Cora POV:
The heavy garage door rumbled as it rolled down, sealing us inside. The moment the Mercedes clicked into park, I pushed my door open. The stale air of the garage hit my face, and I practically threw myself out of the passenger seat, my heels clicking sharply against the concrete as I rushed toward the mudroom door. I had to get out of that tight, suffocating cabin.
"Slow down, Cora," Hudson called out from behind me. His voice echoed off the concrete walls, laced with that perfectly practiced, artificial concern. He was playing the devoted husband on pure muscle memory.
I didn't look back. I pushed through the door, crossed the foyer, and practically ran up the curved staircase. I didn't stop until I reached the master suite, pushing past the heavy oak doors and darting straight into the attached bathroom.
I slammed the door shut behind me and twisted the lock. A sharp, metallic *click* echoed in the tiled room. It was the only room in this massive house where I was allowed to lock the door. It was my only sanctuary.
I lunged over the double vanity, gripping the edges of the cold marble sink. I leaned forward, opened my mouth, and spat.
The half-dissolved mass of the white pill, mixed with my saliva, hit the pristine white porcelain. It looked like a toxic, chalky sludge. It was a perfect physical representation of what this marriage actually was beneath the surface.
I slapped my hand against the chrome faucet, turning the cold water on full blast. I stood there, my chest heaving, watching the heavy stream of water wash the bitter residue down the stainless steel drain. A physical cleansing. A mental severing.
I cupped my hands under the freezing water and splashed it violently onto my face. The icy shock hit my skin, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my brain. I splashed it again and again, letting the freezing temperature scrub away the last lingering numbness of the drug's proximity.
Water dripped from my chin and eyelashes as I slowly lifted my head. I stared straight into the massive, illuminated mirror above the vanity.
It was the first time in three years I was truly looking at myself without a chemical veil.
The woman staring back at me had pale, translucent skin. Dark circles bruised the fragile skin under her empty, hollow eyes. I looked like a marionette whose strings had been cut. This was what his gaslighting had done to me.
My fingers curled over the edge of the marble counter, my nails digging in until my knuckles turned stark white. A hot, violent anger began to boil in the pit of my stomach, rising up to my chest.
Three years ago. The ultrasound. The lack of a heartbeat. The blood on the sheets.
The trauma of losing my baby had broken me into pieces. Hudson hadn't helped me pick them up. He had used my grief to label me unstable, to slip the collar around my neck while I was too weak to fight back. He had convinced me I was a danger to myself.
Heavy, measured footsteps thumped against the hardwood floor of the bedroom. They stopped right outside the bathroom door.
My breath hitched. My spine snapped straight.
Hudson rapped his knuckles against the wood. *Tap. Tap. Tap.* The rhythm was slow, deliberate. It was a subtle psychological pressure, a reminder that he was always right there.
"Darling?" his voice drifted through the wood, smooth and gentle. "Are you alright in there? Do you want me to come in and help you take your makeup off?"
It was an invasion disguised as an act of service. He wanted eyes on me.
I sucked in a deep breath, grabbing a plush white towel from the rack. I pressed it to my face, drying the water in one frantic motion. I closed my eyes, digging deep into the muscle memory of the last three years. I needed the voice.
"I'm fine," I called out. I forced my vocal cords to relax, pitching my voice into a soft, sleepy, slightly slurred drawl. "Just tired. I'll be out in a minute."
Silence hung heavy on the other side of the door for three agonizing seconds. Then, I heard a soft, satisfied chuckle.
"Alright, sweet girl. Don't take too long." His footsteps receded, moving toward his walk-in closet.
The moment the sound faded, my rigid shoulders collapsed. I slumped back against the locked door, gasping for air as if I had been held underwater. The adrenaline crash made my hands shake.
I pushed off the door and walked over to the frosted window above the bathtub. It was a habit I had developed to keep from suffocating in this house—always cracking a window for oxygen. I reached up and twisted the plastic wand, tilting the blinds open just a fraction.
My line of sight naturally dropped to the front driveway below. As an architect, my brain automatically mapped the spatial layout of the property.
My eyes locked onto the concrete driveway. My pupils contracted.
Hudson’s massive, black Mercedes G-Wagon was not parked in his designated left-side parking bay. He was a man obsessed with symmetry and order. He never parked out of the lines.
Instead, the three-ton beast of a vehicle was parked at a sharp, aggressive diagonal angle. Its massive rear bumper was completely blocking the right-side bay. It was dead-locking my dusty, silver Volvo, pinning it practically onto the edge of the manicured lawn.
This was the fourth time this month. When I had timidly asked him about it before, he had blamed the dark, claiming the rain made it hard to see the lines.
A cold, humorless smile stretched across my face. Stripped of my self-doubt, the truth was glaringly obvious. It was a crude, pathetic tactic.
It wasn't a mistake. It was a physical declaration of territory. It was a barricade. If I ever wanted to leave the house, I would have to ask him to move his car. He was controlling my exits.
I turned away from the window and walked back to the vanity. I picked up my phone from where I had dropped it next to the sink. I swiped my thumb across the screen, unlocking it.
I opened the camera app, walked back to the blinds, and pressed the lens right up against the narrow gap. I framed the massive black G-Wagon trapping my small Volvo.
"Game on, Hudson."
