Chapter 3 Broken Glass Dreams

"You think I supply a rattling?" He roared, his face a mask of fury. "I've given you everything, and this is how you pay off me?"

"I didn't ask for any of this!" I cried, looking to kick loose. "I didn't need your cash or your fancy wedding. This has grown to be your idea; don't forget."

He froze for a moment, his eyes flickering with a few aspects-end up in doubt? Regret? But it became lengthy past as rapid because it got here, replaced by bloodless, unfeeling anger. "You think you're so unique?" he sneered. "You count on you to take everything from me and stroll away? Not this night, sweetheart. Not this night."

He climbed back on the pinnacle of me, pinning my wrists above my head. I felt his breath on my face, warm and stale. "Anthony, please," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Don't do that. Please."

For a moment, his grip loosened, and I saw a flicker of humanity in his eyes. But then, just as speedy, it vanished, replaced by a chilly, difficult clear-up. He leaned in nearer, his lips brushing in competition to my ear. "You're mine," he whispered. "And you're going to accept it the hard way."

I squeezed my eyes near, bracing myself for what had become to come back. How did it come to this? The guy I had married, the man who promised me a higher future, turned out to be now a monster looming over me. I had no person to call, no person to keep me. I was by myself in this nightmare, trapped inside the clutches of a man who wasn't what I imagined to be my husband.

"Anthony, stop," I sobbed, my voice uncooked and broken. "Please, stop."

He ignored me, his arms hard and unforgiving. I screamed; however, he slapped my mouth again. My tears streamed down my face as he pressured himself on me, my cries muffled by his grip. I closed my eyes tight, looking to block out the horror, but there was no escaping this.

When he was done fucking me, he rolled off me without a word, leaving me sobbing and shaking on the bed. He fell asleep fast, his respiratory steady as though nothing had occurred. I lay there, gazing at the ceiling, feeling entirely shattered.

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The next morning, I felt numb. I moved through the motions mechanically, not fully aware of what I was doing. We returned to the mansion, the motive force silent as he drove us again. Anthony acted as though nothing had become amiss, like we were simply any other satisfied couple coming back from their honeymoon.

When we were home, Evelyn looked closer to us, her sharp eyes taking in each detail. "Is everything all right, dears?" she asked, her voice laced with the situation. "You two look... stressful."

I pressured a smile, my face feeling stiff. "We're okay, Evelyn," I lied, my voice sounding hollow even to my very own ears. "Just worn out."

Evelyn's eyes narrowed barely, but she nodded. "Alright," she said slowly. "If you say so."

We walked to the room in silence. As quickly as we had been by myself, Anthony turned to me, his expression unreadable.

"About last night," he started, his voice surprisingly tender. "I was drunk. I didn't mean to-"

"Don't," I cut him off, my voice bloodless. "Just don't. I don't want to talk about it."

He looked at me, a flicker of something like guilt in his eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it came. "Fine," he said rapidly. "We won't talk about it. But this," he gestured between us, "isn't going to be a problem, is it?"

I stared at him, my anger and harm effervescent underneath the surface. "I'll play my part," I said quietly. "I'll preserve up appearances. But don't ever touch me again."

He gave a short nod. "Good. Now get ready. We have a lot to do."

I turned away from him, my arms shaking as I attempted to pull myself collectively. I needed to be strong. I needed to discover a way to survive this. I went into the bathroom, locking the door in the back of me. I stared at my mirrored image; the woman in the reflection is a stranger to me now. How did I end up here?

We headed to the studio in silence. Anthony was back to his common self, issuing orders to his staff and discussing business deals over the cellphone. I observed him like a shadow, the correct silent wife.

Inside the studio, he was welcomed with respect and admiration. To them, he was a superb, successful, music-rich person. They had no idea what type of man he sincerely was.

"Good morning, Mr. Rodriguez," one of the producers greeted. "Mrs. Rodriguez," he added, giving me a well-mannered smile.

"Good morning," I murmured, my voice barely above a whisper.

Anthony checked me out, his eyes tough. "You equipped to get to work?" he asked, his tone deceptively informal.

I nodded, keeping my gaze on the ground. "Yes," I stated quietly.

"Good," he said, turning again to the producer. "Let's get started."

As the day wore on, I went through the motions, nodding while predicted and offering input when asked. But my thoughts were elsewhere, misplaced in the nightmare my existence had come to be. I felt trapped and suffocated by using the burden of what had occurred.

I rushed to the restroom, my hands trembling as I locked the door in the back of me. I slumped to the ground, the burden of everything crashing down on me. The tears I'd held back all day broke free, and I buried my face in my arms, sobbing uncontrollably. For a few minutes, I let myself get to the bottom of the ache and fear spilling out in harsh, gasping sobs.

I fumbled for my phone, determined to pay attention to a pleasant voice. I dialed Andy's number, praying he'd pick up. After a few rings, he responded.

"Mia?" His voice turned into one full of challenge. "Mia, what's happening? Are you okay?"

"Andy," I choked out, my voice breaking. "I... I can't do this anymore. I can't-"

"Mia, where are you?" He demanded, his voice rising in panic. "Tell me where you are right now."

"I'm at..." I began to mention that the door all of a sudden flew open.