“Magically make it … hmm. Not sure if there is enough magic in the world to get this traffic moving,” he mutters. He leans over and turns the radio off. It seems that I killed his good mood. Darn.
We start to pick up the pace. Reece is adept in the art of weaving in and out of traffic, and before I know it, he is pulling up to the front of the Astor and helping me out of the car. “I’ll be here when you are ready to go,” he says, as if he has any other choice but to wait for me, or as if I have any other choice but to go home with him at the end of the night. He probably wishes we both had a choice. I feel bad for yelling at him in the car. It’s my fault that I forgot about the dinner tonight, and I still can’t believe I did.
As I walk into the lobby of the hotel, I glance up at the enormous modern clock behind the front check-in desk and see that I am, indeed, ten minutes late. Most people wouldn’t scoff at ten measly minutes, they may even feel fashionably late, but Donovan is not most people. Donovan makes sure that his life runs exactly on time. He expects everyone around him to be on the same page or they won’t be around him for long. I’ve seen enough staff members and household help dismissed to know you don’t mess around with whatever Donovan wants, it’s just not done.
I walk into the Astor’s grand ballroom. A large cavernous space with shining marble floors and cream-colored walls that are covered in gilded molding, the magnificent crystal chandeliers sprinkle light around the room like fairy dust. It is an enchantingly beautiful room and for once, I let my heart flutter, imagining that I am here to meet someone special, like Cinderella finally crossing the threshold into the ball. I sigh and search the room for my imaginary perfect prince and lock eyes with Donovan. The spell is broken.
It is crazy what one stare from my husband can do to me. My feet feel as if they have become attached to the floor. My body is trying to do the smart thing and stay as far away from Donovan as it possibly can, while my mind knows that I have to go to him. Thankfully, my mind wins because I am able to pick my feet up and hurry across the floor towards him. My veins feel like they are pumping ice water through my system, I am shaking and short of breath. I know that for the duration of the dinner I’ll be fine, he wouldn’t do anything in front of all of these people, but his stare is a promise of the retribution to come.
He is a handsome man. I’ll admit that his looks went a long way to bring us together in the beginning. I am not an unattractive woman, I know this. My mother used to call me ‘little A’ because she thought I looked like Audrey Hepburn. I have long shiny dark brown hair that contrasts with my pale skin, and eyes the color of coffee heavy with creamer. I have a nice figure that is slightly curvy in the right places and slender everywhere else, but I was still shocked when Donovan turned his attentions toward me.
Saying that Donovan is handsome is actually an understatement. He has light chestnut hair and robin’s-egg blue eyes. His eyes have the ability to pierce through a person as if his stare is a stake driven through your body, holding you in place until he decides to let you go. His face is so remarkably manly that it’s hard to believe he was ever a child. It’s as if his mother birthed him as a full-grown man, and he would never trifle with anything childish or whimsical. His features are solid, his posture straight, and his frame assertive. He knows exactly how powerful he is and he isn’t the slightest bit afraid of anyone else knowing it, as well.
I walk over to the table where he, my father-in-law, and several other men from Chancellor Brand’s cabinet and their wives are sitting. All of the men stand up as I approach.
“Ophelia,” my father-in-law says as he lightly embraces me and plants a soft kiss on my cheek. “So happy you could join us, the first course has just been served. Don’t worry, you haven’t missed much.” He looks severely at me with his sharp brown eyes that are so different from his son’s and I fight the urge to wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. I have been admonished from him without any of the people at the table knowing. He looks over at his son and a knowing smile curls his lips. Satisfied, he knows the real punishment will come later, so he reclaims his seat.
“Phee,” Donovan says as he holds the back of my elbow and guides me to my seat. It hurts. A lot. He is using as much force as he can at the moment to let me know that I have displeased him. There will definitely be a bruise there tomorrow. I try not to wince, a little pinching is nothing compared to what is to come. “Hurry, sit. The emcee is about to introduce me; I’m the first speaker of the night. Thankfully, you haven’t missed much, darling.”
The use of the word darling makes the fine hairs on my arms stand at attention. There had only been one other time when he was so mad that he called me by a pet name, and that is the time I try to block from my mind more than anything. My knees are now shaking so hard under the table that I am surprised no one has noticed. I try to muster up every last bit of gumption I have and start to ramble out my already prepared excuse, “I am so happy that I have not missed your speech. The traffic was really bad on the way here; I think it’s a miracle that we made it at all. It seems like everyone was coming downtown at the same time and R—,” I almost said Reece’s name but thought better of it. I didn’t want to bring his name to my husband’s attention. There is no need for both of us to go down if it can be prevented. “The driver worked a miracle getting us here as fast as he did. I’m sorry, Donovan; you know how important it is to me to support you at these things.” I had to bite my tongue after saying that. The truth is, coming to these functions ranks right up there with the yearly gyno exam, but I digress.
At this time in my tale, I feel that it is imperative that I let you in on three simple truths:
First, my husband is not a good person. I know that, I think by now you may have realized this and are thinking that I haven’t. I can tell you that when I met him and when I told him I would marry him, he wasn’t like this. He was kind and patient, and he looked at me like I was the one thing he wanted more than anything in this world. Somewhere between ‘I do’ and now, he has dropped the ruse. Some people say that once married, people tend to let themselves go. Well, he decided to go the way of Anakin and let himself go to the dark side.
