I'm not proud of the slap.
That afternoon, I walked into La Mesa Grill with takeout menus in my bag and a goofy grin plastered on my face. Evan had texted me about a "client meeting," and I thought it would be nice to surprise him with lunch. Instead, I found him sitting in the corner across from a woman in a red blazer, her fingers curled around his wrist as if they'd been practicing the pose.
When I mentioned his name, he didn't flinch. He seemed irritated, as if I'd interrupted a negotiation.
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The woman's smile was refined and unruffled. "You must be Claire," she said lightly. "Evan told me about you."
About me.
Something inside me snapped. My hand moved before I could think again. The smack of skin against skin pierced the din of the restaurant , and for a suspended moment, the entire room fell silent.
Evan's expression betrayed no shock. He hardened.
He slowly stood up, squeezed my arm too hard, and said through gritted teeth, "Get in the car."
I expected screams. Accusations. Maybe tears.
I didn't expect the violence.
The moment we stepped through the door and the door slammed shut, he pushed me against the hallway wall.
The impact hit me in the ribs. I tried to duck, but he hit me again, harder. I remember a sharp, chilling crack and the terrifying realization that I couldn't breathe deeply.
I would later find out that it was three broken ribs.
If I ever got to the emergency room alone.
Instead, Evan grabbed my wrist and dragged me down the basement stairs. The air down there smelled of mold and old paint cans. He kicked my phone onto the concrete floor, sending it sliding under a metal shelf.
"Think about what you've done," he said, locking the basement door from the outside. "Think about it."
For hours I lay there, counting my breaths. Every little movement felt like glass was sliding under my skin. Finally, I stuck my foot under the shelf and pulled the phone toward me. The screen was shattered, but still on. A single bar of flickering signal.
I called the only person I knew Evan truly feared: my dad.
"Dad," I whispered. "It's Claire. She broke my ribs. I'm locked in the cellar."
The break on the other side was short but intense.
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