The ice of the refrigerator didn’t just chill my skin; it seemed to seep through my spine, freezing the very marrow of my bones. I stood there, one hand clamped over the hard, protective curve of my seven-month belly, the other braced against the handle of the appliance. My breath hitched, a shallow and jagged thing. In front of me stood Jason Miller, a man who had once been my sanctuary but had lately become my storm. He smelled of cheap whiskey and the metallic tang of adrenaline, a scent that had replaced the woodsmoke and laundry detergent of our early marriage. The kitchen clock above the sink, a wedding gift from my mother, ticked with a rhythmic, mechanical violence. Tick. Tick. Tick. Every second felt like a hammer blow against my skull.
“I wasn’t sneaking, Jason,” I said, my voice barely a thread. I fought to keep it level, to keep the tremor from betraying the sheer terror liquefying my knees. “I’m exhausted. My back is killing me. I’m pregnant, for God’s sake.”
He didn’t move. He just stood there, filling the narrow corridor between the Formica counter and the fridge, a shadow that blocked out the light from the living room. Then, he let out a laugh—a sharp, barking sound that held no mirth. It was the sound of a man who had long since discarded his conscience.
“Don’t you dare play that card with me, Emily,” he sneered, stepping into my personal space. “Not tonight. Not when you’ve been watching me like a hawk for three weeks.”
