One hundred reasons to leave

“You can’t…” I whispered, wiping away my tears. My parents want to marry me off to Morozov to merge the companies and finally settle the debts my father lost in his casino. “You’re selfish! Do you expect us to sell everything and live in the four‑room apartment I inherited from my grandmother? And go on vacation once a year? I don’t want to sink back into poverty!” my mother shouted. I’d never been good enough for her. She was always finding fault: I spoke wrong, I stood wrong, my “face was made of tin,” and I was “wooden.” And my father… well, he wasn’t much better. He’d wanted a son, an heir — but I was born instead. A “spendthrift” and a useless prude in this house. “That’s it! There’s no turning back now. The wedding is tomorrow. Did we buy you a half‑million‑ruble dress for nothing? What were you hoping for, trying to talk me out of it just hours before the wedding?” I felt so hurt. I was being handed over like a commodity. And all this time, they’d raised me like livestock for slaughter. Silently, I turned around and left my father’s office. My suitcases with my belongings were already waiting by the exit. Tomorrow, I’d face a wedding with the cruelest man in the city. Tomorrow would be the worst day of my life. And even worse — I’d face my wedding night, which wouldn’t end well. Because I wouldn’t give myself to him willingly. I’d rather he just shoot me and bury me in some ditch. My corpse wouldn’t care — as long as it all ended quickly. I didn’t sleep that night, counting every second until that moment… In a daze, I watched in the mirror as they did my makeup and hair, then put the dress on me… Thoughts of escape flickered through my mind, but they’d find me anyway. Morozov has eyes and ears all over the city. “Everyone, get out,” my mother’s deceptively kind and gentle voice rang out. I still hadn’t said a word to her or my father. “Stop sulking!” she barked, turning me to face her. “Listen carefully. Don’t resist — be a good girl. Squirm and moan even if you hate it. The main thing is to make him happy. Be patient, dear, and you won’t know any trouble,” she said coldly, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the exit. Just outside, she handed me over to my father, who took me by the elbow and led me to the altar. Time flew by at breakneck speed, passing so quickly I didn’t even have time to properly think things through. “Smile — you’re getting married, not going to a funeral,” he whispered, not hiding his anger. “For me, it’s the same as death,” I said calmly, without lowering my voice. Let the guests hear. My father’s grip on my elbow tightened, and the pain made me hiss. “Shut up! We didn’t beat you enough as a child. We should’ve left scars!” he hissed. “Don’t bother, Father. I think my husband can handle that. Given the rumors about him.” “If you don’t keep your mouth shut, he’ll leave more than just scars.” “I don’t care — I just want it to end quickly,” I whispered under my breath. At that moment, my father led me to the groom and handed me into his hands. Morozov, by the way, wasn’t bad‑looking. He was thirty‑five, with a thick beard, thin lips, and harsh facial features. His face clearly showed he was cruel and uncontrollable. “Do you, Ruslan Sergeyevich Morozov, take Evelina Markovna Orlova to be your lawfully wedded wife?” “I do,” he replied, his voice indifferent. That infuriated me even more. “Do you…” Before the registrar could finish, I rudely interrupted her. “No,” I replied just as indifferently. She looked at my “husband” in fright. “Yes, sign it quickly,” he growled. “Very well, then I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss each other,” she said in a trembling voice. She’s afraid of him. Everyone is. And I hate him with all my might. I’m already mentally preparing for what he’ll do to me tonight after the reception. The man yanked me by the waist and pulled me close. He kissed my lips greedily and roughly, gripping my waist tightly, hinting that I should respond. But I stubbornly stayed still, enduring the pain his hand caused. He pulled away and looked into my eyes with displeasure. “b***h, I knew you were disobedient, but I didn’t think you’d dare act like this with me. Be ready — I’m going to re‑educate you,” he growled against my lips and stepped back. He took my hand and moved toward the tables set with food. My palms were both icy and sweaty at the same time. I was truly scared. He could do whatever he wanted with me now. And I was deliberately provoking him — but I couldn’t help it… Throughout the reception, I sat like a statue, a doll. I didn’t eat anything. I only drank — glass after glass. And whenever my “husband” went off to talk to the guests, I reached for stronger drinks. By the end, I was quite drunk. But I tried not to show it. All this time, my husband had been silently watching me with a strange expression. “All right, it’s time to escort the newlyweds to their marital bed,” my father said, raising his shot glass. Everyone cheered and whistled as they escorted us to Morozov’s car. As soon as we were inside, the man’s mood shifted from “more or less” to terrible. He glared at me angrily, then suddenly moved closer and grabbed my neck painfully. “What did you do? You’ve shamed me in front of my partners and friends… Do you think you’ll get away with it?” he hissed, his breath reeking of alcohol. He tightened his grip, and I started to choke. Panic set in. My body shook with fear and anger. At that very moment, the thought flashed through my mind: “What if… let him… finally break my neck and be done with it.” I stopped resisting. I closed my eyes and waited for consciousness to leave my body. But at that moment, the man suddenly let go and slapped me hard across the face. I immediately grabbed my cheek and took a deep breath. I tasted blood. The bastard had split my lip. I glared at him in fury. “Haven’t you figured it out yet?” he hissed. Then he stepped back and indifferently tossed out, “I’ll talk to you at home, wife…” He emphasized the last word and turned away to look out the window.