Hot Summer Night

2 - Seraphine

I held my breath for a moment and then slowly let it leave my lips as I stood at the bottom of the stairway, calming my nerves before heading to Chadwick, trying to tell myself I didn't look like a whore, that I looked perfect and beautiful. Marla did an excellent job covering up my husband's handwork, but I feared she may have used a bit too much where Chadwick will accuse me of trying to resemble a slut and, in his words, looking like a slut to purposely attract men that would love to please my needy pussy.

I looked down, rubbing my hands down my dress, ensuring everything was in place before I headed into the other room to find Chadwick.

"Hello, Mrs. Stevens. Would you care for a flute of champagne or a glass of red or white wine?" the cocktail waitress asked, stopping me.

One thing I'm not allowed to have without my husband's permission is alcohol. And I badly needed alcohol to help me get through this night like I needed oxygen to survive. I looked over her shoulder and then scanned the room to see where he was before I grabbed a glass of bubbly for myself.

Finally, I spotted my husband's inquisitive eyes homed in on me on the opposite side of the room, watching me—waiting to see if I'd take a glass from my husband's hired help tray or if I'd wait until he handed me a glass of champagne or gives me the okay to have one.

His eyes finally locked with mine, and I gazed at him with wonderment—silently asking him with my eyes if it was okay to have a glass of what she was offering me. Relief flooded my rattled nerves when he nodded, letting me know I could have a glass.

My gaze returned to the woman's tray she held in front of me, and as I reached for my drink of choice, I said, "I'll have a glass of champagne." Hopefully, a belch doesn't come about while drinking this bubbly-flavored wine, causing him to lash out at me from embarrassment. "Thank you," I politely told her before walking away.

I carefully took a small sip from the flute and headed toward Chadwick. I would've taken a large sip or even drank the contents in one swallow, but I wanted to savor something I knew would be the only glass he'd allow me to have.

His hand immediately snaked around my waist when I approached him, talking to a couple of men who looked to be more important than someone from the government. He studied my face briefly, then leaned to me and kissed my cheek, surprising me when he muttered, "You look beautiful. Marla did a good job hiding your imperfections."

I fought my eyes from rolling. Imperfections... you mean the bruises you gave me as a reminder never to upset you.

"She did," I agreed instead of telling him what I wanted him to hear while raising my flute to my lips and taking a sip.

I wanted to snap by telling him I could've gotten ready myself and that I didn't need anyone making me look like someone he wanted me to be, but knowing what would happen if I did, I remained quiet.

"Excuse us," Chadwick told the government officials he was talking with, "My wife and I have to continue making our rounds."

While my husband walked me around the room, introducing me to people I couldn't care less about, I pretended to act like a good wife would do—like I cared. I shook their hands, smiled happily, and praised Chadwick on his excellent work, doing everything possible not to shove my finger down my throat and gag myself during the gloating process.

I know that's childish to want to do, but I can't help it. I hate boasting about a guy who's done nothing but control and hurt me—turning me into a woman who'll bow at his feet no matter our situation.

I've overheard people talk whenever they saw and heard how he speaks down to me. They're always accusing me of being weak, assuming that I must not know I have a voice, and claiming I'm more than capable of standing up for myself. But they're not in my shoes—they don't understand my situation. Every time I've stuck up for myself in the past, the beatings worsened.