Tonight, we kill our husbands

CHAPTER ONE

EMILY’S POV

“You’re the worst thing that ever happened to me! You call yourself a woman? No you’re not, you’re a witch sent to wreck my life.” These are the words of the man I call ‘husband’. I used to believe that houses had a way of remembering. Ours certainly does. Every polished floorboard, every heavy velvet curtain seems to carry the echo of raised voices, the sting of words, and thrown fist. When I walk the hall at night, I feel as though the walls themselves are watching me, recording everything I cannot say aloud.

My name is Emily Hart, and I’m the perfect wife, or at least, this is what they see. Over the years, I have learned to stay quiet and let my husband lead. He hasn’t returned the favor by the way, because he leads with an iron fist. I walk around my marital home in eggshells, trying not to piss off Mr. Andrew Hart - the man who swore he couldn’t live without me, but seems to get his daily high from pummeling me. I know too well how to smile through the pain. I have the finest of silk and linen, the best designer clothes to mask my bruises. I have perfected the art of covering up scars with concealers and heavy makeup. No one has to know, no one needs to know that Andrew is a pathetic human.

Tonight is no different. Andrew has invited the Roosevelts. One of the richest families in Eastern London. It’s past nine and no one has shown up yet. I’m not new to the tardiness of rich folks, I’m one myself. Kate and her husband, James have arrived. They look like couples from a romantic movie. The purple robe around Kate’s neck is a limited edition, even I can’t afford something like that. The way she carries herself, so much grace, so much elegance. James assists her as she gets out of the car. “Emily, darling,” she says, kissing my cheek. I catch a whiff of her perfume. It is strong, sharp, the kind that lingers after she has passed. “You look lovely,” I reply, putting up a half-hearted smile. She gives me a look, as though she understood what I’d just done, as though she knew what was going on. “Don’t flatter her too much,” James calls as he steps into the hall, shaking Andrew’s hands. “She’ll start to think she outshone you.” They both share a laugh and Andrew invites them to the dinner table. Ever since we moved out here, Andrew has made it a habit of inviting the Roosevelts over. He is aspiring to be mayor and boy does he know how to play the long game.

“Sit, dinner’s served,” Andrew gestures, opening a seat for me. I roll my eyes in exasperation. I want to scream so badly. I want to say, “This is not you, you’re only putting up an act.” “Emily, are you okay?” Kate draws me back from my ruminations. “She’s fine,” Andrew responds before I can mutter a word. He does a good job keeping me silent. It’s as though he fears the weight of my words, what I could reveal, and what that would do to the reputation he has built over the years.

My chef has outdone himself. The dinner table is filled with the most exotic of meals. As I place the napkin over my lap, Kate and I exchange glances. Plates were clinking and mouths muttering, and as usual, the conversation was being monopolized by the men. “Absorbing Wentworth & Sons was the smartest move I’ve made this year,” James declares, bragging about his latest acquisition. “They’ll double my return in six months, mark my words,” he grins, raising his glass. “Ambitious,” Andrew responds. “But you’ve always had the risk appetite.” I keep my eyes on the plate, cutting the lamb into small pieces. Kate laughs politely at her husband’s boast but I can see her fingers tighten around the stem of her glass.

“You must be very proud,” I say to her, as the men fill up their glasses. She pauses her cutting and raises her head to look at me. “Pride isn’t always the word,” she murmurs, barely moving her lips. Andrew clears his throat, reminding me to keep my attention where it belongs.

Later, when the men retire to the study to smoke some cigars, Kate and I open a bottle of champagne and move to the balcony. The view of London streets from here is immaculate, the way the faint humming of traffic fills the air and the lights that never go off — that’s why I chose this house. “Do you ever wish things were different?” Kate leans forward and asks. “Different how?” I force a smile, then respond. “Well, we all dream of easier lives.” Her gaze moves from my direction to the open street, she takes a sip of her drink, and twirls the cup in her hands. There’s a moment of silence between us. Kate wasn’t talking about dreams. And the truth is, I have wished for something different too.

By the time Kate and James leave, it's past eleven. I walk them to the door and bid them goodbye. “Lovely evening,” Kate says flatly. “Yes,” I reply, letting out a forced smile. “We must do this again soon.” Our eyes meet for the briefest moment, broken by James’ call for her to hurry. When the door shuts, there’s a pin drop silence. I turn around to see Andrew standing behind me. I jerk in fear. “My goodness, you scared me,” I say, my hands clutching my throbbing chest. “What was that performance at dinner?” he asks, already unbuttoning his cuffs. That look on his face, I’ve seen it before — it’s the one he has on before disaster strikes. “Andrew, I don’t know what you mean. I was quiet, I made the guest feel welcome. I…” He slaps my face and grabs my neck before I can complete the statement. “You know exactly what I mean,” he snaps. “Sitting there whispering with Kate like two gossiping schoolgirls.”

“I was only being polite.” My words can barely be heard. His grip on my neck is getting tighter. “Don’t forget who you belong to, Emily.” He grabs my chin and inspects me closely as though I were a misbehaving child. He leans forward and presses his lips on my neck, his grip tightening around my waist. This touch was possessive, nothing like affection. I swallow hard. He releases me from his grip with a satisfied sigh and pushes me aside. I lose my balance and almost hit a wall. Tears well up in my eyes but I hold back — he hates to see them.

“Clear this place up, and…don’t wake me when you come up,” he orders, as he retires to the room. When his footsteps fade, I stare blankly into the night sky. The held back tears start to fall but I wipe them away just before they drop. How have I been in bed with my abuser for 5 long years? The thought lingers and I let myself think it fully, for the first time without shame.