Terrified of having those barely healed wounds exposed again.
Whenever Lucas came near and touched me,
I would shake uncontrollably.
Then scream and push him away.
Lucas didn’t hit me as the kidnappers did.
He only looked at me coldly and said,
“Sophie, haven’t you had enough?”
I no longer had the right to be willful.
But I didn’t dare speak, didn’t dare meet his eyes.
I could only curl up in the corner, trembling.
My arms wrapped tightly around myself, clinging to the last shred of dignity I had left.
But the more I did this, the angrier Lucas became.
On my birthday night, he had been drinking.
He yanked me close, gripping my head and demanding, “Speak! Why won’t you speak?”
“Weren’t you the chatterbox, the one who clung to me every day? Now what are you pretending to be—some pure, untouchable woman?”
“For that little incident last time, how long are you going to keep sulking?”
“Sophie, why can’t you learn your lesson…”
That night, something seemed to set him off. He insisted on being with me.
He tore open my clothes roughly.
He grabbed my neck and kissed his way downward.
And in that moment, the fear I had worked so hard to forget surged back.
The mattress beneath me felt like an iron cage.