Don't look for me. We're done. Sebastian had read the note so many times the words no longer looked like words. Just six shapes on crumpled paper, creased where his fist had closed around it. He smoothed it flat against the table. Read it again. Behind him, the housemaids stood in a line against the wall, heads lowered, not breathing loud enough to be noticed. Nobody had spoken since he walked in and found the wardrobe half empty and her side of the bed untouched. Nobody except the glass. He picked one up from the table and threw it. It shattered against the wall, and one of the younger maids flinched. "Who touched my things?" The maids exchanged glances. None of them answered. He picked up another glass. "I asked a question." "Sir-" The youngest one's voice cracked. "I don't know what happened." He turned to her slowly. "You don't know." She shook her head. He stared at her until she looked down. Then he looked around the room again, his chest rising and falling too fast, and pulled out his phone. He called Isabella. Voicemail. He called again. Nothing. "Pick up." He walked to the window and tried a third time. The city glittered below him, indifferent, and somewhere in it she was walking around with his name on her and no intention of coming back. Four years. Four years under his roof, his rules. And she had left him a note. He opened their messages and typed."Where are you?" He stared at it. Deleted it. He wasn't going to beg his own wife to come home. If Isabella thought she could walk out of his life, she was mistaken. He would find her. He always found what belonged to him. He just didn't know where she had gone yet. And for the first time in four years, he had no way of making her do what he wanted. He didn't know how long he stood at the window. Long enough for the maids to start breathing again behind him. Long enough for the city to blur into streaks of light he stopped seeing. Then the memory came - the way it always did when he thought about her. Uninvited. Unwelcome. --- Three years earlier. Derrick's residence. "Sebastian, please!" Isabella struggled to keep up as he dragged her away from the ballroom. She held the side of her gown with her free hand to keep from tripping. "Sebastian!" He released her arm when they reached the courtyard. She stumbled a step, caught herself, and pressed her palm against the spot where his fingers had been. "What do you think you're doing?" he demanded. "What did I do?" He stared at her like she had embarrassed him on purpose. "What made you think I brought you here so you could behave however you wanted?" She looked back towards the ballroom. The guests were still celebrating Derrick's wife's birthday, music spilling out through the open doors, laughter drifting across the courtyard like it belonged to a different evening entirely. She had spent most of the night trying to make herself small enough to be comfortable. She didn't know these people. She didn't know their rules. She had thought speaking to Mrs. Lisa would make the evening less unbearable. Instead, it had brought her here. "I was talking to Mrs. Lisa," she said. "I don't understand why you're angry." "Mrs. Lisa?" He laughed, and the sound had nothing warm in it. "And what exactly do you think you have in common with her?" "I was only having a conversation." "Do you even understand who that woman is? She controls one of the biggest technology empires in this country. She associates with families you can only dream of being part of." He stepped closer. Close enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep looking at him. "Comparing you to her is an insult. Know your place, Isabella. You're my wife. Not someone who belongs in her circle." She looked at him and tried to find the man she had married somewhere in his face. She couldn't. "Why do you always do this?" she asked. "I didn't ask her for anything. We were just talking." "I don't care." "Then why did you bring me here if you don't want me to speak to anyone?" Something shifted behind his eyes. She saw it happen and knew she should stop. "Watch what you say to me." She swallowed. And for the first time in three years, she didn't immediately apologize. Because she had learned. She had learned to measure every word before she said it. She had learned that a disagreement could ruin an entire evening, and that refusing to follow his instructions could buy her days of insults and accusations and silences that lasted longer than the arguments themselves. Money had become another leash. He monitored what she spent. He made sure the accounts she needed were always just out of reach without him. Whenever she thought about leaving, she remembered how little of her own life actually belonged to