Chapter 9: The Morning After the Slap
The first light came gray and thin through the blinds, sliding across the bed like a blade.
Emma woke with a start, her body stiff, her cheek throbbing in time with her heartbeat. For a moment she didn't know where she was—the ceiling was wrong, the sheets were wrong, the silence was wrong. Then the night came flooding back. The dinner.The closet. The slap. The text messages.
She sat up slowly.
Her phone was still clutched in her hand, the battery nearly dead. The screen showed no new messages. Craig had stopped texting sometime around four in the morning, the last one a single word: Here.
She wondered if he was still outside.
She wondered if he'd ever left.
The room was cold. She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her feet touching the floor, and she caught her reflection in the dark screen of the television mounted on the wall. A ghost stared back at her. A woman with wild hair and hollow eyes and a bruise spreading across her cheek like a storm cloud.
She looked away.
Her phone buzzed. She flinched before she could stop herself, her whole body tensing, but when she looked at the screen it wasn't Craig. It wasn't Dominic either. It was just a notification—a weather alert, a reminder that the world was still turning, that somewhere out there people were waking up and drinking coffee and complaining about traffic.
She envied them.
She set the phone on the nightstand and stood. Her shoulder ached where she'd hit the wall, a deep, bruising pain that radiated down her arm. She rotated it slowly, testing the range of motion, and decided nothing was broken. Just bruised. Just another mark on a body that was collecting them like stamps.
The bathroom was small and clean, stocked with hotel-sized bottles of shampoo and conditioner and a bar of soap wrapped in paper. She turned on the shower and stepped under the spray before it had a chance to warm up, gasping as the cold water hit her skin.
She let it run.
She let it wash away the sweat and the tears and the feeling of Dominic's palm against her face. She scrubbed herself until her skin was pink and raw, until she couldn't tell the difference between the sting of the water and the sting of her own hands.
When she stepped out, the mirror was fogged. She wiped a circle clear with her palm and looked at herself again.
The bruise was worse in the light. A deep purple bloom spreading from her cheekbone to her jaw, the edges already yellowing, the center dark as a plum. She touched it gently and winced. Then she touched it again, harder this time, pressing until the pain sharpened and cleared her head.
She needed to be smart today.
She needed to be calm.
She needed to be the woman who said I'm fine and meant it, even if it was a lie.
She dressed in the plainest clothes she could find—a gray sweater, dark jeans, flat shoes. No jewelry. No makeup. Nothing that would draw attention to her face or her body or the ring that wasn't on her finger yet. She pulled her hair back into a low ponytail and studied herself in the mirror.
I'm fine, she said.
Her voice was a whisper.
I'm fine.
Louder this time. Steadier.I'm fine.
She said it a dozen more times, until the words lost their meaning, until they became just sounds, just air moving through her throat. She said it until she almost believed it.
When she opened the door to the hallway, she found a tray waiting for her.
It was sitting on the floor, just outside her door, a silver platter covered with a white linen napkin. A single white rose lay across the top, its petals still beaded with water. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with her name written in sharp, angular handwriting.
Eat. We leave at nine.
No signature. No apology. No acknowledgment that less than twelve hours ago, his hand had left a mark on her face that she would carry for days.
Emma stared at the tray.
The smell of eggs and toast and coffee drifted up to her, and her stomach turned over—not with hunger, but with something closer to disgust. She thought about the way Dominic had looked at her last night, the way his eyes had been empty, the way he'd turned his back and picked up his phone and forgotten she existed.
She thought about the food he'd ordered for her.
She thought about the rose.
She bent down, picked up the tray, and carried it to the kitchen.
The kitchen was all white marble and stainless steel, the kind of kitchen that had never seen a home-cooked meal, that existed only for show and for the caterers who came twice a week to stock the refrigerator with things Dominic would never eat. Emma set the tray on the island and looked at it for a long moment.
Then she opened the trash can and scraped the food into it.
The eggs.The toast. The fruit. The little glass of orange juice. She dumped it all, one piece at a time, watching it disappear into the black bin liner like evidence of a crime. When the plate was clean, she set it in the sink and ran the water until the drain swallowed the last trace of breakfast.
She left the rose on the counter.
She didn't touch it.
She didn't want to think about what it meant.
At exactly nine o'clock, Dominic walked into the kitchen.
He was dressed in a dark suit, his hair still damp from the shower, his jaw clean-shaven. He looked rested. He looked calm. He looked like a man who had slept well and woken up without a single regret.
Emma was standing by the window, her hands wrapped around a mug of tea she hadn't drunk, watching the city come alive below her. She didn't turn when she heard his footsteps.
"You're ready," he said.
"I'm ready."
"Good." He walked to the coffee maker, poured himself a cup, and leaned against the counter. "The car will be here in twenty minutes. We'll go to the jeweler first, then lunch with my father."
"I thought the fitting was at eleven."
"It is. Lunch is at one. I moved it up."
Emma turned. She kept her face blank, her eyes steady, her hands wrapped tight around the mug. The ceramic was warm against her palms, grounding her.
"I don't want a ring," she said.
The words came out quiet. Measured. She hadn't planned them, hadn't rehearsed them in the mirror, but they were there, rising up from somewhere deep inside her. That stubborn part. That immovable part. The part that refused to be owned.
