Beauty in the Broken

He gives me a half-smile. “Pee? Yes, I am.”

What the…? Oh, my God. Angry heat warms my cheeks. The old shame creeps up on me. My face burns with humiliation. He’s standing guard, making sure I don’t barf my expensive meal. Pushing past him, I fling back the door to shut it, but he catches it with a palm.

“The door stays open.”

I’m so angry I’m shaking. Facing him squarely, I let all the bitter loathing show on my face as I wiggle my panties down under the tight skirt of my dress. It’s my turn to watch him as I relieve myself, balancing gingerly in the air, but he’s immune to intimidation. He hands me a wad of paper from the dispenser when I’m done, which I yank from his hand. The smirk on his face stays intact as I adjust my clothes and wash my hands. Two women come in while I’m busy. Their smiles turn knowing as their eyes roam appreciatively over Damian where he stands waiting for me. The vexation he ignites overrides every other emotion, so much so that I forget to be nervous until we arrive at Damian’s home.

It’s already dark, but the neighborhood is well lit. I swallow a gasp when we pull up to a large property. Where did Damian get the money to afford a place like this? He went to prison with the same thin shirt he’d worn to Harold’s dinner party. How does a man make money from behind bars? His house is an imposing Victorian structure on a hill in Erasmuskloof, an upmarket suburb of Pretoria. Hidden behind high walls and an electronic gate, it’s three stories high with a tower hugging each end. A porch runs right around. The front windows are wide and high, light shining from every one of them.

A guard waits on the steps. When the driver parks, the guard opens my door and helps me from the car. Knowing what’s to come, my nerves shatter. I clutch my bag so hard it feels as if my fingers may snap. Damian puts a hand on my lower back, guiding me up the stairs and through the front door. A redwood staircase frames either side of the entrance. In the middle of the floor, under a skylight, stands a table with a huge bouquet of flowers. With wooden wall panels and oriental carpets, the interior is either gloomy or cozy, depending on which side of Damian you are on. As he nods at the guard who followed us inside, I assume I’m not on his good side. The guard takes my clutch bag, clips it open, and turns it upside-down on the table. The content clatters onto the top, the tampons rolling off the edge. I stand stoically, as if it’s normal for any groom to search his bride’s bag, but the heat under my skin tells me I’m turning pink.

Damian stands equally motionless, waiting patiently as the guard checks my phone, pills, and even the travel-size packet of tissues. The guard pockets my phone and bends to retrieve the tampons. When he’s packed everything back, he hands me my bag.

Under my cutting look, he lowers his eyes. Without a word exchanged, he takes up a position by the door.

“Come.” Damian makes his way to the stairs.

For a second, I hesitate. I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to go through with what’s going to happen. For a crazy, heart-racing moment, I consider making a run for the door on the left, but where will I run? I’m trapped in Damian’s house—my new home—with his guard blocking the front door.

Damian stops and turns. He regards me with a disturbing light in those bitter chocolate colored eyes, an expression I can’t decipher. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that it hurts worse when you resist. Forcing my feet to obey, I walk to my husband, coming to a stop in front of him. I’m not rewarded for my obedience. No approving light or victorious smile transforms his features. Then I really get scared, because all I see in his dark eyes are disapproval and suppressed anger. It pierces me like an arrow through the ribs. Damian is furious. He controls it well, and that frightens me more.

My fear escalates with every stair we mount, my heels sinking into the plush carpet. On the landing, we turn left. He opens the first door and steps aside for me to enter. I walk into the room as if there’s nothing to be frightened of, keeping my back straight and my shoulders square while my insides shake. The walls are lined with shelves and filled with books. Two armchairs face a fireplace, and a desk stands in the far corner. It’s not where I expected him to bring me.

Leaving me to stand in the middle of the room, he walks to a liquor tray and pours a whisky. He surprises me again by carrying it to me and putting the glass in my hand.