Chapter 12: You Don't Even Like Me

• Her stomach churned, and her head spun as she raced up the carpeted stairs. She pushed the door of her bedroom open and ran straight toward the bathroom, unsure if she was going to faint or throw up first.
• She could hear Sean’s footsteps pounding up the stairs behind her, but she ignored him and slammed the bathroom door shut. She twisted the lock and collapsed onto the cool marble floor. Curling into a fetal position, she closed her eyes.
• Seeing Marco had triggered a long line of terrible memories. She’d held most of them off in the cell, but she couldn’t fight them anymore. They crashed over like a wave and dragged her back into the past.
• She shivered and shook, feeling phantom pinches and punches, kicks, and slaps. She heard Marco’s voice, slurred with alcohol calling her a useless slut. She heard his voice sharp and sober, too, accusing her of ruining his life and her own. She felt the heavy weight of him on top of her, the pawning of his greasy hands, and the animal grunts he made as he satisfied himself.
• She didn’t know how long she spent curled on the bathroom floor, her ribs felt bruised, and her muscles cramped. A long, constant banging sound pounded in the back of her mind. She pushed herself into a sitting position, and the booming seemed to get louder. Someone was knocking on the bathroom door.
• “Let me in, Catherine,” Sean shouted.
• She bit her lip and hugged her knees up to her chest. The banging continued.
• “That’s it,” Sean shouted. “I’m breaking down the door.”
• Another wave of memories came crashing over her. She saw herself in the same bathroom, hiding from Sean as he kicked down the door years ago. He stormed in and grabbed her by the neck, lifting her up until her feet dangled uselessly beneath her, and she gasped and choked for air. The room had blurred and faded around her, and she’d woken up on the hard marble floor—Sean’s cold fingers pressed against her neck, checking her pulse.
• She shivered. Sean seemed so much more refined than Marco, but he was violent too. In her last life, he’d kept her as a prisoner. He’d smashed her phone and separated her from Marco. She had refused to eat, ignoring the gnawing teeth in her stomach that grew sharper with each day, but her hunger strike had failed.
• On the third day, Sean marched into her room and showed her a video on his phone. Weak with hunger, she didn’t understand what she was looking at. Muffled grunts and groans played throughout the video as several men in black moved around a chair. They moved with such coordination and precision they seemed to be dancing.
• “Every time you miss a meal, your dear Marco gets another beating,” Sean said.
• Only then did she understand the video: Sean’s men were beating Marco.
• “Do you know how many bones the human body has?” Sean asked. “Two hundred and six. And I won’t stop until every single one is broken.”
• She’d yelled at him and cursed him and begged him to let her go, but he was unmoved. Exhausted by her emotional outburst, she’d collapsed against the soft pillows of her bed. Sean turned to leave the room but paused at the door. For as long as she lived, she never forgot what he said.
• “You’re mine, Catherine,” he had said, his voice calm and emotionless. “All mine.”
• “You’re sick,” she’d shouted back. “You don’t even like me.”
• “Maybe I do,” he’d said, shutting and locking the door behind him.
• For a few days after that, she’d behaved herself. She ate regular but small meals and remained silent whenever Sean was in the room. One day at breakfast, she slipped a small paring knife into her pocket. After that, she started to hurt herself—small, shallow cuts at first and then longer, deeper ones on her arms and legs.
• She didn’t mean to kill herself, but the knife had slipped in her wet hand, and it sank far too deep. At first, she’d been fascinated as the rosy blooms of blood swirled and stained the soapy bathwater, but then she’d found herself starting to panic. She screamed and screamed. When she woke up, she was strapped down to a hospital bed, and Sean hovered above her.
• “So you’d rather die than be with me?” he asked.
• She closed her eyes and said nothing. Eventually, his footsteps echoed across the room, and she heard the door click shut behind him. The next time she opened her eyes, Madison and her uncle was there, shouting at her about the elopement—as if they hadn’t been behind it.
• The pounding on the door continued, and she shook her head to clear away the memories of the hospital room and her past life.