her. But tonight, she was tired. "I've tolerated enough of this," she said. "I came here because you asked me to. I spoke to someone, and you dragged me out like I'd committed a crime." He stared at her. "Are you talking back to me?" "I'm telling you what happened." "Don't forget who you're talking to." She looked away. Steadied herself. When she looked back, her voice was quieter - not because she was afraid, but because she had decided something. "I want to go home." She turned and walked towards the entrance. Sebastian watched her go. He couldn't believe she had dared to walk away while he was still speaking. "Unbelievable," he muttered. He pulled out his phone and checked the time. He had no intention of staying at Derrick's after what had happened. When he got home, Isabella would explain herself. He was certain of that. --- ISABELLA. Her name echoed through the house when he returned. He slammed the door behind him and loosened his tie. "Where are you?" A few seconds later, she appeared at the top of the stairs. She had changed into a red nightgown, her hair loose over her shoulders. "What?" she asked. He looked at her in disbelief. "What do you mean, what? You embarrassed me at Derrick's house, and now you're acting like nothing happened?" "I didn't embarrass you. I spoke to someone, and you dragged me away in front of everyone." "You should have known better." "Known better than what? Talking to another woman?" "Watch your mouth." She gripped the railing. "Or what, Sebastian? What are you going to do? Insult me again? Remind me I don't belong among your friends?" He walked towards the stairs. "Have you forgotten who provides everything for you?" "No. I haven't forgotten. You remind me every day." The words came out before she could stop them. He paused on the bottom step. She had disagreed with him before. But she had always backed down when his anger became too much to manage. Tonight, she wasn't doing that. He climbed the remaining steps and stopped in front of her. "Repeat what you just said." Her fingers tightened on the railing. "You heard me." He grabbed her by the throat and shoved her against the wall. She gasped. Her hands flew to his wrist. "Sebastian - let me go!" His grip tightened. "Have you forgotten who you're talking to?" She clawed at his hand. He was stronger. He was always stronger. "You're hurting me." For a moment ,one moment ,something flickered across his face. Then it was gone, and he released her. She stumbled forward, coughing, both hands at her throat. He adjusted his shirt. "Next time, think before you speak to me." He turned and walked away. She stayed where she was, trying to breathe. She could hear him moving around their bedroom, opening drawers, behaving like nothing had happened. She touched her throat. Something had changed. She had spent years trying to understand him. Making excuses for him. Convincing herself that if she were only more patient, more careful, more something, things might improve. But he had just put his hands around her throat because she refused to accept one more insult. What would happen the next time she disagreed with him? She didn't have an answer. Instead of following him into the bedroom, she went downstairs and sat in the living room. She opened Rachael's contact and hovered her thumb over the call button. She wanted to tell her friend what had happened. But she had hidden so much of her marriage that she didn't know where to start. After a few seconds, she locked the phone. Tomorrow. She would speak to Rachael tomorrow. She couldn't keep pretending everything was fine. --- Later that night, she returned to the bedroom. Her eyes settled on the wedding photograph on the wall. She remembered how happy she had been that day. How sure she had been that she had found someone who would love her, protect her, keep her safe. She walked over and took the photograph down. Sebastian's smile looked like a stranger's now. She set it on the dressing table instead of hanging it back up. Then she opened her wardrobe and looked at her clothes. For the first time, she didn't wonder how to make her marriage work. She wondered how to leave it. The thought frightened her. She had no plan. Sebastian had made sure her life depended on him in more ways than she wanted to admit. But she couldn't ignore what had happened tonight. She sat on the edge of the bed and took out her phone. This time, she sent Rachael a message. Can we talk tomorrow?I need your help. She placed the phone beside her and lay dow n without waiting for a reply. She didn't know how she would leave him. Or what he would do when she tried. But she knew one thing. She could no longer live as though being his wife gave him the right to hurt her.

