I frown at the chiffon shawl in my hands, trying to remember what I have going on Monday morning.
It finally dawns on me. "I can't on Monday. I have a yoga session with Remy in the morning."
There's a pause that I don't think anything of until he walks into the bedroom and crosses his arms over his chest. He’s dressed in a three-piece dark blue suit and, just as it always is when he’s dressed up like this, his confidence is palpable. "A yoga class? Since when?"
I turn to study my reflection in the mirror. I’m wearing a floor-length dress, the blue color bringing out the brightness in my blue eyes, and the thin straps leaving nothing to be desired of my shoulders and back. I wrap the shawl around my shoulders in an attempt to cover myself a little more. "We saw a flyer for it at the café and thought it looked fun. We're actually taking the morning off work so we can get brunch afterwards."
When he's quiet again, I finally recognize the stillness in the room. I look at his reflection through the mirror, and sure enough, there's fury flashing like lightning in his eyes.
I grip the shawl tighter and quirk my head in confusion. "Why? What's wrong with that? Can't you just take an Uber to the airport? I thought the company paid for stuff like that."
I see his fists clench where he's still standing in the doorway. He's not looking at me, which is not a good sign.
He’s not used to me pushing back on him. In the past year, I’ve fallen so deep into the yes-woman hole that even asking an innocent question like that is enough to inject palpable tension into the room. But lately… it’s almost like that part of me that’s always tried to keep from angering him isn’t automatically snapping into gear. Or maybe I care less. Because this is now the second time this week I haven’t jumped to do something he’s asked of me—even as I feel his anger grow.
"Were you even going to invite me?" he asks through clenched teeth. "Or did I not even cross your mind?"
I swallow nervously and turn around so I can give him my full attention.
"I—I wasn't going to invite you," I admit quietly. "You hate yoga, and you hate mornings. I assumed a 7am yoga class was the last thing you would want to do."
He lets out a rough laugh and shakes his head, still not looking at me.
"You really don't ever think of me anymore, do you?" he asks with a cruel laugh. "While I'm out here buying you flowers and planning dinner dates, trying to make you happy, I don't even cross your mind. Unbelievable."
I feel a pang in my chest at his accusation. Iknowhis logic is flawed, and Iknowhe's manipulating me, but his tone and control over my emotions don't stop his words from hitting their mark. I can't escape the bone-deep need to make him happy.
Even if I really,reallywant to.
Because despite my epiphany three weeks ago on the morning of his birthday, Istillcan’t bring myself to stand up to him in the way I need to. I still feel like I’m chained to his well-being, like no matter what he does or says, if he’s wrong and being an asshole, Istillneed to do what I can to placate him.
"That's not true," I say quietly but firmly. "I think about you all the time, Steve. Not inviting you to something I know you'll hate doesn't mean I've stopped caring about you."
His nostrils flare as he finally turns to me and tries to incinerate me with his stare. "Is that true? So then why would you agree to brunch if you give a shit about me?"
I give him a quizzical look. "What's wrong with brunch?" Suddenly, it occurs to me that he might be protesting me leaving the house—at all—without his knowledge. I narrow my eyes at him as rage starts to boil in my veins. "Are you seriously telling me you expect me toconsultwith you before I make any plans that involve leaving the house? Have we really progressed that far?"
If it's possible, his fury intensifies tenfold. He doesn't like that I'm standing up to him. And I want to feel proud, but instead I feel nervous. Steve's not the type to take a lashing. He's the type to give them out, whether they're deserved or not, just so he can hold the power in the dynamic.
I shrink into myself, bracing for whatever verbal beating he's about to cut me with.
He stares at me with a darkness in his eyes that I've never seen before. "Don't be a fucking idiot. I'm not a tyrant. But itdoesinvolve me when your plans include being a worthless drunk in public."
My eyes widen. "A drunk? Because I'm getting brunch? What thefuck, Steve!"
"Don'tuse that language with me,” he snaps.
By now, I'm sure I'm gaping. "Youcursed atme!"
He finally shakes his head and drops his gaze to the floor in front of him. As if in total disbelief, he shakes his head again with a rough laugh.
"Whatever," he says flatly. "Do whatever you want, Hailey. Get as drunk as you want. Fuck as many guys as you want. I'm sure you and your whore sister can pick up plenty of guys for a little orgy."
My blood freezes at the words. Everything around us stops, and I'm not even sure I'm breathing anymore. This can't be real life. That did not just happen. He did not just say that.
Iknowhe gets jealous when something or someone other than him holds my attention. I’ve heard plenty of stories about his horrible ex-fiancée who cheated on him, and I’ve seen him take his insecurities out on me just as often. It’s not the first time he’s talked down to me by implying I should go cheat on him; it’s not even the second.
But he hasneverinvolved Remy in his insults. It’s always been an unspoken thing between us, a clear line that’s been drawn without saying it out loud that I won’t tolerate any hate against my sister. I might have trouble standing up to Steve to defend myself, but there’s not a bone in my body that will stand to hear him talk badly about Remy, regardless of his issues.