The days following the incident with Michael were a blur for Amelia. Every time she looked in the mirror, the faint yellowing bruise on her cheek served as a painful reminder of what had happened. She took to wearing her hair down and applying extra makeup, hoping to cover the mark and the shame that accompanied it. Yet, no amount of concealer could hide the guilt and fear that now shadowed her every move.
Michael, for his part, seemed to be on his best behavior—or at least what passed for his best. He was more attentive than ever, constantly checking in on her, sending her flowers, and planning elaborate dates. On the surface, it was as if he was trying to make up for his outburst, but Amelia knew better. She could feel the tension simmering beneath his charming facade, like a storm waiting to break.
One evening, a few days after the slap, Michael arrived at her apartment unannounced. His sudden appearance sent a spike of anxiety through her, but she forced a smile and let him in, praying that tonight would be different.
"Surprise," Michael said, holding up a bottle of wine and a bag of groceries. "I thought we could cook dinner together. Something special, just for us."
Amelia hesitated, but the hopeful look in his eyes made her nod in agreement. "That sounds nice," she replied, though her voice lacked enthusiasm.
Michael's smile broadened, and he moved into the kitchen, setting the groceries on the counter. "I picked up everything we need for a gourmet meal. You just relax, and I'll take care of the rest."
Amelia followed him, feeling the familiar unease settle in her stomach. Michael had been especially attentive lately, almost to the point of smothering. He didn't leave her much time to herself, always wanting to be close, to know what she was doing and thinking. It was as if he was trying to erase the memory of his violence with gestures of affection, but every touch, every smile, felt like a chain tightening around her.
As Michael cooked, he chatted about his day, about his business, about plans for their future together. He spoke with a confidence that made it clear he assumed they had a future, that Amelia was already his, completely and irrevocably. Amelia tried to focus on his words, to respond appropriately, but her mind kept drifting to the incident, to the fear that had rooted itself deep within her.
When dinner was finally ready, Michael poured them each a glass of wine and led her to the table. The meal was exquisite, a testament to Michael's culinary skills, but Amelia found it hard to enjoy. Her appetite had vanished, replaced by a gnawing anxiety that wouldn't let her rest.
Halfway through the meal, Michael reached across the table and took her hand, his touch sending a jolt of electricity through her. "You've been quiet tonight," he observed, his tone gentle but with an edge that made her heart race.
Amelia forced a smile. "Just tired," she lied. "Work has been stressful."
Michael's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't push. Instead, he lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her knuckles in a gesture that was meant to be affectionate but felt possessive. "I've been thinking," he said, his voice low. "Maybe it's time you cut back on work. You don't need to stress yourself out like this. I can take care of you, Amelia."
Amelia's stomach tightened. She knew where this was going, and the thought of it made her feel trapped. "I like my job, Michael," she said carefully. "It's important to me."
Michael's grip on her hand tightened just enough to make her wince. "And I'm important to you, aren't I?" he asked, his tone deceptively soft.
"Of course," Amelia replied quickly. "You know you are."
"Then trust me when I say that I know what's best for you," Michael continued, his eyes boring into hers. "You don't need to work so hard. You should be focusing on us, on building a life together."
Amelia swallowed hard, trying to find the right words to diffuse the situation. "I appreciate that, Michael, but my job is part of who I am. It gives me purpose."
Michael's expression darkened, and he released her hand, leaning back in his chair. "You're not listening to me, Amelia," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm trying to help you. You should be grateful."
The air in the room grew thick with tension, and Amelia felt a wave of fear wash over her. She knew what could happen if she pushed back too hard, but the thought of giving up her job, of losing the one thing that was still hers, filled her with dread.
"I am grateful," she said softly, her voice trembling. "I just… I need some time to think about it."
Michael's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Amelia thought he might explode. But then, just as quickly as the anger had appeared, it vanished. He leaned forward, his expression softening. "I understand," he said, his tone suddenly gentle. "Take your time. I just want what's best for you."
The sudden shift in his demeanor left Amelia reeling. She nodded, too afraid to say anything else, and reached for her wine glass, hoping it would calm her nerves.
After dinner, Michael suggested they watch a movie, and Amelia agreed, though the idea of sitting close to him made her stomach churn. They settled on the couch, Michael's arm draped possessively around her shoulders, and Amelia tried to focus on the screen, but her mind was elsewhere.
As the movie played, Michael's hand began to wander, his fingers tracing patterns on her arm, her thigh, moving slowly, deliberately. Amelia's breath hitched as his touch grew more insistent, his hand sliding under her shirt to caress her skin. She stiffened, her body tensing in response to the sudden intimacy.
"Relax," Michael murmured, his lips brushing against her ear. "Let me take care of you."
Amelia wanted to pull away, to tell him she wasn't in the mood, but the words wouldn't come. She was too afraid of what might happen if she rejected him, too afraid of the anger that lurked just beneath the surface of his charm.
Michael's hand moved lower, his touch growing more demanding, and Amelia felt her body respond against her will. Her mind screamed at her to stop, to push him away, but the fear held her in place, paralyzed by the memory of his slap, the bruise that had barely faded.
He leaned in, his lips capturing hers in a kiss that was both forceful and possessive. Amelia's heart pounded in her chest, her mind racing as she tried to keep up with the intensity of his desire. Michael's hands were everywhere, pulling at her clothes, his breath hot against her skin.
"Michael…" she began, but he silenced her with another kiss, his hands tugging at the waistband of her pants.
"Shh," he whispered, his voice husky with desire. "I need you, Amelia. I need you right now."
Amelia's pulse quickened, a mix of fear and unwilling arousal coursing through her. She didn't want this—not like this—but she didn't know how to stop it. The memory of his anger, of the slap that had left her cheek stinging, loomed large in her mind, and she felt trapped, powerless to resist him.
Michael's hands roamed over her body, his touch demanding, almost punishing. There was a roughness to his movements, a barely contained violence that made Amelia's skin crawl. But she couldn't bring herself to fight back, to tell him no. She was too afraid, too caught up in the twisted web of fear and desire that had ensnared her.
He pulled her pants down, his fingers digging into her hips as he positioned himself above her. Amelia's breath came in shallow gasps, her mind screaming for her to push him away, but her body remained frozen, paralyzed by the fear of what he might do if she refused.
"Look at me," Michael commanded, his voice low and commanding. Amelia forced herself to meet his gaze, her heart pounding in her chest as she saw the intensity in his eyes. He leaned down, kissing her again, his lips bruising against hers as he moved against her.
The pain and pleasure mingled, a confusing swirl of emotions that left Amelia feeling disoriented and sick. She closed her eyes, willing herself to disappear, to detach from the moment and let it pass, but the feeling of his hands, his weight, kept pulling her back.
When it was over, Michael collapsed beside her, his breath heavy, his grip on her wrist tight enough to leave marks. He didn't say anything, just pulled her closer, his arms wrapping around her in a possessive embrace.
Amelia lay there, staring up at the ceiling, her mind numb with shock. She felt like a shell of herself, hollowed out and empty, her body aching from the roughness of his touch. The reality of what had just happened, of how far she had fallen, weighed heavily on her, but she didn't know