Chapter 1: Trapped in a Marriage
I wake to the familiar emptiness beside me, the sheets cold where Oliver should be. The silence of the morning presses against my chest, heavy and accusing. At twenty-one, I, Anny Adams, already know what it means to be invisible, caged in a marriage I never wanted, bound to a man who barely sees me.
I slip out of bed, the sheets grazing my skin like a whisper no one hears. My bare feet meet the chilly floor as I pad to the bathroom, where I let the shower’s hot water cascade over me. It runs down my face, my neck, warm and heavy, but it can’t melt the ice lodged in my heart. I close my eyes, asking myself for the hundredth time how I ended up here—in a gilded prison I can’t escape.
I pull on a light blue dress, the fabric brushing my skin like a promise that never comes true. Heading downstairs for coffee, I brace for the usual solitude, but there he is. Oliver, seated at the table, surrounded by papers, his presence so unexpected it makes my heart stumble. Why is he here? The question burns in my mind, but I don’t dare voice it.
“Morning,” he mutters, his voice sharp as a winter wind, eyes glued to his documents, dismissing me as always.
“Morning,” I reply, barely above a whisper, settling across from him, keeping the distance he’s built between us.
He doesn’t look up. “You eating breakfast?”
“I will,” I say, my hands trembling as I grip the coffee mug, hiding the shake.
“We’re having lunch at my parents’ today. Be ready by 10:30 sharp.”
“Okay,” I manage, my voice hollow. I watch him stand and leave without a glance, abandoning me to the silence. The urge to scream, to cry, claws at my throat, but I swallow it down. I hate this—being an object, a decoration in his life, something he barely notices.
I finish my coffee in the quiet, change into something more presentable, and by 10:30, I’m ready. As I descend the stairs, Oliver looks at me for the first time today. His eyes meet mine, and for a fleeting second, I swear I see something—desire, maybe?—but I push the thought away. Oliver doesn’t want me. He barely tolerates me.
“Let’s go,” I say, my voice steady despite the storm raging inside.
“Good,” he replies, grabbing the car keys without another look.
The drive is a deafening silence. I stare out the window, watching the world blur by, my mind drifting to our wedding day. I wore the dress I’d once dreamed of, had the lavish ceremony I never thought I’d have. But love? That was never part of it. I married a stranger, and I know he’ll never love me. But does he want me? The question gnaws at me.
At a red light, I feel his gaze before I see it. His eyes are on my legs, where my dress has crept up, exposing more skin than I meant to show. My cheeks burn, my heart races, and I tug the fabric down with shaking fingers. Shame, fear, and something else—a warmth I can’t name—twist together in my chest.
I want to confront him. I want to scream, to run, to break free from him, from my father, from everyone who’s trapped me here. But as we pull into his parents’ driveway, I know freedom is a distant dream. Still, that look from Oliver lingers in my mind, a spark I can’t extinguish. Is there more to him than the cold mask he wears? Or is it just my desperate heart conjuring hope where none exists?