Isabella woke to her alarm and reached for her phone. Seven forty. She sat up fast. Sebastian expected his clothes ready before he came downstairs, and he never tolerated being kept waiting. In the bathroom, she washed her face and brushed her teeth. Then she looked in the mirror. The marks on her neck had darkened overnight. Faint purple fingerprints, pressed into the skin like a signature. She touched them gently. They ached. For a moment she considered covering them with makeup. The housemaids didn't need to see. Nobody did. She finished getting ready and returned to the bedroom. By the time she had laid out his white shirt, black trousers, and wristwatch on the bed, it was almost eight. The door opened. Sebastian walked in, eyes on his phone. "Where are my clothes?" "On the bed." He glanced at them, then at her. "Prepare my breakfast." She turned towards the door. "Isabella." She stopped. "No scenes like yesterday. We're having dinner at Derrick's tonight, and I expect you to behave." She looked back at him. "We just attended his wife's birthday." He lowered the phone. "Your point?" "Nothing. I was only asking." "Then stop asking unnecessary questions and do what you're told." She left without answering. She had barely reached the kitchen when her phone buzzed. Rachael. Can we meet today? I really want to see you. Isabella read it twice. She wanted to see her. She also knew what Sebastian would say if she asked. She typed back: I'll meet you this afternoon. Then she put the phone away and started on breakfast. ---- She had just finished setting the table when he came in and sat down. He picked up his fork, took one sip of coffee, and set the cup down. "Why is the coffee cold?" "I'm sorry. I'll make another." She reached for the cup. He moved it out of her reach. "Leave it." She stood beside the table while he ate. After a while, he looked up. "You're quiet today." "I'm tired." "From what? Staying at home?" She didn't answer. He went back to his meal, and she took the chance to leave. In the kitchen, she checked her phone again. Rachael had written back. Isabella, whatever it is, you can tell me. I'm your friend. She read it slowly. For years she had told herself that keeping quiet protected her marriage. All it had done was isolate her. Nobody knew what happened behind the doors of this house. She wanted to tell Rachael everything. She was also afraid of what Sebastian would do if he found out. She was still staring at the screen when a voice came from the doorway. "Who are you talking to?" She turned. Sebastian stood there, eyes fixed on the phone in her hand. "I asked you a question." "I'm not talking to anyone. I was reading a message." "From whom?" "Rachael." He held out his hand. "Give me your phone." She stared at him. "Why?" His expression hardened. "Did you just ask me why?" "It's my phone, Sebastian." Neither of them moved. He stepped closer and held out his hand again. "Give it to me." She looked down at the screen. Rachael's messages were still there. She could hand it over. That was what she usually did - hand it over, apologize, wait for him to calm down, and pretend the rest of the day hadn't happened. But if she handed it over, he would read everything. He would stop her from seeing Rachael. He might stop her from seeing anyone. "No!," she said. The word surprised her as much as it surprised him. "What did you say?" "I said it's my phone. You have no reason to read my messages." He reached for it. She pulled her hand back. "Don't make this difficult," he warned. "I'm not doing anything wrong." "Then why are you acting like you have something to hide?" "Because you never let me have anything to myself." Her voice rose before she could stop it. Sebastian glanced towards the dining room, then back at her. "Lower your voice." She swallowed. She knew that look. She had seen it before ,always right before he found a new way to make her regret disagreeing with him. She didn't hand over the phone. She put it in her pocket instead. "If you want to know something, ask me. Don't expect me to give you everything just because we're married." He said nothing for a moment. Then he laughed. Short. Humourless. "You seem to be forgetting yourself lately." He turned and walked out. Isabella stayed where she was, her heart pounding. She hadn't won anything. He was still her husband. She still had to live with the consequences of challenging him. But she had kept her phone. She took it out and opened Rachael's messages. I'll meet you this afternoon, she typed. She sent it, put the phone away, and went back to the kitchen. She didn't know how she would explain any of this to Rachael. She didn't know what would happen if Sebastian found out she was asking for help. But she couldn't keep pretending everything was fine. The marriage had cost her more than she had expected. Her money. Her privacy. The freedom to speak without first checking how he would react. She didn't know how to get any of it back yet. But she was beginning to understand that she had to try.

