Chapter 1

ChapterOne

ISLA

Smack. The slap to my right cheek is so vicious that it blends with his brutal kick to my stomach a few minutes ago. “Can you shut up, Isla?”

I cover my face and body with my arms to shelter me from further blows.

He thinks I deserve this. It’s always my fault somehow. I say the wrong thing, or he’s had a bad day, and my face is the cushion for his turbulent emotions. He’s beaten me to where I’m too traumatized to say anything, not that there’d be any point. When Paul is like this, it’s almost as if he creates his own reality, completely caught up in whatever twisted notion his mind has conjured up.

Today, the trigger was a guy named Tommy who looked at me a little too long in Introduction to Chemistry. Paul wouldn’t have known who Tommy was, except he had me shadowed by one of his goons. Being with Paul means I’m never alone—I’m always accompanied by Paul or one of his pathetic boys desperate to get on Paul’s good side.

Tommy is a nerdy kid who can’t even make eye contact with men, let alone women. I tried to explain this to Paul and got a fat lip for my trouble. This is usually how it goes. I try to use words to calm him down, and he uses his hands to break me.

Paul frantically claws at his hair as his feet shuffle on the wooden floor where he’s pacing. “I give you everything, don’t I, Isla?”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer as he storms out of the room. I have a moment of respite before his boots thump on the hardwood floor, and he enters my orbit again.

He takes a few steps toward me and crouches down. His hot breath assaults my face before his blood-curdling roar takes up all the oxygen in the room. “All I ask is for you not to act like a little slut around other guys.” He throws a long sleeve turtle neck and loose-fitting pants at me. “There’s no reason you can’t cover up.”

I glance down at my Palazzo black pants and scoop-neck short-sleeved shirt.

“You wore that dress asking for attention. Is that it, Isla? You want to be a little whore?”

I wince from the pain of his fingers as they dig relentlessly into my upper arm, and he shakes me violently.

“No one looks at you, Isla. You’re mine. I won’t have other men’s eyes on what belongs to me. It’s for your own good. I’m keeping you safe, baby.” He pulls me toward him and crashes his lips to mine. The kiss is aggressive and brutal. There’s no tenderness to be found in his lips. All I can taste is his rage, masked by delusional affection.

His teeth dig into my bottom lip, a final warning before he pulls away. “Get yourself presentable. We’re having dinner with my father.” The corners of his lips turn up into a cruel smile, and he shoves me to the floor again as he towers over me. A reminder of his dominance, a show of force, demonstrating how helpless I am against him. My heart sinks because the knowledge is a bigger blow than his fists ever could inflict. I am aware it can get worse—much worse. “Remember to keep your mouth shut and your answers short.”

I fist the clothes he threw at me, holding them close to my body as if the pieces of silk and cotton could form a shield of protection, and scamper off to our bedroom—a room that has become a prison, only missing its bars.

I take in the large room with weary eyes. The sunlight cascades through the giant bay window onto the pristine white duvet perfectly placed on the four-poster bed. An Instagram-worthy space full of lies hidden behind picture-perfect aesthetics that look nice through the lens of a camera. But it’s an illusion because Paul is the opposite of picture-perfect. He is the vision of nightmares. Every touch, even those meant to bring pleasure, ensures lasting horror on my skin.

I apply the sponge carefully, quickly hiding all the fresh bruises and marks with the expensive makeup Paul purchased for me. My eyes roam my face in the mirror as the harsh bruises of purple and red now hide behind the skin tone shades of the foundation. Another evening of smiling and pretending I’m this perfect partner for a perfect man instead of the pathetic victim of a deranged animal.

A soft knock at the door. This is when he shows me kindness, a glimpse of remorse I’m sure he never means. These are the moments I don’t hate him so much as I hate myself because I’m to blame for accepting the empty words he utters time and time again.

“Come in.”

The door slides open, and Paul moves timidly toward me. The anger and harsh stomps have dissipated. My skin crawls as he places his hands on my shoulders. The gesture is meant to be comforting and loving, but it’s just a reminder of his power, his ability to do what he wants when he wants.

“I’m sorry I lost it back there. You know I love you, right?”

Love. I’m not sure Paul even knows the meaning of the word. Or perhaps he does. Maybe to him, love is violence with glimmers of light. Perhaps when he places his hands on my flesh in bouts of anger, it’s moments of true unbridled passion. I don’t comprehend what’s in his mind, and no matter what I do, I can’t change who he truly is. All I can do is accept this place he has made for me in hell or dig myself out, hoping to find peace and tranquility again.

His fingers dig into my biceps, warning me to pick my words carefully. He’s letting me know that one false move and the makeup I applied will be for nothing because fresh bruises will cover my body like a blast. “I understand, Paul. I’m sorry for everything.”

I’m pathetic. But at least I realize it. I’m not convinced Paul cares for me anymore. Perhaps he never has. Today is the day I recognize without a doubt that if I stay, Paul will kill me.