Secondly, I am not a victim. I’m not one of those women who have the ‘stand by your man’ mentality. I don’t think I deserve to be manhandled for being ten minutes late or for any reason, at that. So, maybe you are wondering why I am here, why would a smart 27-year-old woman who knows she is married to a complete arse be in this room or even in close proximity to said arse at any given time? Why wouldn’t a smart 27-year-old woman hightail it out of this situation and tell the arse he can shove his fist and his attitude where the sun doesn’t shine? Well, simply and sadly put, at this time, it is not possible and I’ve tried.
Oh, how I’ve tried. When the darker parts of Donovan’s nature first started to make an appearance, I told him he needed help with his anger issues, to which he laughed and said, “You have no idea.” Then he promptly slammed me up against a wall and I told him, “Peace out, I’m done.” Okay, so maybe it was more like me screeching and kicking at him and telling him I was going to call the police and have him arrested while he held me in place against the wall. Anyway, to this, he laughed again and said, “Just try.” Then he handed me the phone, and I did, in fact, try. No one showed up. So, I did what any sane woman would do, I packed a bag and left. Donovan let me walk out without a word; he just laughed again, a laugh that now scares me more than anything. He let me have a false sense of security. I made it about two hundred miles down the road where I stopped at a hotel for the night, unsure of where I would go or what I would do next, but relieved to be away from him. That night, I was awoken by three huge me, grabbing me, gagging me, and hauling me out in a very non-decorous way. One of them knocked me over the head. The next thing I knew, I was waking up back in our bedroom at Donovan Brand’s house of pain and I was locked in. I tried everything I could think of to get out of that room, to no avail. I was in there for three weeks with barely any
food, and only the company of Donovan as he came in every night to beat the living crap out of me and tell me that I was never to leave him again.
Did I let this little setback stop me from trying again? Hell no. As soon as I was allowed out of that room and had come to terms with the Lifetime movie my existence had become, I started planning my second attempt to flee. I wasn’t playing nice either. Donovan insisted that I eat my morning and evening meal with him, and he tried to resume sleeping in bed with me at night. So, I took one of the expensive steak knives from the dinner table and tried to stab him in his sleep. I can say with utmost certainty that the broken jaw and dislocated shoulder were well worth it that time, he’s never tried to sleep with me since.
Third, I will never stop trying to get away. I may seem pliable to my husband’s moods, a couple of fists to the ribs can do that to a smart woman, but it is all a ruse. I know Donovan knows it. I am not broken, not yet anyway. Our life together has become a game to him, one of his favorite games to play, ever. He pretends he is a loving husband in any and all social settings, I pretend I am a loving and devoted wife in the same settings. We both circle each other like a couple of caged lions in private. I try to keep him happy so he’ll keep his hands off of me (in every manner, sexually and aggressively). And, I still try to maintain my dignity and silent protestation of the life I am forced to live.
The room is called to order by the master of ceremonies of the night. Guests are welcomed and pats on the back are given. Then the speaker announces Donovan and he is out of his seat. He walks gracefully to the podium, and I can’t help but notice how the eyes of every woman in the room follow him adoringly. He has a casual arrogance to his walk that is nothing but one hundred percent genuine. He knows he is the alpha male surrounded by a pack of betas no matter where he goes, and his cockiness on the issue just adds to the appeal.
He takes the microphone and gives the crowd a smile that is half boyish grin, half devilish leer and begins his perfectly written and fastidiously delivered speech about the importance of the Chancellor’s vision for the country. The speech is pointless; the room is full of sheep that are already drinking the Kool-Aid.
This whole evening is a sham. Everyone in the country knows that the Chancellor and his son have them all in their tight grip. Some people may have tried in the past to slip out of the sides, but the grip tightened even more after the insurgents were hunted down and killed. Now there is no one left to challenge them at all. The elections are just a pretense, set up to give the illusion of a vote to the rest of the world, but fake, nonetheless.
Four years ago, I remember standing next to Donovan while my father-in-law gave his convincing speeches. I remember clapping for him and feeling proud because Donovan had such admiration for his father, and they were both so sure in their convictions. They preached that the country was going downhill because of the criminals that were hidden throughout. They stood on the platform that there were members of our society that could never be conformed, both blue collar and white alike. They promised the nation that when elected, Chancellor Brand would do everything in his power to search those individuals out and remove them from society.
They were talking about the thugs and druggies on the street, as well as the swindlers of hard-working people’s money in investment firms. They told the country that those people could never be reformed, and unless they acted now, the whole nation would implode. People believed it. They were scared of what they saw every day on the news, scared of how they were going to put food on their family’s tables; they were scared of each other as well. People had lost trust in their neighbors, friends, and even family members. The belief that human beings are inherently good was long gone. Chancellor Brand saw the fear and distrust and used it to bolster himself up to the position he now holds.
