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With a sigh, I stand behind her and pull down the zipper of her dress, revealing porcelain white skin covered with a sheen of water.
I help her shimmy out of the dress, trying my hardest not to stroke her hard nipples, touch her pussy, or slap her arse for good measure.
Jesus Christ.
Wanting to do the right thing with this woman is harder in practice.
I try to push her toward the shower, but she refuses to budge. She also seems to have checked out. Which isn’t always a bad sign, because at least this way, she’s less destructive.
My hands are steady as I dry her to the best of my ability without lingering too much on her breasts or pussy, then to eliminate the temptation, I slip on her white gown.
No. It’s not better.
Her wet blonde locks frame her face angelically, and the silk material clings to her skin with soft elegance.
I pick her up and carry her in my arms, then place her in the bed and pull the duvet over her body.
She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling as if I’m invisible.
My lips brush over her forehead. “Good night, beautiful.”
I’m about to pull away, but she clutches my cheeks and shoves my mouth against hers. The cut stings, but I couldn’t care less, because when she releases me, a soft smile brightens her face.
“Good night.”
And then her eyes flutter closed.
As I watch her peaceful expression, I almost forget that I’m married to what’s societally known as a madwoman.
Worse, she doesn’t even know it.
And I’ll make sure it remains this way.
17
AVA
The morning comes with a surprisingly refreshing start. I haven’t slept so soundly in…well, ever, now that I think about it.
Except for in my very distant, barely memorable childhood, I’ve often had a crippling problem with sleep.
Eventually, it scared me to the point where I always made sure I slept on my own and never with others.
The only person I trusted not to sell out my chaotic mental state and tragic future was Cecily.
When we were at uni, she often checked on me before bed, stood there until she was satisfied I’d taken my medication, and even prepared me a glass of milk or some herbal tea.
Part of the reason why I fell with less grace than broken china in my final years of uni was because I was hit with the reality that she had her own life. Expecting her to stay with me forever when I knew for a fact that she yearned for a family of her own was both selfish and shameful.
My own thoughts—jealousy of Jeremy and the inability to accept my new situation—are what drove me over the edge.
Alcohol, drugs, and any form of escapism. I lost my grip of reality more often than not and stressed so hard about the very possibility that Papa would figure everything out and shove me into a mental institute.
Despite forgetting two years, my current life seems the most stable I’ve had in a long time.
The most confusing, too.
On one hand, I’m extremely grateful and content with my balanced routine, but on the other, I feel dreadful about the fact that my tyrant husband has had something to do with it.
