Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 78491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78491 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 314(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
I paused after he got out of the car at our apartment building, wanting to take my own elevator up, not wanting to give him a reason to turn his anger on me again if he saw me walking on my tiptoe of my broken heel.
“Ma’am,” the doorman called, giving me a nod and a half smile.
He didn’t miss the blood.
His keen, middle-aged eyes never missed anything.
“Hey, Harold.”
“If you bring that shoe down to me later tonight, I can fix it up just like new for you.”
“Can you?” I asked, brightening.
Eren being pissed meant he would double fist his beers until he passed out, which would make it earlier than usual.
If I could get the shoes back before he got up in the morning and set them out somewhere that he could see them, it could ensure that there would be no future incidents with my husband over their brokenness.
“Absolutely. Good as new, ma’am. My grandfather used to fix his shoes. I learned at his side.”
“You are a lifesaver, Harold,” I told him, not reaching out to touch his arm like I wanted to, still too aware of Eren’s driver idling at the curb.
“Don’t even mention it. If I am not there, just drop them behind the desk.”
“Thank you,” I said, rushing inside.
I hadn’t lived in the greatest area or the nicest apartment building growing up. It was the kind of place where you needed to keep all your dried goods in glass because the mice could eat through the plastic storage containers.
But I would take that often rodent-infested six-hundred square foot apartment with no actual bedroom for myself—just a pull-out couch in the living room—over Eren’s luxury apartment building any day.
And not just because Eren’s love of all things brass, gold, white, and black kind of gave me a headache. But because there was something about my childhood apartment that just felt homey.
No matter what was going on in the world or our lives, it felt like a sigh of relief when you walked through the doors, like all the world’s weight slid off your shoulders when you moved inside.
Eren’s apartment was cold.
I always felt tenser upon entering.
Maybe it was simply the lack of those feminine touches that most of us associate with feelings of comfort and warmth. Lush drapes on the windows, throw pillows on the couches, rugs to squish your feet into, and throw blankets to wrap yourself in when you sat down to watch television.
There was none of that in the apartment I now shared with Eren.
I’d once made the mistake of trying to incorporate some of those softer touches.
And let’s just say I never attempted such a thing again.
It was strange to live in a place you could never quite call your own, that you never felt like you fit into, that provided you no comfort.
It had been well over a year and a half since our sham of a wedding had taken place.
I still hadn’t grown used to the space, despite only rarely being allowed to leave it.
I found quiet moments of relaxation on the days when Eren left and I knew he would be gone for a while.
On those days, I would close myself into the guest room—because nothing about the bed in the master suite could be called comforting—slip under the covers, and let myself imagine a world where I didn’t have to live with a tyrant who dictated every area of my life.
It was foolish to let myself hope, of course.
The only future for me, free of Eren, was if he died.
I hated him a little more each time I found myself hoping for his death. I hadn’t been raised to be someone who wished death on anyone else. My parents had always been the kindest people on Earth, always wanting to help others even when they had so little to offer.
But Eren made me wish for his death.
Because it was the only way I could get free.
Unless, of course, some day, he decided he was sick of me. Though, I wasn’t sure what that future might hold for me, so I didn’t let myself entertain thoughts like that often.
Eren didn’t strike me as a man who just let a woman go, even if it was his decision.
With him, there were always consequences.
A lot of them, it seemed, of the permanent kind.
“No, can you fucking believe this? Who would be targeting me?” Eren roared, seeming to be on a different phone call, making a big deal out of such a small thing.
But he had already broken into the beer. Which worked in my favor.
So I set my shoes deep in the closet, cleaned up my knees, and set to making sure his bottle was never empty long before I provided him a fresh one.
He liked to drink the stronger stuff.
The smell of it made me immediately nauseated. And I couldn’t tell you if it was the drink itself, or if it was simply because I associated that smell with my so-called husband.