He Discarded Me , Now I Own Him.

Chapter Two – The Breaking

I wake up to sunlight cutting through the curtains. The light is bright. Too bright.

No knock came this morning. No sharp raps on the door. No flat voice telling me it is seven o'clock.

I blink and sit up. My body is stiff from another night of crying myself to sleep. The sun is high. It must be late. Much later than seven.

No one woke me. No one cares if I sleep all day.

I get out of bed. I am still wearing the same dress from yesterday. I do not bother to change. No one looks at me anyway. I walk to the door and open it.

The hallway is empty. Silent.

I walk downstairs sluggishly. My feet drag on each step. The house is quiet. No footsteps. No voices. No clatter of dishes from the kitchen.

The dining room is empty. The chairs are pushed in. The table is bare. No one is here. Harold and Catherine must be out. Marcus is probably gone too.

I go to the kitchen. A plate covered with foil sits on the counter. I lift the foil. Eggs. Cold. A piece of bread. I do not warm the food. I do not have the energy.

I carry the plate back upstairs to my room. I sit on the edge of my bed and eat alone. The eggs taste like nothing. The bread is dry.

I miss my parents.

The thought comes sharp and sudden. I set down the fork.

They have not called. They have not come to see me. They have not checked on me once since the wedding. Do they even think about me? Do they wonder if I am alive?

I want to be angry. I try to be angry. But I cannot.

The debt. That is what put me here. My father's debt. My parents' desperation. They did not want to lose the house. They did not want to lose everything.

So they gave me away.

I cannot hate them. But I still wish they would come. I wish they would knock on this door and take me home. I wish they would say, "We made a mistake. Come back."

No one comes. No one knocks.

I wait until I am sure the house is quiet. Then I go back downstairs.

There is a phone in the hallway. An old one on a small table near the front door. I have seen the staff use it. I have never touched it before.

I look around. No one is watching.

I pick up the receiver. My hands shake. I dial my parents' number from memory. The line rings once.

A hand grabs my wrist. Hard.

Before I can turn, a palm cracks across my cheek. The force snaps my head to the side. The phone falls from my hand and swings from its cord.

I stagger. My cheek burns. Tears spring to my eyes.

Catherine Calloway stands in front of me. Her eyes are narrow. Her lips are pressed into a thin line. She is wearing a silk robe, her hair perfectly pinned.

“Who gave you permission to use the phone?” Her voice is low and cold.

I touch my cheek. It is hot. “I was just calling my parents—”

“I did not ask who you were calling.” She steps closer. I step back. “We married you to be Marcus's wife. Not to make personal calls. You are here to serve a purpose. Nothing more.”

“I only wanted to hear their voices,” I say. My voice cracks.

“Get out,” she says.

I turn and walk toward the stairs. The staff is gathered at the end of the hallway. They are watching. Their faces are blank. No one looks away. No one looks sorry.

I hold back my tears until I reach my room. I close the door. Then I sink to the floor and cry.

When the tears stop, I sit against the door.

I cannot stay here, I think. I will tell Marcus tonight.

I wait.

The hours pass. The sun sets. The house grows dark. I do not eat dinner. I do not leave my room.

Late at night, I hear the front door open. Heavy footsteps stumble up the stairs.

Marcus is drunk. I can smell the alcohol from the hallway.

I follow him to his room. He is fumbling with the door, cursing under his breath.

“Marcus,” I say.

He turns. His eyes are red and unfocused. His shirt is wrinkled. There are kiss stains on his collar. Red lipstick.

My stomach turns, but I hold myself steady.

“I want a divorce,” I say.

His face twists. “What?”

“I want a divorce. I cannot stay here anymore.”

He steps toward me. His voice rises. “You come to my room in the middle of the night to tell me this?”

“I cannot live like this.”

“Get out!” he shouts. His hand slams against the wall beside my head. I flinch. “Get out of my sight!”

My heart pounds. I step back.

“Leave!” he yells again.

I turn and walk away. I go back to my room and close the door. My hands are shaking.

I will try again another day.

A week passes.

I do not see Marcus for most of it. He comes home late, drunk or silent. He does not look at me. He does not speak to me.

But I do not change my mind. Every morning, I tell myself: Today. Today I will say it again.

One afternoon, he is home early. Sober. He is sitting in his study.

I walk in. My hands are shaking, but I hide them behind my back.

“I want a divorce,” I say.

He looks up from his desk. He studies me for a long moment. His eyes are clear today.

“You are serious,” he says.

“I have never been more serious.”

He leans back in his chair. He is quiet for a moment. Then a small smile curls on his lips. He thinks this is a joke. He thinks I will run crawling back to him.

“Fine,” he says. “You want a divorce? You can leave. But you will not leave with anything. No money. No clothes. Nothing from this house.”

“I do not want anything. I just want to be free.”

He opens a drawer and pulls out a piece of paper. He slides it across the desk. He is still smiling. He thinks he has won.

“Sign it. You leave today. You take nothing.”

I pick up the pen. My hand trembles, but I sign my name.

Elena Kingston.

He takes the paper. He folds it.

“Get out,” he says. “And when you come crawling back, do not expect me to open the door.”

I let out a sigh of relief. He does not know that I will never come back.

I walk out of the study. I walk down the hallway. I walk out the front door. The afternoon sun is bright and warm on my face. No one stops me. The staff watches from the corners, but no one says a word.

I am free.

I walk down the street. I do not look back.