Their uniforms and serious demeanors shifted the room's energy. They were different from the ones who I met at our house. They needed a statement. Pascal's voice echoed from the swelling and the pain medication as he began to speak.
He told them we were sitting together on the couch in my house, talking about our future, when three men we'd never seen before approached us. He claimed they demanded our phones and wallets, and when he resisted, they beat him. A random robbery. A violent but straightforward crime.
My eyes snapped to his. He couldn't meet my gaze. He stared fixedly at the starched white sheets, his story flowing with a practiced ease that made my stomach burn with uncontrollable acid. He was lying. And he knew that I knew. I saw the shame there, a watery shadow in his swollen eyes, before it was replaced by a stubborn, defensive resolve. He was denying ever knowing Rocas, the man he'd done "business" with.
The senior officer, a man with kind eyes and a weary stance, listened patiently. "I understand, sir. It's a traumatic experience. But we will find these men. We'll increase patrols in that area. We will get the culprits," he assured Pascal, his voice filled with a confidence that felt hollow to me. They were looking for ghosts because the man in the bed was pointing them in the wrong direction.
"And what can you say, ma'am, in this case, as you were also a witness?" My heart sank to my stomach as I didn't know what to say.
"She has been traumatized by the incident ever since…" Pascal's voice interrupted the silence. "And she could get more traumatized by your questions," he begged.
"Alright, sir, we will do our best and our job," they replied kindly.
"Thank you, officers. We know the best will be done by your hardworking efforts," Pascal's mom said with a faint smile at the police.
As the door closed behind the officers, the room jumped quickly into a heavy silence. His parents began to show unnecessary concern over his water glass, giving us a moment of false privacy. Pascal's hand, calm and weak, found mine.
"Millie, look at me," he whispered, his voice desperate.
I couldn't. I stared at the wall, at a generic print of a serene landscape that felt like a cruel joke.
"Millie, please," he begged, his fingers tightening. "This was the last time. I'm done with all of it. I swear on my life. I'll give you the world, everything you've ever wanted. Just please, don't go."
His promises, once the music I longed to hear, now sounded like the rattling of chains. The "world" he was promising was built on a foundation of lies and cowardice, paid for with blood and fear.
A wave of pure, unadulterated disgust washed over me. It was a physical sensation, sour and hot, rising from the pit of my stomach. I felt my skin crawl where his hand touched mine. This man, the one I had promised to marry, was so deep in his own deceit that he would rather let violent criminals roam free than admit his own fault. He was willing to let the police chase shadows while he hid in plain sight, wrapped in the bandages of his own making.
I gently, firmly pulled my hand away. The silence that followed was louder than any of his empty promises. I finally looked at him, and what he saw in my eyes wasn't anger or hurt, but a cold, still, and final revulsion. The world he could give me wasn't one I wanted to live in.
I believe Millicent for once; now, Pascal wasn't the right man for me, neither is the Mafia.
Days went on, and it didn't pass by without me coming to the hospital to check on Pascal. Though I didn't feel any love for him anymore, I had to play the good girl.
After a week of the incident, with Rocas still in the hospital, I went to Roca's house alone without my friend Becky. It was the longest journey of my life. I had practiced the words in the mirror, a packaged script of independence. "It's over, Rocas. We are done. Stay away from me. Whatever we shared that day, the sex and the feelings are gone for good."
And there I was again, at the house where we both shared an intimate moment together. The two men at the gate didn't stop me. They simply looked through me, their faces carved from the same stone as the house, and one of them pressed a buzzer. The gate swung open with a low, metallic groan, an invitation into the belly of the beast.
He was waiting for me in his study, a room that smelled of old leather, expensive cigar smoke, and power. Rocas wasn't a large man, but he filled the space; his presence was a physical weight. He stood by the fireplace, a crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand, not even looking at me as I entered.
"Milicent," he said, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in my bones. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"
"I'm done." The words came out, but they were smaller than I'd intended.
He finally turned. His eyes, the color of dark honey, swept over me, and a faint, terrifying smile touched his lips. "Done? Don't be ridiculous, cara mia. You're home."
"No." I forced steel into my voice, taking a step forward. "This is your house. It's not my home. I don't want this life. I don't want… you. I'm staying away from you."
The smile vanished. He placed his glass on the metal piece with a deliberate, quiet click that was louder than a slam. He walked towards me, not with aggression, but with a predator's effortless grace. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. I wanted to step back, but my feet were rooted to the Persian rug, trapped.
He stopped mere inches from me. I could smell his cologne, the familiar scent that once made me feel safe, now suffocating.
"Never," he said, the word soft, absolute, and final as a guillotine blade.
A cold dread, sharper than any fear I'd ever known, trickled down my spine.
"You don't get to decide that," I whispered, my boldness crumbling.
"I do." He reached out, and his fingers, surprisingly gentle, traced the line of my jaw. I flinched, but he held my gaze, his eyes burning with an intensity that was possessive, worshipful, and utterly terrifying. "I will never let you go, Milicent. You are the only beautiful, unspoiled thing in my world. You are mine."
"Please," I begged, the last vestige of my courage deserting me. "Just let me go."
He leaned in, his lips brushing my ear, his whisper a venomous promise. "I will love you to the end of my days. To the end of yours." He tried to kiss me by pressing his lips to mine, but I wasn't interested. He tried to push his hands under my breast, and he succeeded. I felt warmth under my pants, but I resisted the hot liquid trying to make its way out of my pus*sy, so I could prevent it from dripping. Though I was lost and needed that hot sex, I had to hold myself back this time. I quickly snapped away from his soft touch because if I stayed for one more minute, I would give in to his tempting di*ck.
But he got angry when I pushed him off me.