The morning light touched the edge of my canvas, turning the wet paint into tiny sparks of gold. I’d been painting for almost an hour—colors spilling, soft strokes calming my chest. It felt foreign and familiar all at once, like breathing after being underwater too long.
Then the door burst open.
“Where are my clothes, Emerald?!” Nathan’s voice crashed through the room. “And my breakfast? My presentation files? Have you forgotten everything?”
I froze, brush midair. His face was red, his tie half-done, frustration already curdling into anger.
“I don’t want to do it anymore,” I said quietly, my voice barely leaving my throat.
He blinked. “What?”
I set the brush down, hands shaking. “I said I don’t want to do it anymore. The cooking. The preparing. The pretending.”
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Only the sound of the ceiling fan and the faint smell of turpentine filled the room.
Since we got married, I had done everything for him. His meals, his clothes, his schedules, his meetings—things a secretary could do, things a wife shouldn’t have to prove love through.
I used to think I was being supportive, but over time, I’d become something else—a servant in the shell of a wife. I forgot how to paint, how to live, how to be myself. The canvas in front of me was the first time I’d picked up a brush in three years.
Nathan’s jaw tightened. He looked at the painting, then at me, as if it were an insult. “You’re kidding me.”
He strode forward, grabbed the edge of the easel, and threw it aside. The canvas hit the floor with a thud, paint splattering across the wall.
“What the hell, Emerald?” he shouted, his voice shaking with rage. “You dare paint again? After I told you how useless that hobby is? You should be focusing on me—on your duties as my wife!”
I looked at him, my throat tight, my heartbeat loud. “I’m tired, Nathan,” I said, the words trembling out of me. “Do you understand that? I’m tired.”
He laughed—sharp, cruel, the kind of laugh that cuts you in half. “Tired? From what? Living comfortably? Being my wife? Have you forgotten what you signed up for when you married me? I am your husband! You just don’t get tired.”
He stepped closer, and before I could even blink, his hand came down hard across my face. The sound cracked in the room like thunder.
I stumbled back, shocked. My cheek burned, my vision blurred. For a moment, I thought I misheard—that it couldn’t be real. Nathan had never hit me before. He’d shouted, yes. Controlled, yes. But never this.
We used to be sweet once—so sweet it almost feels like a lie now. He was gentle, protective, the kind of man who would cover me with a blanket when I fell asleep on the couch, or hold my hand while crossing a busy street.
He used to tell me he couldn’t stand seeing me hurt, that he’d rather take the pain himself. Back then, I believed him. I believed every word, every promise, every soft kiss that told me I was safe.
I still remember one night, long before everything fell apart. We were lying on the couch after dinner, his head resting on my lap, the city lights flickering through the curtains.
“Em,” he said softly, tracing circles on my wrist, “if you ever cry, I want it to be because you’re happy. Not because of me.”
I laughed then, brushing his hair away from his eyes. “You say that now, but someday you might forget.”
He sat up, serious for once, his gaze steady. “No,” he whispered. “I could never hurt you. I’d rather die than see you in pain.”
And I believed him. Completely.
But that version of him was gone.
He hit me again. And again.
The second slap made me taste iron. The third made something inside me snap.
I stared at him, trembling, my face wet with tears I hadn’t realized were falling. He stood there breathing hard, like I had offended his existence.
I reached for my ring, pulled it off, and threw it at him. It hit his chest and rolled to the floor. “Let’s divorce.”
For a second, he looked stunned. Then he laughed—a low, mocking sound that filled the space. “Divorce? You think it’s that easy?”
He took a step toward me, smirking. “You signed a prenuptial agreement, remember? You get nothing. And even if you try, my family would never agree to a divorce. They condone it. They’ll side with me, Emerald—they always do. Even your parents!”
“I don’t care,” I whispered. “I’ll convince them if I have to. I just don’t want to see you anymore.”
I turned toward the door, ready to leave, to finally walk away. But before I could take another step, Nathan grabbed my arm and pulled me back.
“Seriously?” he hissed, his grip tightening. “You think you can just walk out on me like that?”
“Nathan—”
Before I could finish, another voice cut through the room.
“What’s happening here?”
Amber. She stood at the door, eyes wide with fake concern. “Hey, are you hurting my stepsister?” she said, rushing forward, her tone too dramatic, too sweet.
I’d been a fool not to see through her before. She crouched beside me, pretending to check my bruised face, her hand brushing my arm in a mock gesture of care. “Emerald, are you okay? Please, stop fighting. You two shouldn’t—”
“Don’t,” I said sharply, pushing her hand away.
Amber stumbled back, slipping on the paint smeared across the floor. She fell with a thud, gasping as if she’d been shot.
“Amber!” Nathan shouted, rushing to her side. “What the hell is wrong with you, Emerald? Look what you’ve done!”
Amber whimpered, clutching her ankle. “I think it’s fractured,” she cried, tears glistening perfectly in her eyes.
Nathan turned to me, furious. “Apologize to her!”
I shook my head, my voice cold. “No. I will not apologize.”
I turned to leave, every step feeling heavier than the last. But before I could reach the door, Amber’s expression changed. Her eyes flicked up—cold, calculating—and in a sudden motion, she pushed me hard.
I didn’t even have time to scream.
My foot slipped against the edge of the top stair. The world tilted, spinning, crashing—paint, floor, air, light, everything blending into a blur.
Then—darkness.
