Page 70 of Convenient Vows

It doesn’t feel like a metaphor. It feels literal, physical, and brutal. I sit down slowly, forcing the air back into my lungs.

All this time...

Has he only been enduring me? Sleeping with me for fun? Bidding his time till the one year is over? So, I’m nothing but a warm body to pass the time? An available lay? And I almost told him I loved him. Almost gave him the last weapon to use against me.

Boy, I’m I glad that I didn’t. Glad that I found out in time that I am nothing but a nuisance in his space. Nothing but a contract with an expiration date.

I squeeze my eyes shut, shame flooding every corner of me body. I want to scrub the last few months from my body. From my memory and from soul. But, I can’t. Instead, I hurriedly gather up my things and move back to my old room. The space still smells like me. I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands resting in my lap, trembling.

Every memory rushes back, a thousand scenes playing at once.

Zasha’s laugher, how he’d held me when I was grieving Luisa. The way he looks at me, like I meant something to him.

All of it is now tinted from the knowledge which I now possess. A part of me somehow regrets going to look for him, while the rational part is grateful, I did.

Because I would have remained in my blissful ignorance.

I stand up slowly, and peel off the dress I’d picked out to look beautiful for him. Next, I scrub off my makeup and take off my jewelry. I sit back on the bed and wrap my arms around my knees, resting my chin there, trying to keep the tears from falling.

“I will never beg to be loved.” I murmur fiercely, trying to steady my voice. “I will not chase after someone who apparently does not want to be caught.”

What’s the point in humiliating myself. He said he cannot wait to see the end of this marriage, right?

Well, I’ll make it easier for him.

While I am still trying to figure out how to face him without breaking down, I hear his voice calling out for me.

“Mara?”

There’s frustration and confusion in it, and also, a sliver of worry that would have once made my heart cheer.

But not now.

I sit perfectly still on the edge of the guest bed, my reflection in the mirror already halfway fixed. My hair is brushed, and my eyes a little less red. He is not going to get the satisfaction of seeing me broken.

“Mara!”

He tries the kitchen. The terrace. I hear the heavy footsteps down the hall, the hurried way he opens doors. His voice growing louder with every room he checks.

Still, I don’t move. I need these few minutes. I need the swelling in my throat to go down. I need to wipe away every last trace of the girl who almost confessed her heart.

Just as I am turning away from the mirror, the door swings open. He stops in the doorway like he’s been punched in the gut.

“Why are you in here?” he asks, his breath a little shallow. “You’re not dressed. I told you we’re going out.”

I turn slowly.

His eyes are searching mine for something—a joke, maybe. Some explanation that makes this make sense.

But I don’t offer him one.

I meet his gaze, calm and flat. “I’ve been trying to talk to you since you came back hours ago.”

Zasha steps farther into the room, slower now, as if he senses the emotional landmine he’s walked into. He stops a few feet away, his eyes fixed on mine. His fingers twitch at his sides like he’s about to reach for me.

And then he does.

He reaches out, but I flinch. I cannot stand his fucking hands ever touching me again.

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