Without a second thought, I marched into the master bedroom, grabbed the silver stilettos, and went back into the kitchen in search of a sharp knife or scissors—something, anything to ruin them, to get my aggression out, to prove to him that one tiny conversation where he pretended to find me attractive in blue flats wasn’t going to erase years of emotional duress and pain.
My eyes flashed to the kitchen shears. I grabbed them with my right hand and started cutting at the heel. It didn’t come off, but it did create huge slashes and slices. Frustrated, I dropped the scissors and banged the heels against the edge of the granite counter.
One of the heels broke off, dangling in my right hand while I held the other heel high in the air ready to do the same.
“Is this new?” came Julian’s calm voice.
Of course he would be calm, he was always calm, never raised his voice, never hurt me, but sometimes I wished he would, so I had proof, so I could show someone, Look, this is the cut he gave me from when I didn’t wear the right outfit, that bruise on my cheek is from the day I forgot to bring his dry cleaning and wear the new pair of heels he’d just purchased from the buyer we were meeting at Saks.
Julian’s warfare was in his silence. His inaction.
And it felt like knives slicing me open every single time I got one of his disappointed stares or squeezes.
No, he didn’t hurt me.
He emotionally abused me.
And I always justified coming back for more.
My left hand was still lifted high when I felt him behind me. A chill washed over me when his hand touched my skin where my thumb met the shoe, his other hand moved to my right hip, holding me there. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the worst, waiting for him to tell me I was overreacting or being ridiculous. Waiting for him to be disappointed in my outlandish behavior.
The words never came.
Instead, he very slowly pulled the shoe from my hand and rested his chin on the top of my head, pulling me back against his strong chest.
It didn’t feel familiar.
Maybe because it had been so long.
It was almost as if a stranger was holding me, rocking me back and forth. Everything about him felt bigger. I had to keep telling myself it was bandages and swollen muscles, really swollen muscles.
I tried to keep my tears in and was successful, until he very quietly asked me one question that I didn’t realize would be my breaking point.
“Are you okay?”
“I haven’t been okay,” I hiccupped, “in a really long time, which you would know if you ever even paid attention to me. I have to make an appointment to even see you at your office. And these shoes?” I was really losing it, losing it. I pointed at them with shaky hands. “Were on our maid. She was naked in the bed I share with you. Naked waiting for you with her legs high in the air like you were getting ready to play some sort of sexual Hunger Games!”
He stiffened and bit out a curse.
Good. Let him be upset. I was screwed already. Why not keep going? The entire Tennyson kingdom was going to come crashing down on my head. I was dead already, wasn’t I?
Never good enough.
Not for them.
A complete imposter.
They would enjoy my fall.
I should get them popcorn for the big show.
These were all the things going through my head when Julian turned me in his arms and let out a long sigh.
There it was, the disappointment. I felt it like a blow to the chest.
The words didn’t come, though.
He just sighed again and held me against his chest.
He smelled like his favorite body wash, the one I used to use when he was traveling. The one I once smelled on his stepmother, thinking I was imagining things.
“I think,” Julian said slowly, “that you need to rest.”
I rolled my eyes and pulled away. “I’m not a toddler. I don’t need a nap.”
“You’re mutilating expensive”—he waved his fingers at the shoes like he didn’t know the brand—“heels.” Great, now he was pretending not to care about designers. The effects of narcotics and head wounds, folks.
“They’re tarnished,” I said through clenched teeth all the while wondering why he was staring at the shoes like he’d never seen them before when he’s the one who bought them.
He stared me down, his green-eyed gaze intense, like his only focus was me, which only meant he was probably daydreaming about dollar signs and giant fake breasts. “Alright, I guess if they’re tarnished you should probably do it right.”
“Do what right?”
He grabbed the shoe that was still intact and broke off the heel like a cracker, then placed it on the counter, pulled a knife I wasn’t even aware he was carrying out of his pocket, and started cutting the fabric until all that was left was a sole and a few sparkles. “Better?”