Page 27 of Your Sharpest Edge
11
stassi
It had been quite a few months of going over to Alex’s place whenever Dimitri would go out and party. At this point, our routine was pretty regular. My husband was probably having a full-fledged affair, but I didn’t care because every night he was home, it physically hurt being around him.
Silently, I begged him to leave, to find someone else who’d actually enjoy his twisted form of control. But he never did—except at night. Lately, he wouldn’t even come home until the next morning, which meant more time for me to escape to Alex’s apartment, the only real refuge I had from this nightmare.
I didn’t know how to leave this marriage. The thought of disappointing everyone was overwhelming, making it easier to just stay. We’d only been married a few months, but I held onto the hope that if I won this upcoming US competition and added it to the money I’d been quietly saving from teaching kids to skate, it might finally be enough to move out.
Dimitri hated the idea of me competing, and it sparked his anger, but there wasn’t much he could do to stop me. He’dpunish me at home by demanding more from me, but the chance of me winning meant more money, which kept him appeased, even if just barely. Our home was nothing but a cold, empty space, and every day felt like walking on eggshells, waiting for the next blow. The only peace I found was when he was away at his games or practice.
When he was home, it was all about his needs—sex, demands for meals, criticizing how I cleaned, or tearing apart my appearance. Just yesterday, after losing a game, he’d ripped through my closet, destroying most of my clothes. This morning, he left his card out, muttering an apology and telling me to go shopping, blaming his outburst on the lost game. It was a cycle I knew all too well, but maybe this competition could be my way out. I refused to touch a dime of his money. Instead, I took what little I earned to buy a used sewing machine and some cheap fabric.
I was sitting at my second hand machine, struggling to figure out how to thread it, when the front door slammed open. My heart jumped, bracing for whatever mood Dimitri was in this time.
I shoved the sewing machine into the back of my closet and then straightened my maxi dress to go greet mydearhusband. His blonde curls were gelled back, and he was wearing jeans and a plain black T-shirt. He came in with his typical expression—mouth pulled tightly—and slamming doors.
“It’s bye week for us.” He pushed past me and headed right into the closet.
I closed my eyes, praying to the god above that he didn’t see my new machine.
“What does that mean?” I asked. He didn’t look back at me as he grabbed an overnight bag and opened it wide. “Are we going somewhere?”
“I am,” he answered.
“Y-You are?” I asked hesitantly.
“Yes.” He then grabbed a few shirts from his dresser before he turned around toward me.
“I thought we were going to visit our parents during your bye week?” I asked, not realizing we were already almost at the end of the season.
Originally, the plan was to go back to Moscow so our parents could celebrate our marriage since they weren’t here to witness our ceremony.
“I’m going back to Russia after the season is over. It’s too long of a flight for me to go this week.” He brushed past me, back to the walk-in closet.
He saidI, not us. He knew about my competition, but he gave absolutely no shits about me or what I was doing. Not that he ever did, but why did he keep me around? Why was I special enough to be here? Why not just be with whoever he was vacationing with?
“So, where are you going now?” I asked from the closet doorway.
I was still his wife. I wasn’t allowed to do anything or even call Layla anymore, so what gave him the right to go out and do whatever he wanted? I deserved to know where my husband was going. I was a good fucking wife to him.
He paused and then whipped around, storming over to where I was. He lifted his hand over the door, caging me in. I flinched.
“I fucking told you. You’re going nowhere. I’m leaving with a friend.” His fists were clenched at his sides.
“F-for the whole week?” I ventured tentatively, feeling his foul breath on my face as he loomed over me.
As much as I wished he wouldn’t be with anyone else, the thought of having the house to myself for an entire week ignited a flicker of hope. Finally, there would be no one to report to,and solitude was within reach. I could spend the entire day practicing if I wanted.
God, yes. Please fucking leave me alone.
“Yes.”
He pushed off the doorframe and moved to the dresser in our closet that held all the stuff he used during sex. He grabbed the paddle he sometimes used on me to cause me pain, not pleasure—when his hand got tired of punishing me—and shoved it inside his bag.
“With that?” I immediately regretted asking.
He stalked back to where I was, his hands reaching up, hovering over my neck.
