Chapter 2

I stared at the news show on TV and listened to the reporter speak about her recent findings somewhere in Pakistan, and I couldn’t help but wallow in self-pity at how I had abandoned all my goals and dreams of acing and making it big as a journalist because of my family and this godforsaken sham of a marriage.

As I continued to listen, nostalgia hit me hard, and I was plunged into deep misery as I reminisced on how much I must have lost. It had been barely two years since we got married, and it already seemed like there was some sort of invisible hand grappling at my neck and snuffing the life out of me.

You know, I initially thought having separate rooms as a couple was a bad idea when we first got married. I only needed less than six months to realize that it was one of the best decisions I have been forced to make. I couldn’t imagine how I’d have protected myself from Isak whenever he got home wasted and horny, or times when he was in his right senses but wanted to flex his muscles with me in bed.

On other days, he was either telling me how he was doing me and my family a huge favor, and as such, I do not have a right to have a say in his house, or stalking me around town like some creep, ready to throw punches at any guy who as much as glances at me.

In movies and romance novels, this behavior of his would be portrayed as adorable. Well, maybe it is until you find out that the reason he is always that way with me isn’t because he loves me too much to share but because he thinks of me as a possession to be kept away from others.

The former could make one feel wanted. Loved. Depending on the love language of the recipient of the act, the latter, on the other hand, just causes you to become a recluse with no friends or acquaintances to have a breather with.

I took a big gulp of my coffee as I heard the door to his room shut upstairs in anticipation of what I had up my sleeves. I had had enough of his bullying, and I was ready to somehow take my life back from him. Anyhow.

With each step he took down the stairs, my anxiety level kept climbing, and my palms were sweaty. I nibbled on my lips nervously. For some reason, the plan I had come up with and executed with so much confidence was making me feel uncomfortable, and I feared that I might be taking things too far.

The smell of his strong perfume, which I would have loved if he wasn’t the one wearing it, announced his arrival in the sitting room, where I was in my night robe, staring intently at the TV. I mumbled a greeting, and he did the same.

He asked how my night was, and I gave no response. The atmosphere in the sitting room was thick as usual. It was quiet, except for the sound emanating from the TV, but you could tell there was some sort of tension between us.

We barely had anything to say to each other. Left for me, I would not so much as want to see him, but he demanded that I be downstairs every morning before he left the house, and I was only being obedient.

My eyes were fixed on the reporter, but from the corner of my eyes, I watched as he sauntered towards the dining table, where the chef was waiting to take his orders. I took slow steps to the dining table and sat on the seat across from him. I forgot to mention that he also instructed me to watch him eat every day.

The chef, a petite woman who could be in her mid-fifties or a couple of years less, made to leave after she had gotten Isak’s order, but I stopped her. Without taking my eyes off Isak, I asked to be served breakfast as well.

It came as a shock to her and Isak because I usually would not eat at the same time Isak does, but today was a good day—the day I'd be free from the bondage I was in—and I deserved to eat and make merry.

He looked at me, curiosity etched on his brows, probably wondering why I had a sudden change of mind. I shrugged my shoulders and smirked at him, my eyes still on his. About five minutes later, the chef and two maids waltzed in with trays of food and were instructed to place them on the table.

The chef made sure to dish the food out, and I politely told her not to. He was my husband, and I wanted to take care of him like a dutiful wife should, at least for the last time before either of us parted ways with the other.

She looked at Isak as if to be sure, and he held his hand up as a sign of his approval. I grinned at her as she retreated into the kitchen. I adjusted my seat and walked the length of the golden table to where he was seated.

Our eyes were locked on each other’s. Mine probably had an unusual glint that made him think I was up to some mischief, while his—I loved the uncertainty in his. I'd be scared if the tables were turned, so I blamed him.

I dished some pancakes onto his plate, poured some tea into his teacup, and placed it on the saucer by his plate. I did the same for myself and took them with me to my end of the dining table. I closed my eyes, said a few words of prayer, and was about to eat when I noticed he had yet to begin eating.

I bent my head to the side as if to ask if he needed anything, but he said nothing. I shrugged and took a slice of my pancake. That was when he began to eat. How foolish!

A smile played on the corner of my lips when he took the first bite, and I felt some sort of excitement in my chest. In a few months, we were going to be married for two years, and it was the first time it seemed like I had the upper hand.

He was always the bully, and I was his victim. But it was different—a beautiful, cold morning. I didn’t have to scream the roof down like he would or make threats. I didn’t even have to utter a single word, but I could see the sweat breaking out on his forehead, and it was a sight I'd give anything to watch again and again.

Halfway into our meal, I excused myself to go to the sitting room, and I was back in my seat in seconds, a large envelope in hand. Once I settled back in my seat, I tossed the envelope across the table.

“That came in for you this morning,” I said. This time, my voice was audible enough for him to hear. He raised his brows at me as if to ask what it was. “I don’t know. I didn’t open it since it was addressed to you.”

He dabbed at his lips with a napkin and stretched to get the envelope from the table, almost spilling some tea on himself. I was unconcerned. He hissed once he was seated and yanked the envelope open while sending occasional glares across to me.

I was done with my pancakes, so I had my cup of tea in between my palms, easing the cold that was seeping through the slightly opened window into my skin. It was a myriad of emotions for him as he stared at the content of the envelope.

His brows creased in confusion, then his eyes popped as if threatening to disconnect from their sockets. His free hand folded into a fist, and the veins on the side of his head began to pop.

I had a wide smile by the time he fixed his gaze on me, and I could swear that I had never been that fulfilled in my entire life.

My work was done, and I was willing to bear whatever consequence it'd attract.