Love Taken for Granted

I wanted to ask Sean to save me.

In desperation, I begged the prison guards to pass along a message, hoping they'd tell him about my suffering—about the relentless torment I endured day after day. I even convinced myself that if Sean knew, he might pity me enough to arrange a transfer to another facility, far away from these monsters.

But Sean never came. He never visited. He never even sent word.

What I got instead was worse than I had ever imagined. That day, they beat me to the brink of death. My body felt like it had been broken into pieces, my skin hot and sticky with blood. Struggling to breathe, I managed to croak a question to one of them.

"Why?" My voice was barely audible, trembling and thick with despair.

The woman loomed over me, her face twisted in malice. She spat in my face, her breath foul and rancid. "Why?" she mocked, her laugh a grating sound that grated against my ears. Her yellowed teeth gleamed as she leaned closer. "Because Mr. Connor personally told us to take good care of you."

Her words struck me harder than any of her kicks ever could.

And then, without warning, another blow landed—a sharp, brutal kick to my stomach. The world spun as fists and feet rained down, each strike dulling the pain until my body felt numb.

In that moment, something inside me shattered. Sean hated me. Truly, deeply despised me. And yet, I had once loved him so much that I'd abandoned my own dreams for him.

I used to want to become a designer, to create beauty and make my mark on the world. But for Sean, I gave it all up. I settled for being his secretary, hovering by his side, always ready to meet his needs.

Sean had suffered from stomach issues since childhood, a lingering effect of the poverty that had once defined his life. I had never even touched a kitchen knife before meeting him, but I painstakingly taught myself how to cook, learning to make soups that soothed his stomach.

It worked—under my care, his flare-ups became rare. Even my father used to tease me, saying, "You love Sean more than you love me!"

He wasn't wrong.

I clung to Sean like a shadow, hoping, praying that one day he would turn around and finally see me. But all my devotion, all my sacrifices, amounted to nothing. Instead of love, Sean gave me betrayal. Instead of gratitude, he handed me over to hell itself.

Day after day in prison, I endured beatings and humiliation. I learned to kneel, to beg for mercy. I forgot who I was—the proud heiress of the Johnson Family. I learned to slap myself before anyone else could, barking like a dog just to amuse them.

I thought I would never see Sean again.

But five years later, he came to pick me up.

***

Inside my room, I moved toward the window, the floor cold beneath my bare feet. My gaze fell on the yard below and my chest tightened painfully.

The old red maple tree that had stood proudly in the center of the yard was gone. In its place was a barren stump, jagged and uneven, its edges raw and splintered as if it had been cut down in haste.

Surrounding it was a sprawling field of flowers, their vibrant colors stark against the muted tones of the winter landscape.

Tears stung my eyes, hot and unrelenting as they rolled down my cheeks. The sight of the flowers—their beauty mocking me—was a knife twisting in my heart.

That red maple had been more than just a tree. My parents had planted it with their own hands the year they were married. As a child, I would sit beneath its shade, listening to Sean's voice as he told me stories, his tone soft and steady. That tree had been a witness to my happiest moments.

Now, it was gone.

And in its place were flowers.

As if Sean had forgotten. Forgotten that I'm deathly allergic to pollen.

My knees buckled and I sank to the floor, trembling. The memories came flooding back, a torrent of moments that made my chest ache with a pain so sharp it felt physical.

I wiped my face with trembling hands and opened a drawer, the wood groaning in protest. Inside was an old diary, its edges worn from years of handling.

Flipping to the last page, I stared at a number scrawled in faded ink. My breath hitched as I traced the familiar digits with my fingertips.

It belonged to an old friend, a neighbor from my childhood. He had moved abroad years ago, his family's business expanding far beyond Arlington. The night before he left, he'd handed me this number.

"If you ever need me," he had said, his voice gentle but firm, "just call."

I had tucked it away and forgotten it, distracted by Sean's presence in my life.

Now, I dialed it with trembling fingers, my heart pounding in my chest.

The phone rang once, twice. My grip tightened on the receiver as a deep, cold voice finally answered.

"Hello?"

I swallowed hard, my voice shaky as I replied, "Do you still remember me? It's Natalie Johnson."