WHAT THE VOWS DIDN'T SAY

The apartment was too quiet. No television. No music. Not even the soft hum of the refrigerator I used to notice when everything else was still. Just silence, and the unmistakable weight of it pressing against my chest. Marcus was home. I knew it the second I stepped into the building. The doorman wouldn't meet my eyes. The elevator attendant gave me a clipped nod and nothing else. Those were signs I'd learned to read long ago. Like the way our door creaked louder when my hands shook unlocking it. I stepped inside and gently shut the door behind me. The rose was gone. So was the photo. The spot where they'd lain was clean now, too clean, like someone had scrubbed the memory away. I took a breath. Maybe he was asleep. Maybe I could shower, eat something small, and slip quietly into bed before... "Where were you?" His voice came from the living room. Steady. Calm. The kind of calm that was worse than rage. I turned slowly. Marcus stood near the window, one hand holding a glass of something amber-colored. His tie was loosened, sleeves rolled up. And he was smiling. That cold, polished smile that made my stomach churn. "I stayed late at work," I said, as neutrally as I could manage. "There was a meeting." He nodded like that explained everything. "Of course. A meeting. And then, what? Naptime in your boss's office?" I froze. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine. "I didn't sleep last night," I offered. "I was exhausted. He told me to rest." "He told you." "Yes." The silence between us crackled. "And you just... did what he said?" I didn't respond. My heart was already hammering too loud. I should've lied better. I should've said I was in the archives. Or the restroom. Or literally anywhere else. But I was tired of lying. "He didn't do anything inappropriate," I added quickly. "He just wanted to help." That was the wrong thing to say. Marcus's smile sharpened. "Help?" He set the glass down, too gently. "Do you think I don't know what this is?" "What what is?" He stepped closer. "The way you talk about him. The way you flinch when I come near you now. Like you think someone else will protect you. Like you've forgotten who takes care of you." "No one takes care of me," I said, too quietly. "What was that?" I shook my head, backing up a step. He grabbed my wrist. Not hard. Not yet. But it was enough to make the fresh bandage sting. "I saw your hand," he said. " You let him touch you, didn't you?" "It was first aid, Marcus." He twisted my wrist, slow and deliberate. I gasped. "That's how it starts. The boss giving orders. The girl obeying. Don't play stupid with me, Isla." "I'm not playing anything!" My voice cracked. "He doesn't even know..." "Know what? That you're mine?" His face was closer now, breath hot and bitter. "That everything you are belongs to me?" I yanked my arm back. "I'm not property!" Something in his face changed. His hand came across my cheek so fast I barely saw it. The sound cracked through the room like thunder. I stumbled back, crashing into the edge of the kitchen counter. My vision blurred. My cheek burned. "I warned you," he said quietly. "I told you not to embarrass me." I tasted blood. "I didn't..." The second hit came harder. My head snapped to the side, and I felt something pop in my lip. Warmth trickled down my chin. "You think he's going to save you?" Marcus sneered. "Your precious boss? Think he'll come storming in to rescue you like some pathetic white knight?" He grabbed my arm again and dragged me through the kitchen. I fought him, tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. He shoved me onto the floor near the dining table. My knees hit tile. "You don't sleep in another man's office," he snarled. "You don't take drinks from him. You don't let him see you." My ribs screamed as his foot connected with my side. I curled in, arms instinctively covering my head, too stunned to scream, too used to staying quiet. "You listen to me," he growled, towering above me. "You don't forget who you belong to. You don't ever...ever...make me look weak." I didn't reply. There was nothing I could say. So I stayed there, shaking. Bleeding. Silent. Eventually, his breathing slowed. The rage seeped out of him like a fire dying without oxygen. He stepped back, adjusted his cuff, and wiped his hands like I was something he needed to clean off. "I'm going out," he said, like nothing happened. "By the time I get back, you better have remembered who you are." The door slammed behind him a moment later. I didn't move. Couldn't. I just lay there, cheek pressed to the cold tile, the copper taste of blood heavy in my mouth. Something inside me cracked that night. Not loudly. Not all at once. But enough.