Chapter 5

I lay in my small, sterile bedroom, listening.

This was what I' d orchestrated, wasn't it?

His hatred. His contempt.

It was the only way to protect him from the inevitable grief.

So why did it still hurt so much?

A dull ache settled deep in my chest, a constant companion.

The sounds from their bedroom started.

Muffled laughter. Whispers. Then, the rhythmic creak of the bed.

Ethan wasn't trying to be discreet.

He wanted me to hear.

He wanted me to know.

His voice, louder now, "Oh, Izzy... you're so much better... so much more..."

The words trailed off, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

Better than me. More than me.

Each sound, each word, was a deliberate torment.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand.

A text from Ethan.

Come to my room.

Just that. A summons.

My heart hammered against my ribs. What now?

I smoothed down my simple dress, took a deep breath, and walked towards his domain.

The door was ajar.

Isabelle was in his bed, sheets pulled up to her chin, feigning shyness.

Ethan was beside her, propped on an elbow, a smirk on his face.

He looked like a king surveying his conquest.

"Ah, Sarah. Come in."

He gestured vaguely.

"Izzy here is a little... overwhelmed. Not used to such... attention."

He stroked her hair. She giggled, blushing.

"She's so innocent, isn't she? Not like some women, always thinking about what they can get."

The barb was meant for me. Clear. Sharp.

He reached for his wallet on the nightstand, pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills.

He held them out to me.

"Izzy needs a bath. You'll draw it for her. And help her. Make sure she' s comfortable."

His eyes met mine, cold and challenging.

"Consider this your payment for services rendered."

Dehumanizing. Degrading.

Exactly his intention.

I took the money, my hand steady.

"Of course, Ethan."

My voice was even, betraying nothing of the storm inside me.

My nails dug into my palms, the small pain a welcome distraction.

I had to play my part. The greedy, materialistic wife.

It was the only role he allowed me. The only role that would set him free.

I went into the master bathroom. It was enormous, all marble and gold fixtures.

I turned on the taps, adding bath salts that smelled of roses.

Isabelle came in, wrapped in one of Ethan's silk robes.

She looked smug.

"Make it hot," she said. "But not too hot."

I nodded, testing the water.

As she slipped out of the robe, I saw them.

Faint red marks on her neck, her shoulders.

Love bites. Ethan' s marks.

A wave of nausea hit me.

I remembered his mouth on my skin, his touch, gentle then, passionate.

Years ago. A different life.

The memories were a fresh torment, sharper than any of his current cruelties.

I focused on the task, my face a blank mask.

Help her into the tub. Wash her back.

Each touch was a violation of something sacred within me.

But I did it. For Ethan. For his future peace.