired yesterday too."

"No. You were tired." His voice dropped slightly. "But not like this."

There was something in his tone that unsettled me, curiosity, yes, but more than that. Restraint. Controlled concern, like he wanted to ask more but knew I'd shut him out.

Because I would.

Because I had to.

"I'm fine," I said softly, the words like smoke. "Really."

Sebastian didn't believe me. I could tell.

But he didn't push.

Instead, he walked back to his desk, picked up the folder, and handed it to me. Our fingers brushed, brief, but enough to send a jolt through my chest. I pulled away quickly.

"Review the financials on page five," he said, voice neutral again. "Then schedule a meeting with Parsons before noon."

I nodded, clutching the folder like it might anchor me.

And I left his office.

Because I couldn't afford to fall apart under that gaze. Not here. Not where silence had to be my armor.

Not when the bruises were still fresh beneath my sleeves.

Not when my body still remembered everything I didn't want it to.