Chapter 1: His Contempt
The darkness in the room was absolute, a suffocating blanket under which Aria Thorne lay with her eyes wide open. He moved above her with a brutal efficiency that made her clench her jaw, a familiar rhythm of resentment.
Aria knew this wasn't about passion. It was a release. An exorcism of his frustration, his anger, all of it directed at her. Their two-year marriage was a hollow shell, a fact he reinforced with every loveless encounter. Even now, drunk as he was, Julian had methodically turned off every light before coming to her bed.
Because, as he’d so often reminded her, the sight of her was repulsive to him.
"You make me sick, Aria."
"What's wrong? I thought you were so clever," his voice, a venomous whisper in the dark, had taunted her on another night just like this. "Surely you know the bedroom is the best place to earn my favor?"
The memory of the humiliation, sharp and acidic, sparked something reckless within her tonight. A flicker of mad defiance.
In the next moment, her arms, slender and pale in the gloom, rose of their own accord. Her fingers, tentative at first, traced a feather-light path against the hard planes of his back.
Julian’s rhythm stuttered for a fraction of a second before he resumed, his movements becoming rougher, more frantic. A desperate, punishing energy consumed them both.
Aria had grown accustomed to this ritual over the past two years. He only ever came to her after drinking, and once his "duty" was done, he wouldn't spare her a second glance. His words, a litany of cruelty, echoed in her mind.
"How can a woman with a soul as black as yours even stand to live in this world?"
"Don't turn on the lights. I don't want to see your face."
"Don't be delusional. Neither I nor Vivienne will ever forgive you."
When he finally finished, he rolled away without a word. Silence descended. Aria turned on her side, inching quietly across the vast emptiness of the bed. A sliver of moonlight, slicing through a gap in the curtains, outlined the powerful silhouette of Julian’s back.
She couldn’t help it. She lifted her left hand, her fingers hovering in the air as if to trace his shape, to commit it to memory. Then, slowly, she began to lower her hand toward the small of his back.
Just once, she wanted to feel his warmth when it wasn't tainted by anger.
Her hand drifted downwards, a silent, agonizing descent. Millimeters away from contact, the quiet was shattered by a voice laced with ice. It jolted her to her core.
"Get your hand off me, Aria. Have you no shame?"
Her hand froze, suspended in the space between them.
She knew this would be the outcome. She always knew. Yet the fool in her heart never stopped hoping. A dull ache spread through her arm, but it was nothing compared to the sharp, splintering pain in her chest.
Today was their second wedding anniversary.
Clearly, he didn't remember.
