Watching them wrapped around each other, I closed my eyes. Tears spilled down my cheeks, and despair—black and absolute—finally pulled me under.
My voice came out slow. Steady. Final.
"Sebastian. Let's get a divorce."
He glanced at me sideways. Then he laughed.
"Joy, what makes you think you have the right to ask me for a divorce?"
He rose, looming over me to drink in my anguish. His thumb brushed across my cheek, wiping away a tear with mock tenderness.
"Did you forget what I told you? I'm going to make you suffer for the rest of your life. And this?" He gestured around us. "This is just the beginning."
"As long as I don't sign, you'll never be free of this marriage."
To punish my disobedience, Sebastian moved Narelle into our home.
The living room. The kitchen. The bathroom. The storage closet.
Anywhere I'd been, I'd find them the next morning—used tissues and condom wrappers scattered across the floor.
I stopped sleeping. Entire nights passed with my eyes fixed on the ceiling. I saw doctors. I swallowed antidepressants, following their instructions to the letter.
Then one day, Narelle barged into my room, tablet in hand.
"Joy, after all these years, you're still this useless?"