After My Husband Silenced Me, I Destroyed Him

The city looked small from the sixty-fourth floor.

Beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass, Manhattan glittered in cold squares of yellow and white. Rain streaked down the windowpane, blurring the lights into smears.

Behind me, the penthouse was dark, except for the glow under the master bedroom door.

The sounds carried easily through the quiet rooms. A rhythmic thud against the headboard. Brooke’s sharp, breathy moans. Then Rowan’s voice—deep, rich, and raw. The voice that won three Grammys. The voice sold out stadiums across the world.

I didn't flinch. I didn't cover my ears.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small, dog-eared calendar. The paper was worn soft at the edges. I clicked my red ballpoint pen and found today’s date. October seventeenth.

I drew a clean, heavy *X* through the box.

Fourteen days remain.

The bedroom door clicked open ten minutes later.

Rowan walked out tying the belt of his navy silk robe. His dark hair was damp. His chest was flushed. He looked at me sitting on the sofa, his mouth curling into that lazy, familiar smirk.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a black American Express card, and flicked it across the glass coffee table.

It slid to a stop inches from my knee.

"Make yourself useful, Daphne," he said. His voice was smooth as velvet, dripping with disdain. "Order dinner for three. Italian. From Il Posto. The truffle pasta Brooke likes."

Brooke stepped out behind him. She wore a black lace slip that belonged to me two seasons ago. Her long blonde hair was a tangled mess over her bare shoulders. She draped an arm over Rowan’s neck and gave me a slow, sweet smile.

"It must be so nice to have a little helper around the house," Brooke cooed, resting her chin on his chest. "Like a live-in maid. Only quieter."

Rowan laughed. A rich, easy sound. He pressed a kiss to her temple. "She knows her place."

I picked up the black card. My face didn't move. I dialed the restaurant, typed the order into their app, and set the table.

Thirty minutes later, the food arrived.

I set three porcelain plates around the dark mahogany table. I brought out the cloth napkins, the silver cutlery, and a freshly opened bottle of Cabernet.

Rowan sat at the head of the table, his eyes locked on his phone, scrolling through social media mentions. Brooke sat to his right. I stood by the sideboard, ready to clear the containers.

Brooke picked up her wine glass. As I reached past her to set down the bread basket, her elbow jerked sideways.

The glass tipped.

A heavy wave of dark red wine sloshed over the rim, straight onto my lap. The cold liquid soaked instantly through my cotton skirt, clinging to my thighs.

"Oh!" Brooke gasped, pressing a manicured hand to her mouth. Her eyes danced with malice. "Clumsy me. I am so sorry, Daphne."

Rowan didn't even look up from his screen. He swiped his thumb.

"Get a towel, Daphne," he muttered. "Don't let it ruin the hardwood."

I backed away in silence.

I walked down the long hallway into the guest bathroom and locked the door behind me. I didn't cry. My tear ducts had run dry years ago.

I stripped off the stained skirt, turned on the faucet, and scrubbed the red wine from my pale skin with a damp washcloth. The water ran pink down the white porcelain drain.

When I finished, I looked up.

The overhead lights buzzed faintly. In the mirror, my reflection stared back at me. Pale skin. Hollow cheeks. Dark circles beneath empty, dark eyes.

I reached up and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my blouse. I pulled the collar wide.

Across the base of my throat, running thin and pale against my skin, was a horizontal surgical scar.

I raised a trembling hand and traced it with my index finger. The skin there was raised and numb. Five years ago, an experimental blade had cut into my flesh. Five years ago, I had given away the music in my chest so the man in the other room could sing.

I looked at my own eyes in the glass.

They weren't broken.

They were waiting.

My phone vibrated on the marble counter.

The screen lit up with an incoming video call. *Dad.*

My chest tightened. I quickly buttoned my collar to the top, wiped my face, and pressed accept.

The screen flickered. My father, Henry Carlson, appeared on the display. He was propped up against a thin hospital pillow in his long-term care facility. An oxygen tube rested beneath his nose, and his cheeks were paper-thin. But when he saw me, his tired eyes crinkled with genuine warmth.

"Hey, sweetheart," his voice crackled through the small speaker, weak and scratchy. "You look tired. Are you eating enough?"

I smiled. I forced my lips to stretch wide and bright, nodding quickly. I raised my right hand, signing smoothly: *I’m fine, Dad. Just busy.*

"Good," Henry whispered. He coughed softly into his fist, then leaned his head back. "Is Rowan home? Is he treating you well? Is he treating my little girl like a queen?"

My heart squeezed until it ached. I kept my hands steady in front of the lens. I nodded again, touching my heart, mouthing the words silently: *Like a queen.*

"Good," my father murmured, his eyelids fluttering shut with exhaustion. "He’s a good man, Daphne. Never forget that. You two have a blessed life..."

His voice trailed off as he drifted into sleep. A nurse stepped into the frame, offered a kind nod, and ended the call.

The screen went black.

"Touching."

The voice came from the open doorway.

I whipped around. Rowan stood leaning against the frame, a half-empty glass of scotch in his hand. He swirled the amber liquid, ice clinking against crystal.

His eyes were cold.

"How is the old man doing?" Rowan asked casually. He took a sip. "The private room looks comfortable. The private nurses look attentive."

He took two slow steps toward me, backing me up against the marble sink.

"His dialysis costs thirty grand a month, Daphne. The experimental kidney treatments add another twenty. All billed straight to my accounts."

He reached out and tapped my cheek with two fingers. Hard.

"Your father is alive because of my generosity," he whispered, his honeyed voice turning razor-sharp. "Don't ever forget who keeps that old man breathing. One phone call, and he's out on the street."

He turned on his heel and walked away, his silk robe trailing behind him.

I stood completely still in the cold bathroom.

Behind my back, my hands curled into fists. My fingernails dug into the meat of my palms until I felt the sharp prick of broken skin. A tiny bead of blood welled up, bright and hot.

I checked the digital clock on the wall.

It blinked.

*12:00 AM.*

Thirteen days.