Chapter 2 - THE ARCHITECTURE OF SUFFOCATION
The syllables left his mouth in a low, gravelly vibration.
The sound resonated in the hollow space of his chest before striking her face.
He leaned in a fraction of an inch closer.
The scent of his cologne—sharp cedar and cold gin—overpowered the sweet aroma of the vanilla centerpieces.
Her eyelids did not flutter.
Her jaw remained clamped, the muscle beneath her ear jumping in a rapid, uncontrollable spasm.
Everything I want.
The phrase echoed in the cavernous dining hall.
She stared at the white silk of his tie, perfectly knotted against his throat.
She looked at the heavy mahogany table stretching out behind him.
Dozens of tall, tapered wax candles melted slowly onto silver candelabras.
Thick, blood-red cloth napkins were folded into stiff, geometric peaks on gold-rimmed china.
The wealth of the room was suffocating.
Every crystal wine glass, every polished silver spoon, every inch of the imported silk drapes felt like a bar on a cage.
His dark blue suit jacket shifted as he adjusted his weight.
The fabric pulled tightly across his broad shoulders.
His neat, dark beard was trimmed with absolute, ruthless precision.
Not a single hair was out of place.
He demanded control over every atom in his universe.
Including the swollen red skin on her cheek.
His finger finally lifted away from her face.
The sudden absence of his touch left a cold, stinging vacuum on her skin.
He dropped his hand to his side.
His knuckles cracked, a sharp, brittle sound that made the woman in the emerald gown two seats away flinch.
He took a half-step backward.
The leather sole of his Oxford shoe ground against the Persian rug.
The gap between them widened, but the atmospheric pressure only increased.
She let her arms hang loosely at her sides.
The black fabric of her dress whispered against her thigh.
She waited.
She knew the touch was only the preamble.
May you like
The real violence was always in the words that followed.
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