Marriage is presented to many women as the ultimate achievement. The immaculate white dress, the delicate veil, the trembling smile, the slow walk towards the man they believe they will love forever. From the outside, everything seems perfect, magical, almost unreal, like a dream from which no one wishes to awaken.
But dreams, like books, always have another page. The question isn't whether that page exists. The real question is what it contains.
Sometimes the next chapter is gentle. Sometimes... it is bloody.
Less than a year after my wedding, my dress is no longer white.
It's stained with my blood. Invisible to the world, but very real. My Prince Charming is named Thomason, Thomas to his friends. At first, he had everything going for him: tender, patient, charismatic, the kind of man who opens doors and smiles politely at strangers. The kind of man everyone likes. Now, he's violent, cold, and cruel in a way that's inexplicable to those who have never lived under the same roof as such a manipulative monster.
My name is Amaris Noctelle. My mother, a white woman fascinated by what she called "authenticity," gave me this name without ever explaining its meaning. My father, a tall, fierce Black man despite the fact that he often cheated on my mother, was the only stable presence in my childhood. Yes, I know, it may sound strange.
I'm twenty-five. I have mixed-race skin, strong features, and light blue eyes—a disturbing blue that always seems to invite people to stare at me a little longer than they should. Yes, again: a Black woman with blue eyes is rare, but that's me.
" get up."
His voice pulls me from sleep like a blade tearing through the fabric of night. I keep my eyes closed, hoping to steal a few seconds of peace. Sometimes, pretending to sleep buys me a little more time.
But clearly not today. The slap comes without warning, my cheek burns, and my head snaps to the side before hitting the pillow. For a moment, the room spins around me.
"You need to prepare breakfast. It's nine o'clock."
His voice is calm, almost blasé, as if hitting his wife were just a minor inconvenience. In this house, violence is commonplace. Thomas doesn't even wait for a response. He turns and leaves the room as if nothing had happened.
I remain motionless for a moment, breathing slowly. Then another image flashes: I see him on the ground, pleading, his face covered in blood, my hands stained with it. I blink sharply and banish the vision. No! If I let these thoughts fester, I risk ending up like my mother.
I get up slowly and go down the stairs. Halfway down, I hear another voice talking to my husband. Deeper. Warmer. I already know whose it is.
"Hello, Amaris."
Mickael. My husband's older brother. Thirty-five years old, tall and athletic, he has a presence that effortlessly fills a room. His smile has the power to make you forget your worries, if only for a moment.
I freeze when our eyes meet. He doesn't look at me like Thomas does. His gaze is neither cold nor contemptuous. It is... attentive, almost curious, almost tender.
"How are you?" he asks.
Such a simple question, and yet the answer seems incredibly complicated.
"I'm fine," I say mechanically. A lie, of course. I head towards the kitchen before the silence becomes oppressive. "What would you like for breakfast?"
"It doesn't matter," Mickael replied. "Everything you cook is good."
I feel his gaze on me as I prepare the meal: eggs, toast, coffee. Simple things. My hands move mechanically while my thoughts wander. Since Mickael moved in three months ago, something has changed. Something subtle.
Something forbidden. Something dangerous. An almost magnetic attraction that draws me towards him. He and I are playing a kind of cat-and-mouse game, a very dangerous one.
A few minutes later, I set the table. Thomas and his brother sat down, and somehow I found myself sitting across from Mickael. A coincidence, perhaps. I tried to focus on my food while the two brothers chatted, but their conversation became just background noise.
Because something under the table is brushing against my leg.
At first, it seems accidental, barely perceptible. Then it happens again, slower this time, more deliberate. I'm breathless. I remain perfectly still, afraid that the slightest movement will reveal what's happening.
Why is he doing this now? Why in front of his own brother?
The contact glides lightly along my leg, causing an unexpected shiver. I clench my teeth and keep a straight face. I mustn't let anything show.
When I finally dare to look up, Mickael is already watching me. His expression is calm, almost amused, as if he fully understands the effect he has on me. Our eyes remain fixed on each other for a moment too long before I abruptly look away.
In another era, such a desire would have been a crime punishable by burning at the stake. Today, it is merely a temptation. But in a house where violence lurks behind every door, temptations can quickly become weapons.
And for the first time, a dangerous thought crossed my mind:
Is Mickael my way out?
Or the beginning of an even greater catastrophe?