“You’re sick,” I whispered.
The woman tilted her head.
“She is weak,” she said softly, her voice identical to mine but hollow. “She doubts. She questions. She fears.”
Marcus’ grip tightened on my shoulders.
“She drinks what I give,” he said. “She carries the parts of me you can’t handle. She absorbs the rot. So our marriage can stay clean.”
Tears blurred my vision.
“This isn’t love,” I said.
The woman smiled wider.
“Love is survival.”
For a split second, I felt something terrifying.
Recognition.
Like she wasn’t just a stranger.
Like she was a version of me.
The part that stayed silent.
The part that swallowed humiliation.
The part that accepted things without screaming.
Marcus leaned close to my ear.
“You created her,” he whispered. “The first time you chose not to confront me. The first time you let something slide.”
The kitchen lights flickered.
I looked back at the woman.
She was holding the red cup again.
But this time, she extended it toward me.
My breath stopped.
“No,” I said.
Marcus’ voice turned cold.
“If you refuse… she stays.”
I understood then.
This wasn’t about urine.
It wasn’t about rituals.
It was about control.
About erasing pieces of me until I was nothing but obedience.
The woman stepped closer.