22
Elise
Hearing Andrew downstairs, I go to my bedroom, close the door, then go over to the window. I feel the walls close in, knowing that if Niamh refuses to leave, I’m trapped. I’d thought she’d embrace the chance to get away from here. I never imagined she’d want to stay.
As I think of a future with Andrew, the sense of freedom I felt earlier evaporates. Instead, my life feels like a jail sentence, the house a prison, to which Niamh holds a key she can’t give me.
Knowing my only hope is to talk to her again, I get up. But as I reach her bedroom, I hear voices coming from downstairs. Tiptoeing to the top, I crouch down, trying to make out what Andrew’s saying. I hear Niamh’s voice, and suddenly I know what she’s doing.
My heart thumping, I tear down the stairs. I almost trip, but when I reach the bottom, Niamh rushes out of the kitchen and past me, her face ashen.
“Niamh...” But my cry is lost as she runs upstairs and slams her bedroom door. Swallowing, I walk into the kitchen, trying to hide my sense of dread.
Leaning against the worktop, Andrew is cool as a cucumber. For a moment, relief floods over me. Niamh hasn’t told him, after all. But it was obvious something had upset her.
“What did you say to Niamh?” I stare at him, guarded.
Shaking his head, he smirks. “I simply told her that you and I were going to have a little chat.”
There’s a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach; while my eyes are riveted to his. “What about, Andrew?”
His voice is deadly quiet. “Your naïve little plan, Elise. What else?”
I stare at him. “You can’t force me to do anything. Not anymore.”
“Can’t I?” His upper lip curls into a snarl. “I can do whatever I like.”
I try to suppress the fear that’s rising. I swallow again. “What do you want?”
“I want my wife to stop dreaming up ludicrous ideas and feeding them to our daughter,” he says lightly. “I’m not letting you leave, Elise. I’ll do whatever it takes to stop you.”
As he steps toward me, his threat isn’t even thinly veiled. Fear swirls around me. In that moment, I know I’m in danger. But I also know I have to stop giving in to him—otherwise nothing will change. “We have to talk, Andrew.” My voice is desperate. “This is no way to go on. You’ll have another affair—we both know that. It’s over between us. It’s been over for years. We don’t love each other.”
But as I look at him, I know our relationship was never about love. It’s about control—it always has been. As if reading my mind, he nods slowly, then his hand reaches out and he clasps my arm.
I try to shake it free, but his grip is too tight, pinching my skin. “Let go.” I say it as forcefully as I can. Then I feel the first of his blows across my face. It’s swiftly followed by another, then another, as the full force of his anger is unleashed.