Chapter 5 No way out

Amelia's POV

Six Years Earlier*******

The church bells tolled above me, their jubilant peals mocking the weight in my chest. My legs trembled beneath the heavy fabric of my satin gown as my mother gripped my arm with iron determination.

"You're doing the right thing," she murmured, her tone as cold as the winter air outside. She didn't even bother to hide the threat beneath her words. "Richard is a good man. He'll take care of you. And stop dreaming if you think Daniel is coming back. He's long gone, Amelia. You have no one else. And if you dare think of doing something stupid don't even think of coming back to my house".

Her words sliced through me, but I kept my eyes fixed ahead. My mind screamed at me to stop, to turn and run as fast as I could. But where would I go? Back to my empty childhood bedroom in her house? Back to the same stifling existence she'd spent years controlling?

Oh I forgot! I didn't even have a home to run to.

No. There was nowhere to run, no way out.

I couldn't feel my feet as we moved closer to the altar. And there he was-Richard. My soon-to-be husband. A stranger.

He turned when I approached, his lips curving into a soft, practiced smile. My stomach churned as I forced myself to meet his gaze. His grey-gold eyes locked onto mine, sharp and calculating. There was nothing kind or warm about them, no trace of vulnerability.

"Amelia," he said, his voice low and smooth.

I nodded, unable to muster a single word. My throat felt tight, as though the satin ribbon of my dress was wrapped around my neck, choking me.

The priest's voice broke through the thick fog of my thoughts, deep and steady as he began the ceremony. I barely heard the words, barely registered the murmurs of approval from the small crowd behind me. My eyes flicked around the room, searching for... someone. Anyone who might see my silent plea.

But they all smiled. The same shallow smiles of polite society. No one would save me.

I felt like a pawn, moving exactly where I was told on a chessboard I hadn't agreed to play.

"Do you, Amelia Bennett, take Richard Liam to be your lawfully wedded husband?"

The words hung in the air, sharp and heavy. My pulse thundered in my ears. I couldn't speak. The room spun around me, suffocating and thick.

I wanted to run. I wanted to scream, to rip off the gown and burst through the church doors. But where would I go?

"Amelia," my mother hissed under her breath, her nails digging into my arm.

And there it was-the reminder that I had no choice. If I didn't do this, I'd be out on the street. No home, no family, no future.

"I... I do," I whispered, my voice trembling.

The moment the words left my lips, my chest caved. It felt like I'd signed a contract with the devil, and there was no going back.

Richard's smile grew wider.

A week into our marriage, I tried to convince myself it wasn't as bad as I feared. Richard was polite, almost... distant. He left early in the mornings for work and came back late in the evenings. He brought me flowers and small gifts-perfume, books I'd mentioned in passing. He smiled when we spoke and asked if I was adjusting to my new life.

At first, I thought maybe I'd been wrong about him. Maybe the unease I'd felt on our wedding day had been nerves, nothing more.

But then it started. Slowly, like cracks spreading through glass.

It began one evening when he came home and found the dinner I'd prepared wasn't to his liking.

"Amelia," he said sharply, his tone colder than I'd ever heard it. "What is this?"

I looked up from the book I was reading at the table, startled. "It's chicken stew," I replied hesitantly.

He stared at the bowl in disgust, his jaw tightening. "Do you even care about what I like? Or are you just trying to waste my time and money?"

The words hit me like a slap, but I forced myself to stay calm. "I thought you liked this," I said quietly. "You mentioned it once-"

"Don't make stupid excuses," he snapped, his voice rising. "You're my wife. It's your job to know these things."

I bit my lip, swallowing the lump in my throat.

It only escalated from there.

A few days later, I accidentally spilled a cup of tea on one of his work papers. It was a mistake-just a clumsy moment-but his reaction was anything but proportional.

"What is wrong with you?" he roared, slamming his hand on the table so hard that I flinched. "Do you have any idea how important that was?"

"I'm sorry," I said quickly, my voice shaking. "I didn't mean to-"

"Sorry doesn't fix incompetence!" he bellowed.

He threw the ruined paper to the ground and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

That night, as I sat alone in the cold silence of our house, I realized the man I'd married wasn't the polite stranger from our first days together. That version of Richard had been a mask. The real Richard was something else entirely-angry, cruel, and unpredictable.

A month into our marriage, I learned to live on eggshells. Every step I took, every word I spoke, I measured carefully. I avoided anything that might trigger his wrath, though it seemed impossible to predict what would set him off.

One evening, as I folded laundry in the bedroom, I heard the sound of glass shattering from downstairs. My heart raced as I froze in place, straining to listen.

"Amelia!" Richard's voice thundered through the house.

I hurried downstairs, my hands trembling. In the living room, I found him standing over a broken vase, his face twisted in anger.

"What is this?" he demanded, pointing at the shards on the floor.

"I... I don't know," I stammered. "It must have fallen. I'll clean it up."

"You don't even pay attention to anything, do you?" he hissed, stepping closer. "You're useless."

I shrank back, my chest tightening.

As he continued to rant, something inside me began to crack.

This wasn't a life. This wasn't a marriage.

I had given up everything-my freedom, my dreams-for this. For him.

And yet, he didn't see me as a person. I was nothing more than an object to him, something to control and criticize.

That night, as I lay awake in bed, staring at the ceiling, I realized I couldn't keep living like this. But the question remained: how could I escape when every door seemed locked?

The final straw came two weeks later.

I was organizing the pantry when Richard came home unexpectedly early. His footsteps echoed down the hall before he appeared in the doorway, his face dark with fury.

"What are you doing?" he barked.

"Just organizing," I said cautiously, sensing the storm brewing.

"Organizing," he sneered, stepping closer. "You can't even keep the house clean, and now you're playing housemaid? Do you think this is a joke?"

Before I could reply, he grabbed the box of spices I'd been arranging and hurled it to the floor. The clatter of glass jars breaking against the tiles made me flinch.

I stared at the mess, my hands shaking, and something inside me snapped.

"Enough," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

"What did you say?" he asked, his tone dripping with menace.

I lifted my gaze to meet his, my fear replaced by a simmering resolve. "I said enough."

For the first time in weeks, I saw a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. But it was fleeting, replaced almost instantly by rage.

The tension crackled between us, and I knew this confrontation would change everything with good or bad.