Isabella slipped her phone into her pocket and left the kitchen. She had promised herself she would meet Rachael that afternoon. Now she had to figure out how to leave the house without Sebastian asking where she was going. She was still thinking about it when he called from the dining room. "Isabella." She walked back. "Yes?" "Where is my breakfast? Where's the coffee?" "I'll bring it now." In the kitchen, her hands were still trembling from their argument. She arranged his food on a silver tray, steadied herself, and carried it into the dining room. "Here," she said quietly. She set the tray down and lifted the cup and plate onto the table. He didn't look up. He kept scrolling through his phone, typing, eating, as though she weren't standing beside him. "You can go," he said, eyes still on the screen. "Get ready. The designer is coming at twelve with your dress for tonight." "Okay." She turned and left before he could add anything else. --- Upstairs, she closed the door of her dressing room and leaned her back against it. Her legs gave out slowly, and she slid down until she was sitting on the floor. The room was quiet. A soft breeze moved through the open window. Outside, birds crossed the sky, indifferent to everything happening below them. She bent her head over her knees. "This wasn't the life I planned for myself."She whispered it, barely loud enough to hear. After a while, she stood and walked to the vanity mirror. She pulled down the collar of her shirt. The marks had darkened. Faint purple now, the shape of fingers. She touched them. They ached. She looked into her own eyes and felt two things at once, anger, and something worse. A quiet, creeping doubt. Sebastian had spent the whole morning acting as though nothing had happened. As though she had imagined the ballroom, the drive home, the hand at her throat. A knock at the door. Isabella pulled her collar up and turned. "Come in." One of the maids stepped inside, head bowed. "Mr. Sebastian asked what's keeping you." Isabella looked at the clock. 11:28. Her stomach dropped. "Tell him I'll be down in a few minutes." Her hands were shaking. She tried to steady them and failed. "Wait." She reached out. "Please. Tell him I was in the bathroom. Tell him I was finished and just handling something personal. You understand?" The maid looked at her hands. Then at her face. Then at her collar, where the marks sat just below the fabric. Something passed across the maid's expression not pity exactly. Recognition. "Don't worry, ma'am. I'll tell him." "Thank you." The maid left, closing the door softly. Isabella turned to her closet and pulled out a silk blouse with a high neckline. She put on a matching skirt and brushed her hair without looking in the mirror, because she didn't want to see her own face. The brush slipped from her fingers. She picked it up and tried again. --- When she came down the long hallway of the penthouse, the silence made her uneasy. She reached the top of the staircase and looked down. Sebastian stood by the window with his hands in his pockets, watching the city. He looked calm. She knew how quickly that could change. Her heels clicked against the marble as she descended. He turned. He didn't look angry. A smile spread across his face handsome, easy, the smile from their wedding photograph as if he hadn't gripped her chin that morning and accused her of having a poor memory. He walked to the bottom of the stairs and stopped on the last step. He extended his hand to help her down. Isabella froze one step above him. She looked at his open palm. This was the same hand. The same fingers. She could still feel them. She took it. Because she had to. Because the designer was coming at two, and dinner at Derrick's was tonight, and she was still the wife of Sebastian Vance. His fingers closed around hers, gentle now, and he guided her down the last step. Then he let go and checked his watch. "The designer will be here in ten minutes," he said. "Be ready." He walked away. Isabella stood at the bottom of the stairs and breathed. In few minutes, The front door opened. Two maids entered, followed by a tall woman dressed in a black blazer. Behind them, two assistants pushed a clothing rack covered with garment bags. The designer had arrived. "Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Sebastian," she greeted them. "I've brought the gowns you requested for tonight's dinner." "Excellent." Sebastian turned towards the living room without releasing Isabella's hand. "My wife needs something flawless. Let's see what you've brought." They moved into the living room, where the assistants positioned the clothing rack beside the sofa. The