Silent Revenge

“f**k you, Lucid.” I could feel my anger rising. Who the hell did he think he was? “Careful with your words,” he snapped, turning back to face me, his eyes burning with fury. “I want a divorce. I’m tired I’m so f*****g tired.” The words slipped out before I could stop them, and instantly, I wished I could take them back. He scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “Have you forgotten this is a contract marriage? We still have four years to go, so stop with the bullshit.” His tone was cold, detached like this was all just business to him. “Does that contract give you the right to sleep with my best friend?” My voice trembled, breaking with every word. “You f****d her, Lucid. Don’t you have any respect for your reputation for me?” Silence. “Respect?” He let out a sharp laugh, the sound echoing down the hallway like a cruel melody. “You are nothing to me, so why should I respect you?” His words cut through the air, each one slicing deeper than the last. He grabbed his jacket from the couch, his expression void of remorse. “Be ready by six,” he said flatly, not even glancing at me. “Today’s my parents’ anniversary.” And just like that, he walked away leaving me standing there, clutching the edge of the table to keep myself from falling apart. I remembered the night I begged him to save my family from the cruel hand of death. It had rained that evening heavy, relentless, as if the sky itself was mourning with me. I was on my knees, soaked and trembling, clinging to his hand like it was the only thing keeping me from drowning. “Please, Lucid,” I had whispered, my voice breaking. “You have the power… the influence. Just help them. I’ll do anything.” And he had smiled then that cold, calculating smile I would come to know too well. “Anything?” he’d asked. That single word sealed my fate. The contract, the marriage, the prison I now called life all born from that one desperate plea. I shook off the memory as I walked into the bathroom. The air was cold. I turned on the light, and the harsh glow from the mirror hit me. I exhaled slowly and stared at my reflection. The woman staring back looked like me, but she wasn’t. Her eyes were dull,lifeless not the vibrant ones I used to recognize. There was no spark, no warmth, just exhaustion carved into every line of her face. Now, I didn’t recognize myself. I only recognized the version of me that smiled when she was supposed to, spoke softly when he demanded it, and hid every crack beneath layers of perfection. I reached for the faucet and let the cold water run, watching it swirl down the sink. My hands trembled slightly as I cupped the water and splashed it on my face, hoping the chill would wash away the heaviness sitting behind my eyes. It didn’t. It never did. I wiped my face gently with a towel and looked at myself again. I tried to smile just to see if I still could but the expression felt foreign, like it belonged to someone else entirely. “Pull yourself together,” I whispered under my breath. I walked back into the bedroom. The red dress lay neatly across the bed, I ran my fingers over the fabric, soft and expensive, the kind of luxury that always felt like a cage. Lucid liked me in red. He said it made me look “obedient yet captivating.” I used to think that was a compliment. Now, I knew better. I slipped into the dress slowly, the silk cool against my skin. It fit perfectly of course it did. Everything about my life with him was tailored to fit an image, not comfort. I pulled the zipper up, feeling the fabric tighten around my ribs, and for a moment, it was hard to breathe. I opened the drawer filled with carefully arranged makeup. I applied foundation, hiding the shadows under my eyes. A little blush, a touch of mascara, and finally, the red lipstick he preferred. When I was done, I stared at the stranger in the mirror once more polished, composed, flawless. I put on the thin gold necklace with his initials, the same one he’d given me on our wedding day. My fingers lingered on the clasp for a moment before I let it fall against my collarbone. The sound of a car horn drifted faintly from outside. My chest tightened. He was here. I took a deep breath, grabbed my purse, and straightened my posture. One last look in the mirror. “You can do this,” I murmured, though the words barely sounded like a promise anymore. Then I turned off the lights, straightened my back, and walked toward the door. Each step echoed through the empty hallway soft, like footsteps toward a stage. Because that’s all tonight would be. A performance. And I had no choice but to play my part.