After the election, I remember the widespread reaping. Some promises were upheld and a number of people were collected like cattle, swept up left and right and imprisoned for their past, and presumably future crimes. They weren’t able to get everyone. The prisons began to get crowded and new prisons needed to be built, but Chancellor Brand had already been elected by then and people were temporarily appeased by what they saw. I watched it all unfold on television. I saw people being herded through towns and cities and loaded in buses while others cheered. Sure, there were a few protestors and resistors, but with the entire military behind them, the Brands squashed those problems quickly.
Two years into his term, my father-in-law had been given enough power by the people to take over the entire government. He had all of the members of Congress killed if they didn’t swear allegiance to him, and the ones who remained no longer mattered anyway. Chancellor Brand is now executive, legislative, and judicial branch of the government. His word is law. The saddest part is that most of the country is relieved about it. The economy has been back in an upswing and crime is virtually nonexistent. Our country has become stronger than ever with no threats from outside nations, due to the massive buildup of military at Chancellor Brand’s command. He is a modern day Mussolini; coincidentally, the trains do run on time.
The speech ends to raucous cheers and Donovan slinks back to the table beside me. I stare at the bubbles in my champagne glass as they slowly fizz around in the liquid, trying to find their escape. As the speeches go on and each course is served, I sink further into myself while zoning out and wishing that I were one of those bubbles, wishing for a distraction to get lost in the world amongst all the other bubbles and break free. The next thing I know, I’m snapped back into reality by chairs screeching abruptly across the floor and the sound of women’s gasps. The bubbles in my glass have doubled and tripled continuously and are now covering our table, soaking through the starched white tablecloth and dripping to the shiny floor.
Donovan is pulling me up again with a painful grip on my elbow and leading me away from the mess, all while trying to rationalize what has just occurred to the lemmings previously seated at our table. “What is wrong with this champagne?” he spits at the wait staff as they approach to assess the situation. “This bottle must have been shaken by someone before they brought it over. This is completely unacceptable. Our guests’ meals have been ruined, and someone will be held accountable.”
As he continues to berate the wait staff, my eyes linger on my glass of champagne. It is still spewing suds; this is not something that can be explained by a shaken bottle. The liquid was completely placid when it was poured. There is no other logical explanation for what happened and yet, everyone around us seems to be buying Donovan’s tirade, so what do I know? I am not about to question such happenings nor Donovan’s explanations for them in front of strangers anyway. I shake my head, dragging my mind away from the champagne and the bubbles stop coming.
The waiters swiftly clean up the mess and bring new linens and place settings for the table. Everyone has just been reseated when Donovan turns to me and sneers, “You’re not feeling very well tonight, are you darling?” This is both an out and an accurate prediction for my future. Donovan is displeased with me and wants me gone. Fine, I would rather be alone while I contemplate what’s to come anyway.
“No, I am suffering from a headache, dear,” I say through clenched teeth but loud enough for the occupants of our table to hear.
Donovan stands up and pulls my chair out. “You must excuse my wife as she is feeling under the weather and must return home.” The guests at the table give me quick goodbyes and feel betters, and my livid husband escorts me from the room. My legs aren’t matching up to his long strides, so it appears that I am being dragged, rather than led, out to the awaiting cars.
As the heavy glass hotel doors close behind us, Donovan throws me up against the outside brick façade and my head smashes into the unforgiving wall. I didn’t have a headache before but I will definitely have one now, at least he is not lying to his constituents about that. He grabs me by both of my upper arms and I can feel the bruises forming as he shakes me, once again driving my head i
nto the wall. “Couldn’t help yourself, could you? Had to cause a scene? Well, don’t you worry, Ophelia,” he expectorates my name from his mouth as if it were sputum. “You won’t be able to help yourself tonight when I get home either. I will see you in a few hours, and we will see what kind of tricks you can pull then, won’t we, my dear?”
I am left shaking in fear, pain, and indignation. Why is he insinuating that I caused a scene? I did nothing but sit at our table and listen silently while all of the peacocks fluffed themselves and Chancellor Brand up, droning on and on about how wonderful the new world order was and how much of a difference Brand’s administration has made for our country. What is wrong with him, besides the obvious, and what do I have coming to me tonight? Oh God, I have to get out of here. This is not good, this is not good.
My palms are sweaty and my hands are red from gripping them so hard, Reece clearing his throat interrupts my outrage. I turn to him and notice that his brows are furled. He is angry with me—maybe for the words we exchanged earlier, maybe for something else—and I am embarrassed suddenly to think that he may have witnessed the scene with my husband a few minutes ago. How long have I been standing outside? I don’t know. I guess it really doesn’t matter. I go to climb into the car and Reece grabs my hand, softly for someone who is angry. I squeeze his hand, trying to silently make peace with him. The events of the night are not his fault; he is just a regular guy, trying to do his job.
I look up to catch his eye and offer an apology and for a moment, I am staring at James, with the same kind expression on his face and crinkles at his eyes as he gives me a sympathetic smile. Then I blink and it is Reece again. As if this night couldn’t get any weirder, my eyes are playing tricks on me, too. Reece, however, seems to have decided to be friendly again, and he smirks as he helps me into the car and we set off back towards the Donovan Brand estate. Yay.
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