Chapter 6 Bruises In Silence

• The morning light didn’t warm her skin—it mocked it. Pale beams of sun slipped through the velvet curtains, brushing over the bruises he’d left behind like a ghost’s caress. She lay still beneath the silk sheets, pretending to sleep, her breath shallow, her lashes damp with a grief she’d learned to swallow whole.
• Lucien was already awake. He sat on the edge of the bed, buttoning his crisp shirt like he hadn’t destroyed her last night. Like his belt hadn’t kissed her thighs with calculated force, like his mouth hadn’t whispered cruel commands into her ear while using her like she was nothing more than a convenient body.
• His wedding band gleamed in the sunlight. Hers didn’t. He’d made her remove it months ago. Said it didn’t suit her.
• She curled her fingers against the sheets, willing her voice to stay locked behind her lips. Begging wasn’t allowed. Neither was questioning. Not unless she wanted to feel the weight of his disappointment again—usually in the form of punishment.
• “You’ll meet me at the club tonight. Ten sharp. Wear the red.” His voice was flat, businesslike. As if she were a doll on a schedule.
• She nodded, still without looking at him.
• “Use concealer.” His eyes flicked to the bruise forming on her jaw from the slap he gave her when she hesitated last night. “You look like a mess.”
• Her lip trembled. Just slightly. Not enough for him to notice—hopefully. She had learned the art of silence, of stillness. Her pain had become a private language, one she recited nightly beneath trembling breath when he finally left her alone in the dark.
• She sat up when he left the room, slowly, gingerly. Her body ached in places makeup couldn’t reach. But she didn’t cry. She hadn’t allowed herself that in weeks. Not since the last time he brought another woman home—one who laughed too loudly and wore nothing beneath his shirt. One who smirked at her with something close to pity before she followed him upstairs.
• She’d stayed in the kitchen that night, scrubbing the marble counter until her fingers bled.
• Now, she rose to her feet and headed to the bathroom. The mirror was merciless. Her reflection stared back—disheveled, hollow, fragile. But her eyes still held that pathetic glimmer of hope.
• Maybe tonight he’d touch her gently. Maybe he’d look at her the way he used to—before the marriage became a cage and her love became irrelevant.
• But deep down, she knew he never looked at her like that. Not really. He never wanted a wife. He wanted property. A beautiful pet who obeyed without question, who wore his collar without complaint.
• She covered the bruise with concealer like he asked.
• Red lipstick. Just like he liked.
• A tight, expensive dress she hated.
• The ride to the club was silent. He didn’t look at her once, not even when she slid into the seat beside him. His fingers were already on his phone, texting someone who wasn’t her.
• She didn’t ask. She never asked.
• At the club, the air shifted. Here, Lucien was king. Every man bowed, every woman watched him like he was a god. And she… she was the queen no one respected. The shadow beside the throne.
• He paraded her in like she was a trophy—his arm locked around her waist, a possessive grip that hurt just enough to remind her she was his. Not loved. Just his.
• He whispered in her ear. “Smile.”
• So she did. She bared her teeth in the shape of one, let it stretch her lips even though her chest ached.
• They made it to the private lounge, where he took his seat on the leather couch. She stood beside him, waiting for permission to sit. He didn’t give it.
• Instead, he beckoned another woman forward. This one was blonde, with legs that went on forever and a laugh like broken glass. She slid into Lucien’s lap without hesitation, like it wasn’t her first time. Like she already knew the rules.
• Lucien’s hand didn’t even pause as it slid along the other woman’s thigh, fingers tracing circles. He didn’t look at his wife. Not once.
• And still, she stood there. Still, she obeyed.
• Because she remembered the night he’d offered her the ring. The terms of their arrangement. The paper she signed with trembling fingers, believing—hoping—it would be enough. That she could be enough.
• She had tried. God, she had tried.
• But here, in this room filled with smoke and sin, she realized he never wanted her heart. He wanted her obedience. And she had given it to him, again and again, even as it cracked her open.
• “You look tense,” he finally said to her, eyes still on the blonde. “Kneel. Maybe that will relax you.”
• The command was soft. Public. Humiliating.
• And she obeyed.
• Because that’s what pets do.
• Even as her knees kissed the cold marble and her pride shattered quietly at his feet.