designer unzipped the first garment bag and removed a red silk dress. "This is one of our latest designs," she explained. "It has a turtle neck and an open back. The cut is elegant, and I believe it would suit Mrs. Sebastian perfectly." Isabella stared at the dress. Finally a dress that wouldn't expose the purple marks on her neck, leaving little room for her to hide what Sebastian had done. She glanced at him, hoping he wouldn't choose something else, but he examined the gown with interest. "It's beautiful," he said. Then he looked at her. "Go try it on, Isabella." "Okay" The designer looked between them. She took the dress into the fitting room and changed. The designer smiled when Isabella stepped into the living room. "Beautiful. The dress fits you perfectly." Sebastian rose from the sofa. --- The designer came and left. The dress was red ,Sebastian's choice, not hers and she wore it without comment. By the time the car pulled out of the garage, the afternoon had thinned into evening. She had one thing left to do, and she did it in the back seat, while Sebastian answered emails on his phone. She opened Rachael's messages and typed: I can't meet today. Tomorrow. Same place. 10 a.m. She sent it and locked the phone before he could glance over. Tomorrow she would find a way. --- The next morning - At Café Lumen Rachael was already at a corner table when Isabella walked in, and she stood up the moment she saw her. "You came." "I said I would." They sat. Rachael ordered for both of them a cappuccino for herself, a chai for Isabella, because she remembered. Then she folded her hands on the table and looked at Isabella properly. "It's been four months." "I know." "Four months, Isabella. I've invited you out twelve times." "I know." Rachael's mouth tightened. She reached across and took Isabella's wrist. "What's going on?" Isabella looked at the table. She had rehearsed this. She had practiced the sentence in the mirror that morning while Sebastian was in the shower. She had thought, if she could just say the first line, the rest would follow. She couldn't say the first line. "I've been busy," she said. Rachael let go of her wrist and sat back. "Okay." "It's true." "I didn't say it wasn't." The chai arrived. Isabella wrapped both hands around the cup and held it, because her hands were cold and because it gave her something to do. Rachael watched her. "You look thin." "I'm fine." "You're wearing a scarf in June." Isabella's fingers tightened around the cup. Rachael's voice dropped. "Isabella. Take off the scarf." "I'm cold." "You're not cold." Isabella didn't move. Rachael leaned forward and gently, slowly, reached across and touched the edge of the silk at Isabella's throat. She didn't pull it down. She didn't need to. She had already seen the small purple edge peeking above the fabric. She sat back. Neither of them spoke. Then Rachael said, very quietly, "How long?" Isabella opened her mouth. Closed it. "How long?" Rachael asked again. "It isn't -" "Don't." Isabella stopped. Rachael's eyes were wet but her voice was steady. "Don't tell me it isn't anything. Don't tell me you walked into a door. Don't tell me you're clumsy. I've known you since we were nineteen, and I know what a bruise looks like and I know what that looks like. So please. Don't." Isabella's chin began to tremble. She looked away, towards the window, towards the street where a man in a grey coat was walking past with a dog and a coffee, living a life she couldn't imagine. "Four years," she said. Rachael didn't flinch. "Four years?" "It wasn't always like this. In the beginning -" "I don't care about the beginning." Isabella looked back at her. "I don't know when it started," she said. "I don't know how to explain it. It happened slowly. First he was just particular. About who I talked to. About where I went. Then he started checking my phone. Then the money got complicated. Then he started telling me I remembered things wrong." She paused. Rachael stared at her."The bruises are his fault." "Yes."Isabella muttered. "The marks on your neck are his fault." "Yes." "Say it." Isabella's voice cracked. "They're his fault." Rachael reached across the table and took her hand. She held it. "Okay," she said. "Here's what we're going to do." "Rachael -" "First, you're not going back tonight." "I have to go back." "No." "You don't understand. If I don't go back -" "Then he comes looking. I know." Rachael's jaw tightened "But if you go back, he'll do it again. You know that. He'll do it again, and next time it might be worse, and I'm not going to sit here and drink chai with you while you pretend you have time." Isabella's eyes got filled with tears.