I backed away, my chest heaving as I took in my surroundings. They had shoved me into the spare bedroom at the end of the hall.
I couldn't stay here. Panic clawed at my throat until my eyes landed on the small nightstand in the corner. Sitting right next to a dusty lamp was an old, cream-colored landline phone.
My heart leaped.
I lunged for it, snatching the receiver off the cradle. A dial tone hummed in my ear. It was a lifeline. My hands shook so violently I could barely press the buttons, but muscle memory took over as I dialed the only person I knew would answer at this hour.
Marcus.
Liam and his mother loved to throw Marcus’s name around as my "paramour," but the reality was almost laughable. Marcus was the manager at the art gallery where I sold my paintings. He was also my closest friend, fiercely loyal, and entirely uninterested in women. He was bisexual, leaning heavily toward men, but kept his private life strictly hidden from his conservative family. We were confidants, nothing more. But right now, he was my only hope.
The line rang once. Twice.
Click.
"Marcus?" I breathed, cupping my hand over the mouthpiece, terrified Liam would hear me through the door. "Marcus, please, you have to help me. I'm at the house. They're locking me up. Liam and Chloe—they sold me, Marcus. Please call the police—"
A sharp, high-pitched giggle echoed through the earpiece.
My blood ran cold.
"Oh, Liam, come listen to this!" Chloe’s voice chimed through the phone, dripping with venomous amusement. "See? I told you. She really is having an affair. She’s begging her little boyfriend to come save her."
I stared at the receiver in absolute horror. It was an extension connected directly to the phone in the downstairs kitchen. Chloe had picked it up the second she heard the dial tone.
"You sick—" I started, but the line went dead.
Seconds later, heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs. The deadbolt snapped back, and the door flew open, slamming violently against the wall.
Liam stood in the doorway, his face twisted in a mask of furious, heartbroken betrayal.
"Seriously, Daisy?" he spat, stepping into the room and backing me into the wall. "You're locked in a room because you're having a mental breakdown, and your first instinct is to call the man you're cheating on me with? From my house?"
"I am not cheating on you!" I screamed, pressing myself against the cold plaster. "He's my friend! I was calling for help because my husband is a monster!"
"Pathetic," Liam sneered, shaking his head. He looked so genuinely wounded that if I didn't know the truth, I would have felt sorry for him. "I gave you everything, Daisy. I gave you a home, a life, and this is how you repay me? By running off, sleeping around, and then coming back here to scream abuse at my family?"
"Stop it!" I cried, covering my ears. "Stop lying! There's no one else here! You don't have to put on this sick performance!"
"Performance?" Liam stepped closer, his voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet whisper. "You're the one putting on a performance, Daisy. Look at you. You're hysterical. You're completely unhinged."
"Let me out!" I shoved him with all my remaining strength, trying to dart past him toward the open door.
But Liam barely stumbled. He caught me by the shoulders, his fingers digging painfully into my bruised skin, and shoved me backward with terrifying force. I tripped over my own feet, crashing hard into the small nightstand.
The dusty ceramic lamp wobbled violently before toppling over the edge. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp, deafening crash, shattering into dozens of jagged pieces.
I scrambled backward against the wall, my chest heaving as I looked up at him.
"You need time to think about what you've done to this family, Daisy," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "We'll talk when you're ready to be a rational, obedient wife."
He turned on his heel and walked out.
The deadbolt slid into place, sealing me inside.
"Liam!" I screamed, pounding my fists against the solid wood until my knuckles bled. "Let me out! You can't do this!"
The only answer was the fading sound of his footsteps descending the stairs, followed by the faint, muffled sound of Chloe's laughter from the living room below.
I slid down the door, my strength finally giving out. My knees hit the floor, and I curled into myself as the crushing weight of reality settled over me. I was completely alone. No one knew I was here. No one was coming to save me.
I wept until my lungs burned and I had no tears left to shed. The room grew dark as the sun set outside, leaving only a pale sliver of moonlight filtering through the cracks of the painted-shut window.
I slowly lowered my hands, my breath hitching in the silent, suffocating room.
That was when a faint glint of light on the floor caught my eye.
I blinked through my swollen, tear-blurred vision. There, resting on the dark hardwood just inches from my trembling fingers, was the shattered remains of the ceramic lamp.
I slowly reached out, my fingertips brushing against the cold, jagged edge. I stared at the sharp shard in the dim light, my reflection staring back at me—broken, battered, but still breathing.
And as my fingers wrapped tightly around the glass, a dangerous new thought began to take root in the darkness.
Without thinking straight, I slit my wrist, and let the blood wrapped me.
