Our fifth anniversary was supposed to be a reprieve. A milestone. I had spent hours at the salon, pouring myself into a sleek, emerald-green silk dress that I hoped would finally earn a sliver of genuine affection from the man sitting across from me. We were at L’Aubergine, an upscale, dimly lit steakhouse where the air smelled of dry-aged beef, truffles, and quiet, exorbitant wealth.
The crystal chandeliers cast a soft, forgiving glow over the pristine white tablecloth as our waiter poured a vintage Champagne. David smiled, a practiced, hollow curving of his lips, and reached into the breast pocket of his charcoal blazer. He slid a small, carelessly wrapped white envelope across the table. My heart performed a pathetic, hopeful flutter. A necklace? Tickets to that Broadway run in New York he knew I wanted to see?
I peeled back the adhesive. Something plastic and brightly colored slipped out, clattering against the fine china.
I stared at it. It was a promotional card, violently neon orange, from a budget gym chain operating out of strip malls. First Month $10! was emblazoned across the top in aggressive block letters.
The blood drained from my face, rushing violently in my ears. I looked up, the ambient noise of the bustling restaurant suddenly dropping away into a vacuum of white noise.
David leaned in close. The expensive, peppery scent of his Tom Ford cologne washed over me, instantly sickening. His lips grazed my ear, his breath warm, his voice a silken, venomous caress.
“Happy anniversary,” he whispered, each syllable perfectly articulated. “You’re embarrassing to look at.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t even look at my face to register the impact of the blow. With practiced nonchalance, he raised two fingers to signal the waiter for the check. He stood up, buttoned his suit jacket, and looked down at me with eyes as flat and cold as slate. “I’m taking an Uber home to take a shower. Don’t wait up.”
He turned and walked out, weaving through the affluent crowd without a backward glance. I sat alone in the dim light, the emerald silk suddenly feeling like a straightjacket. My fingers clamped down on the cheap plastic card until my knuckles turned a bruised, bloodless white. I thought, in that shattered, humiliating moment, that the night couldn’t possibly get any worse. I was completely, blissfully unaware of the twisted, deeply personal nightmare waiting for me on my own pillow the next morning.
