The Bourbon
The kitchen air was heavy, sharp with lemon oil and the bitter sting of bourbon soaked into every surface. On the counter: one bottle empty, another half-drained, amber streaking its sides. A single glass sat untouched, its purpose abandoned.
Ethan leaned against the counter, forearms braced, shoulders tight. His shirt hung half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled unevenly. His hair fell forward in dark strands, shadowing eyes that glinted too bright, sharp but unsteady. His silence pinned her as surely as a hand.
She set her bag down carefully, the strap sliding from her shoulder with a whisper that sounded too loud in the stillness.
"I'm late," she said, voice calm on the surface, her throat tightening.
The glass caught the light, a reminder, a warning.
The Accusation
Ethan's jaw flexed, a muscle twitching hard beneath his cheek. His words weren't slurred; they were too clean, too deliberate.
"Do I disgust you?"
Not a question. A sentence.
His hand tapped once against the rim of the empty glass, sharp and controlled. "Or is it him?" His voice cut lower, venom coiled. "Hart. You think I don't see it?"
Her stomach dropped. Heat surged to her face, but her body went cold.
"Work," she said, clipped. It was all she could offer, the only shield left.
The word cracked the air like glass under pressure.
The Shatter
The glass hit the counter before she even saw him move. The crack split the room, sharp and final, followed by the scatter of fragments across tile, glittering, jagged.
The bottle tipped, bourbon bleeding down the counter, the smell flooding the air.
Her body jerked back. His hand closed around her wrist, crushing, dragging her forward.
Her hip struck the counter; pain flared. Her shoulder slammed into the wall. Breath tore loose, ragged, humiliating.
"Ethan…"
"Don't." His face was too close, breath hot and sour. His grip ground into her jaw, forcing her head back.
The Abuse
He shoved her down hard, her cheek scraping the floor, jaw pressed against wood and tile. His forearm cut across her chest, pinning her with his full weight.
"Say it," he snarled. "Say you've been with him."
Her breath caught, lungs crushed beneath his weight, "No."
His palm slammed her jaw harder against the floor, teeth rattling. "Don't you lie to me."
Her eyes blurred, tears stinging, glass biting into her palm where she tried to brace.
"I asked you!" His voice broke into a roar. "Say it!"
Her voice splintered, raw. "Yes."
The word tore out of her before she could stop it, the last of her defense.
Ethan's breath struck her ear, low, vicious. "Then you'll take me the same way. You don't get to choose."
His shirt rustled, fabric yanked over his head. A zipper rasped. The sound hollowed her chest.
Her dress ripped as he forced it up, cold air cutting her thigh. Her palms pressed against the floor and the glass shards. One edge bit her hand, sharp enough to sting, but she held there. Anchoring to pain she could control.
The man she had married. The man she had built a life beside, was dead. What pressed against her now was only desperation, weight and rage, dragging her down, ribs jarred against tile, glass cutting her hand.
His voice gutted her, steady and cruel against her ear, "I thought this is how you like it."
The words twisted consent into cover.
Air came shallow, every inhale edged with glass and bourbon. His breath quickened, ragged, drowning hers.
Until with one last sharp movement, he collapsed on top of her. His weight crushed.
His words rasped against her ear, "If you're lucky, I might come back for round two."
This was not surrender. This was not hers.
The ceiling light hummed. The house stood steady. And beneath his weight, Lena fractured, mind sliding out the edges, body left behind.
The Ruin
When his weight lifted, the room stayed the same. Bourbon clung. Glass glittered, some edges wet with red. Silence carried more violence than his hands had.
He looked at her once, unreadable, then turned and left. His footsteps dragged up the stairs, fading into distance.
Lena remained on the floor, ribs aching, wrist throbbing, the sting in her palm blooming red from the cuts.
Her eyes fixed on a shard, its edge catching the overhead light, releasing it, catching it again. A rhythm steadier than her own breath.
Her green eyes stayed open. She did not cry. She did not move. She let the silence fill her lungs until it became the only thing left alive in the house.
Later, she rose in stages. She reached for the broom, hand shaking, palm stinging where shards had cut. She managed two strokes before her knees buckled. The handle clattered against tile. She sank back down, ribs aching, chest too tight to draw breath.
Her mind flooded with a single thought, cruel as any blade: That she deserved it.
The kitchen remained broken, and so did she.
The Threshold
The front door opened softly, a sound out of place in a house that reeked of shattered silence.
Julian stepped inside, his expression composed until his eyes found her. On the kitchen floor, blood bright against her palm, ribs rising too shallow, shoulders drawn into a shell too small to hold her.
Something in him broke.
He didn't ask. He didn't speak. He crossed the distance and gathered her into his arms, coat wrapping her like shelter, her head falling limp against his chest.
As he carried her out of the kitchen, past the glass, past the bottle, past the ruin, his jaw was set like stone, but his arms held her as if she might vanish if he loosened them even a fraction.
Her silence was total. His fear was absolute.
And the house, for the first time, was no longer hers.