The Mute Wife's Silent Revenge

Edlyn locked the door of the public restroom on the first floor. It smelled of bleach and stale water. She went to the sink and turned on the cold tap. She thrust her hand under the water. The shock made her knees buckle. The water turned pink, swirling down the drain. She looked at the wound. The shard was still there. If she went to the ER, they would ask questions. They would call Arno. Genevra would find out. They would say she was unstable. Self-harm. She couldn't give them that ammunition. She opened her purse. She always carried her field kit. Tweezers. A small bottle of solvent. And a tube of medical-grade cyanoacrylate-skin adhesive-she kept for closing minor cuts from scalpels. She took out the tweezers. She held them over the flame of her lighter until the metal blackened. She bit down on her scarf to stifle the scream building in her throat. She looked in the mirror. Her face was gray, sweat beading on her forehead. Do it. She gripped the shard with the tweezers. She pulled. The pain was a white-hot lightning bolt. It tore through her arm, into her shoulder, into her brain. She pulled harder. The glass slid out with a wet, sucking sound. Edlyn gagged. She dropped the shard into the sink. Blood welled up, faster now. She grabbed the adhesive. It was for skin, but not for a wound this deep. It would burn. It would scar. But it would hold. She squeezed the clear liquid into the open wound. The scream that escaped her was muffled by the wool scarf, a guttural, animal sound. She pressed the edges of the skin together, holding them tight while the world spun around her. One minute. Two minutes. The glue set. The bleeding slowed. She wrapped her hand in gauze from her kit. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were hard. The fear was gone, burned away by the pain. She took a piece of paper from her notebook. It was stained with her blood. With her left hand, she wrote in jagged, shaky letters: Her or The Contract. She walked out of the restroom. She went back to the VIP waiting area. Arno was coming out of the room. He looked exhausted. His shirt was rumpled. There was a small stain on his cuff. Vomit? He saw her. He saw the bandage. "Where did you go?" he snapped. "Stop making a scene." Edlyn walked up to him. She slapped the bloody note onto his chest. Arno grabbed it. He read it. He laughed. A short, disbelief-filled bark. "You think you have leverage?" He stepped closer, invading her space. He smelled of sweat and fear. "Your father's ventilator costs four thousand dollars a day. Do you want to pull the plug? Because I can make that call." Edlyn stared at him. He was using her father's life. "And as for your hand..." He glanced at the bandage with distain. "You can't fix those old paintings with a crippled hand anyway. You might as well stay home where you belong." The words hit her like physical blows. He didn't care about her pain. He cared that she was broken equipment. Edlyn stepped back. She looked at him as if he were a monster she had never seen before. Arno straightened his jacket. "Go home. Don't make me say it a third time." He crumpled the note and tossed it into a trash can. Edlyn watched the paper fall. The contract was void. He had broken it. Now, she would burn it.