Try to make me cry

Chapter 5: The Hand of the Sculptor

We got to the mansion. The Citadel compound was a silent, looming witness to the violence barely contained within its walls. Eddie slammed the car into park and got out, his anger a visible, radiating heat.

What’s with him? I ignored him, pulling the door handle and swinging my legs out. I should have driven my own car. My heels were high, and I wobbled slightly as I walked fast toward the main entrance.

He didn't let me get far. He grabbed my hand and pulled me back, yanking me through the heavy oak door.

“Hey, you better not leave a bruise!” I snapped, furious that he was actually touching me with that much force.

He ignored my protest, pulling me past the marble foyer and straight into my private bedroom suite, which was on the opposite wing of the house from his. He slammed the door shut, the sound echoing like a gunshot, and stood there, radiating raw, contained power.

“Get out of my room,” I commanded, immediately retreating toward the center of the spacious room.

“You forget this is my house, Maggie. I can be anywhere I want,” he said, the old arrogance returning, but with a new, dark edge.

A house I can also afford. Don't make me laugh. “Yes, but we agreed on this. The separation, the rooms, the boundaries—”

“You don't think I know what you did in this room?” he interrupted, his voice low, cold, and utterly violating. “I almost feel sorry for you.”

I froze, the blood running cold. “What are you talking about?”

He took a slow step toward me, his green eyes boring into mine. “I mean how you touch yourself. How you play with yourself at night.”

He’s been watching me? The realization hit me like a physical blow. How long did he know? How long had he been secretly witnessing the one private solace I allowed myself? The single act that affirmed my own existence.

He closed the distance between us, moving with predatory grace. He grabbed my wrist again and pulled me onto the vast, silk-covered bed. He was on top of me instantly, pinning me with his weight, his mouth close to my ear.

“Are you that lonely, Maggie? Do you want to be touched so badly?” he rasped. “Need your husband's help?”

My breath hitched—not in fear, but in pure, visceral rage at the violation. The protective wall I built around my true self surged.

In one fluid motion, born of desperation and the instinct for self-preservation, I drove my right hand up and clamped my nails around his neck, applying pressure. Simultaneously, my left hand shot down and closed around his testicles. I held them firmly, tightly.

He froze, his weight shifting, the predatory look in his eyes replaced by a sharp, stunned realization.

“You need my help,” I said, my voice low and dangerously calm, the pressure in my grip increasing slowly, precisely. “To remove your balls so you don't have kids. I don't think a person like you should be allowed to have any.”

The air crackled with lethal silence. He let go of my wrist. Slowly, he got off me, rising to his feet, adjusting his expensive suit with a ragged breath.

He looked down at me, his face utterly unreadable now, the heat of the moment gone, replaced by a cold, calculating detachment.

“You see, Maggie,” he said, his voice quiet, almost mournful. “I don't want to be as lonely as you. That's why I do what I do.” He walked toward the door.

I sat up, the raw honesty of his words cutting through my rage. “I am proud of you,” I said, injecting every ounce of my deep, cold contempt into the phrase.

He paused with his hand on the door handle, turning back to look at me, his gaze softening slightly—a flicker of something that could have been pity.

“Maggie, you should not do the same things I do. You are just not cut out for that. Remember who you are and don't ever do that ever again.”

“Or what?” I challenged.

“Don't test me, Maggie.”

“Go ahead and do whatever you want,” I dared him.

“Very well.” He turned and left, closing the door so hard the crystal chandelier chimed.

Why don't you divorce me instead, I thought, collapsing back onto the pillows, but he was already gone. Tears started running down my cheek.

——

Days passed, and the silence in the Grayson mansion was thick, heavy, and unbroken. It wasn't peace; it was the tense calm before a new storm.

Today, we were due at my childhood home for the obligatory Christmas family gathering—a place I hadn't stepped foot in since the wedding, the stone estate where my family had sculpted me into their perfect, resentful weapon.

The Gilded Preparation

I spent two hours perfecting the mask I would wear. Not just makeup, but an impenetrable facade of wealth and disdain. I chose a dress that was both an advertisement of status and a suit of armor.

I finally stepped out of the mansion, pulling the heavy oak door shut behind me. Eddie was already waiting, a dark, imposing silhouette next to his blue Ferrari. He was dressed impeccably, a black suit, sharp angles, and the kind of tailored perfection that reeked of effortless wealth. He didn't look at me; he simply waited.

I strode across the circular drive. Today, I wasn't Maggie Grayson, the girl who cried in her room. I was Maggie Grayson, the CEO's untouchable wife.

I wore an ivory and burgundy double-breasted coat dress. The ivory wool, sharp and structured, was cut with exaggerated shoulder pads, meeting a deep, rich burgundy lapel that sliced diagonally across my chest and fastened with large, antique gold buttons. The whole ensemble was cinched tight at my waist by a wide gold belt, emphasizing a figure that was both powerful and fragile. The neckline was high, formal, and utterly dismissive of intimacy. My blonde hair was swept back into a severe, elegant updo, exposing heavy, sculpted gold earrings. I looked every inch the cold, flawless tyrant the city believed me to be—the woman too busy running empires to smile or show weakness.

I didn't acknowledge Eddie as I approached the car. I simply opened the passenger door and slid inside, securing my seatbelt—a small, silent reminder of the forced captivity he had imposed two nights ago.

The Stone Estate

The drive was conducted in the familiar, suffocating silence. Soon, the familiar high wrought-iron gates of my family’s property, The Stone Estate, loomed before us.

As we walked into the house, I could feel the atmosphere shift. It wasn't warm. It was an audience waiting for a show. Eddie and I were a picture of power—his hand placed lightly, performatively, on the small of my back, my posture rigid with disinterest.

We were immediately ushered toward the main parlor, where the gathered elite of my mother's circle and the powerful Ho family (Eddie's primary rivals and my mother’s allies) were assembled. Eddie left my side instantly, moving toward my father and the patriarch of the Ho family, his face settling into a mask of corporate deference.

I was left alone, standing like a statue carved from ice.

Suddenly, a woman’s enraged voice ripped through the civilized murmur of the room. My mother.

“Who dares you show your face here after the mess you created!”

She moved with astonishing speed. Before I could even register her presence, she was in front of me, her hand swinging.

A sharp, vicious slap cracked across my cheek, loud and echoing in the sudden, appalled silence of the room.

My head snapped back. The sting was instant, but the humiliation was worse. I lifted my hand, touching the place where her hand had struck.

Every eye in the room was fixed on me. The Ho family members, my sisters, my cousins—all of them were looking at the spectacle.

And there, across the room, my husband, Eddie, was standing with my father. They were looking at me, along with everyone else. Not one person moved. Not one person intervened. They simply watched.

My mother leaned in, her eyes burning with pure, unadulterated hatred.

“You think I wouldn’t find out? Sitting alone with a man who was not your husband at the HP restaurant! A place only for lovers or blind dates! You have cheapened the family name one last time, you worthless child!”