Dominic's jaw tightened.
He set his coffee down and crossed the kitchen to her, his footsteps slow and deliberate. He stopped inches away, close enough that she could smell his cologne, close enough that she could see the flicker of something dark in his eyes.
"What did you say?"
"I don't want a ring." She held his gaze. "I didn't ask for any of this. I didn't choose you. My father chose you. That doesn't mean I have to pretend to be happy about it."
For a moment, he didn't move.
Then his hand came up, slow and deliberate, and cupped her bruised cheek in his palm. His fingers were warm against her skin, his thumb brushing the edge of the swelling with a gentleness that made her stomach turn.
"You think this is about what you want?"
His voice was soft. Almost tender.
"You think any of this is about what you want?" He leaned closer, his lips brushing her forehead, the kiss almost gentle. "What you want stopped mattering the moment your father signed your name on a piece of paper. You're a Moretti now. Or you will be. And Moretti women don't get to want things."
He pulled back.
He looked at her for a long moment, his hand still cupping her cheek, his thumb still stroking the bruise.
"You're going to wear the ring," he said. "You're going to smile at lunch. You're going to be the perfect, grateful, obedient little wife. And if you're not—" He shrugged. "Well. You already know what happens."
He released her.
He picked up his coffee and walked out of the kitchen.
Emma stood alone, her cheek still warm from his hand, her heart pounding in her throat. She wanted to scream. She wanted to throw the mug at his head. She wanted to run out the door and down the street and never look back.
But she couldn't.
She couldn't.
She set the mug down on the counter and reached for her phone.
The new one. The one Dominic had given her. The one he'd probably already bugged, already wired, already tracking every tap and swipe and text.
Craig had texted again.
You didn't call. I didn't sleep. Tell me you're okay.
She stared at the words.
She thought about the man in the car outside, the one who had stayed all night, the one who had promised to come if she called, the one who had seen her face and didn't flinch.
She thought about Dominic's hand on her cheek, his lips on her forehead, his voice promising her a lifetime of this.
She typed back with trembling fingers:
I'm not.
The reply came immediately.
I know.
Then, a second later:
What can I do?
Emma closed her eyes.
She pictured Craig sitting in his car, his eyes red-rimmed, his jaw tight, his hands wrapped around the steering wheel. She pictured him looking at his phone, waiting for her to say something, anything, that would tell him what to do next.
She pictured him storming the penthouse.
She pictured the bullets.
She opened her eyes.
Nothing, she typed. Not yet. Just wait.
I'm not good at waiting.
I know.
Emma.
What?
A pause. Then:
I'm not going to let him hurt you again.
She almost laughed.
You can't promise that.
Watch me.
She stared at the words. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that someone could protect her, that someone could save her, that there was a way out of this that didn't end with her dead or broken or married to a man who hit her and kissed her forehead and told her she belonged to him.
But she'd learned a long time ago that believing in saviors was a luxury she couldn't afford.
I have to go, she typed. He's waiting.
Don't marry him.
I don't have a choice.
You do. There's always a choice.
She closed her eyes.
She thought about her father—his gambling, his rage, his hands around her throat when she was twelve, his voice telling her she was worthless, his signature on a piece of paper he'd never bothered to read.
She thought about Dominic—his cold eyes, his empty apologies, his palm against her face.
She thought about Craig.
He was an asshole. He was arrogant. He was all sharp edges and bad decisions. But he'd seen her face last night, and he hadn't looked away. He'd seen the bruise, and he'd promised to kill the man who put it there.
That wasn't nothing.
If I run, she typed, where would I go?
To me.
She stared at the words.
You don't even know me.
I know enough.
What do you know?
I know you don't belong here. I know you're not like them. I know you make me feel something I haven't felt in years, and it scares the shit out of me, and I don't know what to do about it.
She didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Go to your fitting, he typed. Smile at lunch. Do what you have to do. But know this: the second you say the word, I'm there. I don't care what it costs. I don't care who I have to go through. You say the word, and I'm coming.
Emma looked at her reflection in the blackened windows.
She looked at the bruise on her cheek. She looked at the fear in her eyes. She looked at the woman who had spent her whole life running from men who wanted to hurt her, and she wondered what it would feel like to stop running.
Okay, she typed.
Okay?
Okay. I'll think about it.
That's all I'm asking.
I have to go.
Emma?
Yeah?
Don't eat the breakfast. It's probably poisoned.
She almost smiled.
Too late, she typed. I threw it away.
That's my girl.
She closed the phone and slipped it into her pocket. She picked up her tea, took a sip, and set it down again. It was cold. She didn't care.
Dominic's voice came from the other room, sharp and impatient."Emma. The car's here."
She looked at the door. She looked at the hallway. She looked at the life stretching out in front of her—the ring, the wedding, the years of quiet obedience and frozen smiles and hands that bruised when they touched her.
Then she picked up her purse and walked out the door.
The car was waiting.
Dominic was waiting.
Everyone was waiting.
And somewhere down the street, in a car that smelled like cold coffee and stubborn hope, Craig Moretti was waiting too.
She didn't look at the window as they drove past.
She didn't need to.
She could feel him there.
And for the first time in a long time, the feeling didn't scare her.
It made her want to fight.