Leila
I fast-forwarded through the video on the camera perched by the bedside, my fingers trembling over the buttons. There I was, limp as a rag doll, Darren's arms hauling me onto the mattress. Maids fluttered in like moths, their hands quick and clinical - washing my skin, peeling away smeared makeup, dressing me in a nightgown that wasn't mine. Then, nothing. I slept alone, sprawled like a slaughtered beast, while Darren stayed absent from the frame. Relief washed over me, cool and fleeting, but it curdled fast. He'd recorded it all - every meticulous step - proof that a married man hadn't crossed that line. Clever bastard. But that smirk earlier, that taunting lilt in his voice when he'd teased me awake - it gnawed at me, unforgivable. In another life, I'd have leapt at him, claws out
