As My Daughter Burned, He Lit Fireworks for Her

Derick stood in front of the stove, a sight so absurd it might have been funny in another life. He held a wooden spoon, staring at the pot of bubbling oatmeal like it was a hostile corporate takeover. He had never cooked a meal in his life. The penthouse had a chef; the office had a cafeteria. But the only thing in Elinor's barren cupboards was a canister of rolled oats. He spooned the thick, beige paste into a bowl. It wasn't pretty, but it was warm. He walked back to the bedroom. Elinor was trying to swing her legs over the side of the bed, the IV pole rattling. "Get back in bed," Derick ordered. "I don't need your help," Elinor snapped, her legs trembling as she tried to stand. Derick set the bowl on the nightstand and placed his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back against the pillows. She was too weak to fight him. He picked up the bowl and the spoon. He scooped up a small amount of the oatmeal, blowing on it until the steam dissipated. He held it out to her. Elinor turned her head away, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Eat," Derick said. "I'd rather starve," Elinor replied. Derick's patience snapped. He dropped the bowl on the nightstand with a clatter. He reached out and grabbed her jaw, his fingers pressing into the hinges, forcing her mouth open. He picked up the spoon again and shoved it past her lips. "Swallow." Elinor gagged, the bland taste filling her mouth. She glared at him, her eyes burning with venom, but she swallowed. She refused to give him the satisfaction of choking. He fed her the rest of the bowl in silence, each spoonful a battle of wills. When it was empty, he set it aside. He sat on the edge of the bed. He looked at her pale face, the dark circles under her eyes, the white bandage on her head. He reached out and gently brushed a strand of hair away from the gauze. His touch was light, but his voice was not. "Stop this foolishness," he said, his tone low and commanding. "This self-pity act ends now. You will tell me where Cece is." The words were a spark in a powder keg. Elinor slapped his hand away, the sting of the impact sharp in the quiet room. "Don't touch me." Derick sighed, a sound of pure frustration. He saw her defiance not as grief, but as a stubborn refusal to yield to him. He would remind her who was in control. He leaned in, his expression shifting from anger to something colder, more possessive. He didn't move slowly. He didn't offer comfort. He grabbed her chin, forcing her face up to his. "Don't you forget, Elinor," he murmured, his voice a venomous caress, "you are still my wife." He pressed his lips against hers, a brutal, punishing kiss meant to dominate, not to soothe. Elinor froze. The smell of gardenias hit her again, the taste of scotch and arrogance. She thought of Kamryn's smirk, of the phone calls, of the nights he spent away while Cece lay dying. This wasn't affection; it was a violation. An assertion of ownership over a woman he despised. She didn't pull away. She opened her mouth. Derick, misinterpreting her stillness as surrender, deepened the kiss, his hand moving to the back of her neck. He thought he had won. Elinor bit down. She clamped her jaw shut with every ounce of strength she had left, her teeth sinking into the flesh of his lower lip. Derick let out a muffled roar of pain. He tried to pull back, but Elinor grabbed the front of his shirt, holding him in place. The metallic taste of blood flooded both their mouths. He raised his hand and struck her jaw, forcing her mouth open. He stumbled back, his hand clapped over his mouth. He pulled his hand away. It was covered in blood. His lip was torn, a flap of skin hanging loose. He stared at Elinor, his eyes wide with shock and fury. Elinor wiped the back of her hand across her bloody lips. She looked at him with pure, unadulterated disgust. "You make me sick," she said, her voice cold and clear. "Don't ever touch me again." Derick's shock curdled into rage. He lunged forward, grabbing a fistful of her shirt, hauling her up. "You crazy bitch!" Elinor didn't fight. She leaned in, her face inches from his, her bloody mouth twisted into a snarl. "Do it," she hissed. "Hit me. Show me what kind of man you really are." Derick stared into her eyes. He saw no fear. Only a challenge. Only hate. His hand trembled. He couldn't do it. He couldn't strike a woman who was already broken. He released her, shoving her back onto the bed. He turned, his chest heaving, and spotted the glass vase on the dresser. He grabbed it and hurled it against the wall. The vase exploded. Shards of glass and water rained down. A sharp piece flew across the room, slicing across Elinor's forearm. A thin line of red appeared. She didn't flinch. She didn't make a sound. Derick stood there, his shoulders heaving, the blood dripping from his chin. He looked at the mess, at the blood on her arm, and felt a moment of dizziness. He turned and stormed out of the apartment, the door slamming behind him. Elinor sat on the bed, surrounded by the broken glass. She reached out and picked up a shard, running the sharp edge along her thumb. It was a clean pain, simple and understandable. She dropped the glass and reached for her phone on the nightstand. She opened her messages and typed to her lawyer. Expedite the divorce. Whatever it takes. Do it now.