• “Please,” she called toward the door. “I’m fine, I just need a moment of privacy.”
• The pounding stopped, and Sean said, “You have exactly two minutes.”
• Using the edge of the marble-topped vanity, she pulled herself to her feet. Moving as quickly as she could, she stripped off her jeans and examined the back. A small rusty red splotch stained the light denim.
• She crossed the room to the sink and ran the cold water, using the scented lavender bar of hand soap to scrub at the stain. The violet soap lathered, and she stepped out of her underwear and dropped it into the soapy water.
• “One minute,” Sean called from the door.
• Racing into the closet, she grabbed a pair of underwear and the darkest jeans she could find. Back in the bathroom, she slapped a pad into the underwear and tugged the clothes on. The door burst open as she was still buttoning the jeans. The adrenaline of the moment wore off as soon as she saw Sean, and she sagged against the sink.
• “What are you doing?” he asked, his eyes narrowed with suspicion.
• She stared at him, blankly, feeling her knees start to buckle beneath her.
• He strode forward, and his hard-soled shoes clicked menacingly against the marble floors. His eyes flashed, and his shoulders tensed. He reached toward her, and she imagined him grabbing her by the neck. Her knees gave out, and she crashed onto the floor.
• ***
• Sean rushed forward as Catherine’s knees started to buckle, but he was too slow. She collapsed to the floor, knocking her head against the side of the sink as she fell. Dropping to his knees, he grabbed her small crumpled form and cradled her in his arms. She mumbled something, but her eyes remained closed.
• His heart pounded in his chest. Why was she so weak? What was wrong with her? He carried her back into the bedroom and placed her on top of the bed, and rang for the doctor. The doctor bent over her, listened to her heart, and checked her breathing. Finally, he shook his head.
• “There’s nothing physically wrong with her,” he said. “It seems more like she’s suffered emotional trauma.”
• “But she hit her head,” Sean insisted.
• “Not that hard,” the doctor said. “I didn’t even feel a bump. It’s definitely emotional in nature.”
• “Get out,” Sean hissed.
• The doctor scurried out of the room, and Sean bent over Catherine. Even in unconsciousness, her face was wrinkled and worried. Her eyes darted back and forth beneath the thin skin of her eyelids, and her lips moved restlessly as if she was speaking.
• Had seeing Marco done this to her? Had she been so traumatized by his imprisonment or by his cruel words? Was she suffering heartbreak, or was she still enamored with Marco? The thought of her loving Marco sent ice through his veins. Marco’s words echoed in his mind—had she really thrown herself at him? What had she let him do?
• He watched her. Though her eyes were closed, small tears leaked down her face, soaking her dark eyelashes and making wet spots on her cheeks. Was she crying for Marco? Was she mourning his injuries? Sean’s heart beat a painful rhythm in his chest.
• “Wake up, god damn it,” he whispered.
• Catherine’s eyelids flickered, and her eyes opened. The green irises shone with unshed tears, and Sean started to reach out. He wanted to wipe the liquid that beaded on her lashes, to trace the tracks the tears had made down her cheeks. He froze midair and lowered his hand to his side. She’d made it clear how she felt about him.
• “Crying for Marco, again,” he said.
• Her eyes widened, “What?”
• “Don’t play innocent,” he sighed. “I took you to see him renounce him, but you clearly pity him. You wish you could comfort him and help him escape.”
• “What?” she asked. “No, of course not. He’s an asshole, and I don’t care for him at all. I wish I didn’t know him.”
• “Then why are you crying?” he asked, trying to fight the flicker of hope.
• “I’m crying because I have regrets,” she said.
• The hope grew stronger, “Regrets about what?”
• “About everything,” she said vaguely, closing her eyes again.
• The hope cooled and died in his chest. If she regretted everything, she regretted him too.
• “About everything?” he echoed. “Hmm, I’m not sure I believe that. I think you’re crying about Marco. You wanted to spend your life with him, and now you find out he’s betrayed you. I think these are tears of heartbreak.”