Chapter 7

Elizabeth

The car ride home is long and confusing. My fingers still tingle from where Sebastian held my hand before he kissed me. A kiss I hadn’t expected—a kiss that set my entire world on fire.

The interview was so reveling. His answers playing over and over in my mind, each one pressing against the walls of my heart. Tonight, I learnt so much about him—his pain, his struggles—but that  kiss... That kiss lingers, warm and sweet, leaving me questioning my future plans.

When I pull into the driveway, the house looms large, its dark windows staring back at me. This prison I call a home. My stomach twists. The thrill of the evening fades, replaced by the suffocating reminder of where I belong—or rather, where I’m trapped.

I kill the engine and sit in the silence for a moment longer, pressing my forehead to the steering wheel. “Get it together,” I whisper, though my hands tremble as I reach for the door handle.

I close the door behind me with a soft click, a smile still tugging at my lips. My heels echo faintly on the wooden floor as I move toward the staircase, wrapped in my thoughts of Sebastian and his warmth, his sincerity.

“You look beautiful. It must have been quite the night. Where were you?”

The voice cuts through my soul like a shard of ice, stopping me in my tracks.

My heart pounds in my chest as I turn slowly to see Christopher sitting on the couch, his face half-shadowed in the dim light. He’s leaning back, one arm draped casually over the armrest, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—betray his relaxed posture.

“Oh,” I manage, startled. “You’re home.”

“You didn’t answer me,” he says, his tone already taut with irritation.

“Where were you, Lizzy?”

I swallow hard, forcing a smile as I clutch my clutch tighter against my chest.

“I had a work event,” I say carefully. My voice feels thin, like a thread about to snap. “Sebastian had his interview at a gala.”

Christopher sits forward, his eyes narrowing. “An interview at a gala? Is that why you’re so dressed up? Or is something else going on?”

The accusation in his voice hits me like a slap. My cheeks burn, not with guilt, but with anger I dare not show.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Christopher?” I ask, my tone edging toward defensive.

He stands now, moving toward me with slow, deliberate steps.

“You leave the house all dolled up. You did not tell me, and then you spent the evening with another man. His voice trails off, and I can see the venom pooling behind his eyes.

“I am not you,” I snap before I can stop myself.

His jaw tightens, and for a moment, I think he might hit me. Instead, he grabs my arm, his grip like iron. “Don’t walk away from me, Lizzy,” he growls.

“Let me go, Chris,” I say, my voice trembling as I try to pull free.

“I didn’t marry a whore,” he spits, his words cutting through me like a blade.

I flinch, fear prickling my skin. But then something inside me snaps.

His words amuse me.

Months—no, years—of his cruelty, his infidelity, his control rise to the surface, and I glare at him, my voice steady and cold.

“How dare you?” I hiss. “You’re the one who’s been prancing around with other women. And now you dare to call me a whore?”

He freezes, his hand still gripping my arm, but his expression falters. He wasn’t expecting me to fight back. I wasn’t expecting it either.

“Let me go, Christopher,” I say again, firmer this time.

He releases me, his face a mask of disbelief, and I take the chance to rush past him toward the stairs. My heart races as I climb, but the sense of victory is fleeting.

“You’re mine, Elizabeth,” his voice follows me, cold and possessive.

I reach the bedroom and shut the door behind me, leaning against it to catch my breath. Relief washes over me for a brief moment, until I hear his footsteps on the stairs.

The door swings open, and he steps inside, his eyes dark with something I can’t quite place. Anger. Lust. Madness. All of it terrifies me.

“You are mine,” he says again, his voice low and dangerous as he walks toward me.

“What are you doing?” I ask, panic rising in my throat. I watch as he starts unbuttoning his shirt.

He smirks, the wicked curve of his lips making my stomach churn.

“What a husband should do,” he says, grabbing my waist and pulling me close.

“Stop it, Christopher,” I say, pushing against his chest. “Please, don’t do this.”

He doesn’t listen. His hands are rough, tearing at my dress, his breath hot and suffocating.

“What does he do, huh?” he sneers. “Does Sebastian fuck you better?”

The words make my skin crawl, and I shove him harder, desperate to escape.

“Stay away from me, Christopher.”

I can see the rage in his eyes.

His hand strikes my cheek, and I stumble back onto the bed, the sting burning like fire.

“Why can’t you just act right, Lizzy?” he shouts. “Why can’t you just be the supportive wife I need you to be?”

Tears blur my vision, but I force myself to meet his gaze, my voice trembling but defiant.

“You’re a monster,” I whisper.

His face twists with rage, and he grabs my arm, yanking me upright.

“What did you just say to me?” He demands, his voice a dangerous growl.

Before I can answer, a small voice cuts through the tension like a knife.

“Mama…”

Christopher freezes, his grip loosening as we both turn toward the doorway.

Edward stands there, his tiny frame silhouetted against the hallway light, his wide eyes filled with confusion and fear.

“Edward,” I whisper, my heart breaking as I see him trembling.

“Go back to bed, sweetheart.”

His gaze flickers between us, uncertain, before he nods and disappears down the hall.

Christopher lets go of me, stepping back as if our son's presence had doused his fire.

I don’t wait for him to say anything. I grab a robe covering my torn dress and walk past him. I can still feel my legs shaking.

In the hallway, I scoop Edward into my arms and carry him to his room, whispering soothing words as he clings to me.

“This will all be over soon.” I whisper, taking comfort in my plan.

I need to focus, but I am afraid. Christopher will not make it easy.