THE LAST GOODBYE

CHAPTER THREE

The Morning After

Sunlight burned through the curtains, too bright and too cheerful for what I felt inside.

I woke up alone in the hotel bed, still wearing my underwear from last night. The rose petals had stuck to my skin, leaving red impressions like tiny bruises. Jack's side of the bed was empty but wrinkled. He had come back at some point while I was sleeping.

My phone showed 9:47 AM. Eleven missed calls from Jack. Twenty-three text messages. My stomach dropped as I opened them.

"Where are you?"

"Answer your phone."

"I am downstairs having breakfast with my parents. Get down here NOW."

"You have ten minutes or I swear to God, Rose."

The last message was sent five minutes ago.

I scrambled out of bed, panic flooding through me. My suitcase sat in the corner, still packed. I yanked out the first dress I found, a simple blue sundress Jack had approved weeks ago. My hands shook so badly I could barely zip it up.

No time for makeup. I splashed water on my face, ran a brush through my tangled hair, and grabbed my purse. The elevator ride down felt like descending into hell. Each floor that passed brought me closer to whatever punishment waited for me.

The hotel restaurant was elegant and quiet. I spotted Jack immediately at a table by the window with his parents. His mother, Sarah Morrison, wore a designer dress and pearls even for breakfast. His father, Richard Morrison, had the same cold eyes as his son.

Jack saw me approaching. His smile was pleasant but his eyes promised pain later.

"There she is," he said cheerfully as I reached the table. "My beautiful bride. Sorry, she is late. Long night, you know." He winked at his father, who chuckled.

I wanted to disappear.

"Rose, dear, sit down." Sarah gestured to the empty chair next to Jack. Her voice was pleasant but her eyes examined me critically. "You look tired. Did not you sleep well?"

"I slept fine, thank you." I sat down, and immediately Jack's hand found my thigh under the table. His fingers dug in hard enough to hurt.

"We were just discussing your honeymoon plans," Richard said, cutting into his steak. "Jack says you are going to Paris for two weeks."

Paris. Jack had planned the whole honeymoon without asking me what I wanted. He had picked the hotel, the restaurants, the activities. I was just expected to show up and smile.

"That is very generous," I said, because that was what I was supposed to say.

"Jack deserves the best," Sarah said. "And now that you are family, we expect you to maintain certain standards, Rose. The Morrison name means something in this city."

"I understand."

"Do you?" Sarah's smile did not reach her eyes. "Because Jack tells us you were rather emotional yesterday. At your own wedding. That does not reflect well on our family."

Heat flooded my cheeks. Jack's fingers dug deeper into my thigh. A warning. Agree with her. Apologize.

"I am sorry. I was just overwhelmed. It will not happen again."

"See that it does not." Sarah took a delicate sip of her coffee. "Marriage is about appearances, dear. Whatever happens behind closed doors stays there. But in public, you smile. You are gracious. You make your husband look good. That is a wife's job."

Whatever happens behind closed doors. Did she know? Had she lived through the same thing with Richard? Was this just how the Morrison family worked?

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." Sarah smiled, satisfied. "Now, I have taken the liberty of enrolling you in some classes. Etiquette, proper hosting, wine appreciation. You will need these skills for Jack's business dinners and social events."

"Classes?" I looked at Jack, confused. "But I thought I would help with your company. You said I could work as your assistant."

Jack's laugh was light but his grip on my thigh turned brutal. "Sweetheart, we talked about this. A Morrison wife does not work. You will be too busy managing our home and supporting my career."

"But you promised—"

"Rose." Just my name, but the warning in his tone was clear.

I fell silent. Another lie. Another door closing. He had promised I could work with him, that we would be partners. That was how he had convinced me to give up my dreams of event planning. Just help me build my company first, he had said. Then you can do whatever you want.

More lies.

"Besides," Sarah continued, "you will be busy enough once the children come. Jack wants at least three. I hope you are prepared for that responsibility."

Three children. With Jack. The thought made me feel sick.

"Of course," I heard myself say.

Breakfast continued with painful small talk. Jack's parents discussed people I did not know and social events I would be expected to attend. I pushed food around my plate, unable to eat. Jack's hand stayed on my thigh the entire time, a constant reminder of his control.

Finally, after what felt like hours, his parents left. Jack's father shook his hand. His mother kissed my cheek and whispered, "Do not disappoint us, dear."

The moment they were gone, Jack's pleasant expression vanished.

"Bathroom. Now." He stood up and walked toward the hallway leading to the restrooms.

I followed on shaking legs, knowing I had no choice.

He pushed open the door to a single-person bathroom and pulled me inside, locking the door behind us. The small space felt suffocating.

"Eleven calls, Rose. Eleven." His voice was quiet but deadly. "I told you to answer your phone. Always. No matter what."

"I was sleeping. I did not hear—"

His hand shot out and grabbed my jaw, forcing me to look at him. "I do not care if you are sleeping. I do not care if you are dying. When I call, you answer. Do you understand me?"

"Yes." The word came out muffled because of his grip.

"You embarrassed me in front of my parents. Questioning me about work. Arguing with me at the table." His other hand slammed against the wall next to my head, making me flinch. "You do not question me. You do not argue. Especially not in front of my family."

"I am sorry. I just thought—"

"You do not think. That is your problem, Rose. You think you have a say in this marriage. You do not." He released my jaw and gripped my chin instead, tilting my head back. "You are my wife. That means you do what I say, when I say it, how I say it. Your job is to obey me and make me look good. Nothing else matters. Not your feelings. Not your dreams. Not your opinions. Nothing."

Tears burned in my eyes but I blinked them back. Do not cry. Crying made it worse.

"I understand," I whispered.

"Do you?" He studied my face for a long moment. "I do not think you do. I think you still believe this is some kind of partnership. It is not. I am in charge. You are... what? What are you, Rose?"

I knew what he wanted me to say. The words tasted like ash.

"Yours. I am yours."

"That is right." He smiled and released me, smoothing down his shirt. "Good girl. Now fix your face. We have brunch with my business partners in an hour. And Rose? You will smile. You will be charming. You will make me proud. Or I promise you will regret it."

He left the bathroom, leaving me standing there shaking.

I looked at myself in the mirror. The girl staring back at me looked hollow. Empty. Like something vital had been carved out and stolen.

How had this happened? How had I ended up here?

My phone buzzed. A text from Jack.

"Do not keep me waiting. And wear more makeup. You look like hell."

I splashed cold water on my face and dug through my purse for concealer and lipstick. My hands still shook as I tried to cover the dark circles under my eyes.

Another text came through, but this one was not from Jack. It was from a number I did not recognize.

"Is this Rose Bennett? I got your number from the college alumni database. This is Ethan Cole. We had Contemporary Literature together senior year. I am in town for business and thought I would reach out. Would love to catch up if you are free sometime. Hope you are doing well."

Ethan Cole. I remembered him vaguely. Quiet, kind, always sitting in the back of class with a book. We had worked on one group project together. He had made me laugh, I remembered. Actually laugh, not the fake laugh I had perfected for Jack.

That felt like a lifetime ago. A different person entirely.

I stared at the message for a long moment. A small part of me, a part I thought had died last night, wanted to respond. Wanted to tell him yes, please, save me, help me, I made a terrible mistake.

But Jack's words echoed in my head. "You belong to me."

I deleted the message without responding.

Then I painted on a smile, applied another layer of lipstick, and walked out to meet my husband.

This was my life now.

I needed to accept it.