His Fiancée Drugged and Tortured Me

The first sign was my tongue. It felt thick, like a wet towel in my mouth.

Marcus was telling a story about his mother's cat. I watched his lips move. The words came late, like a bad phone line.

“Emerie?” he said. “You okay?”

“Fine,” I said. It came out *fffine*.

My pulse pounded in my ears. The orchids on the table swelled and shrank. Heat rolled over my skin in waves, and under it, something ugly and hungry woke up. My body wasn't mine anymore.

I knew this feeling. I had read about it. I had written case notes on it. Knowing didn't help.

At the head of the table, Arthur Kennedy stood and raised his glass. “To our children,” he boomed. “To a union decades in the making.”

Everyone rose. I pushed up too fast. The chair scraped. My knees went soft, and the floor tilted like a ship deck.

I fell forward into the centerpiece.

Crystal crashed. Roses and water spilled across the white linen. A candle rolled. I grabbed the nearest thing to stop myself, and it was Phillip's arm.

His sleeve was warm. His muscle went hard under my fingers.

The room went silent. Not quiet. *Silent*. Forty people holding their breath.

Then the whispers started, soft as paper tearing.

*Is she drunk?*

*Who invited her?*

*Isn't that his old doctor?*

I looked up. Phillip's face was stone. His eyes dropped to my hand on him like it was something spilled. He peeled my fingers off one by one.

Across the table, Braelynn dabbed the corner of her mouth with a napkin. Slow. Neat. She smiled at me, serene as a church window.

Marcus half rose from his seat. His eyes were wide. He looked at me, at Phillip, at the room. He didn't know where to put his hands. “Emerie,” he mouthed. *What's happening?*

I couldn't answer. I could barely stand.

“Excuse us,” Phillip said to the table, smooth as glass. He took my elbow. His grip was tight enough to bruise. “She's unwell.”

He steered me down a hallway. Portraits of dead Kennedys watched us pass. A door opened. Leather, old paper, and cigar smoke. A study. He shut it behind us, and the sound of the party vanished.

I wrenched my arm free and almost fell. I caught the edge of a desk.

“She drugged me.” My voice sounded drunk, but the words were clear. “Braelynn. In the powder room. The champagne. Then the server. The water, Phillip.”

He stood with his arms crossed. He didn't blink.

“Look at me,” I said. “Look at my pupils. You know the signs. You've seen me read them a hundred times.”

“You're making a scene.”

“I'm *telling* you—”

“You've been under strain.” He said it calmly, like a diagnosis. “You're exhausted. You're confused.”

“Don't you dare use my voice on me.”

His jaw flexed. His thumb found the platinum ring and twisted. Once. Twice.

I laughed. It came out cracked. “There it is. You know. You *know* it's true.”

He moved so fast I didn't see it.

The back of his hand hit my cheekbone. A flat, bright crack. My head snapped sideways. The room spun, and my shoulder slammed into the bookshelf. Leather spines dug into my back. A book slid off and hit the rug.

For a second there was no sound at all. Just a high ringing, and a hot, spreading sting.

I pressed my palm to my face. It felt wet. I wasn't sure if it was tears.

Phillip looked at his own hand like it belonged to someone else. Then the look was gone. He tugged his cuff straight.

“Get yourself together,” he said. “Leave through the service entrance. Don't walk back through that dining room.”

I stared at him. Three years. A thousand nights. Every time he'd shaken, every time he'd begged, and I had stayed.

He adjusted his jacket in the glass of the bookcase. He checked his tie.

“Phillip,” I said.

He paused with his hand on the door. He didn't turn around.

I had nothing left to say. That was the strangest part. I'd thought there would be a scream. There was only a cold, clean quiet where my love used to be.

The door opened. Laughter and clinking glasses drifted in from the hall, bright and cruel.

He walked out. He went back to her.

I slid down the bookshelf until I hit the floor. My cheek throbbed in time with my heartbeat. And under the fog, small and sharp, a thought came clear.

*That wasn't the worst of it.*

I didn't know yet how right I was.