Beauty in the Broken

Lina

After the incident, I avoid Damian. It’s not difficult. He’s gone for business every day, returning late at night. He doesn’t cuff me to the bed, but I often wake with his heavy arm draped over my stomach, tying me to the heat of his body. Afraid to wake him, or more accurately, his sinister lust, I never stir. I endure the discomfort and the itch to change positions. I listen to his breathing, inhale his male scent, and remember what he’s done. When I think about how intimately his hands have touched me and what those hands are capable of, a shiver always finds its way from my cold insides to the overheated surface of my skin.

Like I’m avoiding my husband, Zane avoids me. Russell pretends I don’t exist. Except for a formal greeting or a stiff reply to a question, he doesn’t speak to me. He does nothing but follow me around with a small distance in physical space and a growing distance on an intangible level. I don’t see much of Anne, either, who is too busy going to make-up and hairdressing trials for Saturday’s wedding reception.

As the house is slowly being transformed into a gala venue, I grow more nervous. Facing a room full of people for hours on end with a poker face is not on the top of my list of enjoyable experiences. The media will be here. Photos will be taken. I’ll have to play the role of someone I’m not and wear a mask among people who believe the worst of me. I’ll have to pretend I don’t hear the whispers, the allegations, and the musings about how crazy I am. In a room full of enemies, my husband being the greatest, I won’t be able to let my guard down for a second.

In the build-up to the unwanted event, I search the house from top to bottom, but the evidence is nowhere to be found. Since Damian made a point of not inviting Harold to the party, sending a strong message to the speculating media, I don’t have to deal with Harold yet, but I prefer to get my hands on those documents sooner than later. I’m prepared to make the sacrifice for the prize they’ll buy me. What are three fingers in exchange for freedom?

Saturday arrives too soon. Caterers, waiters, and cleaners mill around the house. I seek refuge in the kitchen where Jana prepares a pot of chamomile tea, as if it’ll soothe me.

“I know you’re nervous,” she says, winking.

I am, but not for the reason she presumes. I’m not a blushing bride worried about what can go wrong at her wedding party.

“Everything will be perfect.” She checks her watch. “You better get ready if you don’t want to be late.”

“Are you staying?” I hold my breath, praying she’ll say yes.

“No can do. It’s pizza night with the kids.”

“Of course.” I offer her a meek smile. “Have fun.”

A selfish part of me wants her to stay so that I have a friendly face to anchor me, but Jana has her own family to take care of.

Pouring another cup of tea, I carry it upstairs and get ready like Jana suggested. It’s a lot like our wedding ritual, with me emptying my stomach in the toilet before pulling on a black dress. It’s a simple cut with a long skirt and high neck, the silk more charcoal than black. Harold bought it for me to wear to Jack’s funeral when I was too drugged to get out of bed and take care of such a simple task.

The ringing of the doorbell makes my stomach tighten. The stomping of steps on the stairs makes my skin clammy.

Zane puts his head around the open door. Dressed in a tux and bowtie, he would’ve been handsome if not for the personality that taints his exterior looks. His gaze flickers disapprovingly over me. “The first guests have arrived.”

I don’t skip a beat, fitting an earring as if I’m not fazed. “They’re early.” And Damian is late.

“The waiters are offering them drinks. I suggest you move your ass. Dami will be here in five.”

When he leaves, I notice Russell in the corridor, guarding the bedroom door. He’s staring straight ahead, as if he’ll turn into a pillar of salt if he glances into the room.

Ignoring the increasing amount of voices coming from downstairs, I twist my hair into a tight bun and apply light make-up. The cosmetics aren’t to look pretty, but to mask the paleness of my lips and cheeks. I’m applying lipstick when I hear my husband offer Russell a greeting.

Automatically, my hand holding the lipstick stills. Three heartbeats later, Damian’s image appears in the reflection of the mirror. He stops on the threshold of the dressing room, taking me in. With one hand in his pocket and a finger hooked into the hanger of a dry-cleaning bag that hangs over his shoulder, his stance is casual, but there’s nothing laid-back about his stare that seems to peel off my very skin. Like Zane, he’s dressed in a tux. The fact that his thick hair is still damp means he recently had a shower. Where did he get changed? At the office?