The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

ross the hardwood floor with a scratching sound that grated on Cristina's ne

n had bought her for public appearances. She took jeans, t-sh

ehind a row of winter coats, sat a black sket

ok contained the last five years of her soul. Every design that h

taking it felt like stealing from a life she no longer owned. S

melodic chime of a guest, but the

ackson's personal assistant, a young woman named Sarah who

said. She didn't say hello. S

the document. Non-D

family matters," Sarah said, popping her g

sound. "He thinks I want to talk about thi

in Cristina's voice. "Just sign it, Mrs... M

k," Cristina said. "I signe

ll, sign it anyway. Or he'll sue you for

her credit for. An NDA could silence a wife, but it couldn't cover up criminal acts. It couldn't protect against felonies. She uncapped the pen. Let him think he's saf

t o

heel and practically

phone pinged with an email notification. She check

tute is yours if you want

ed a reply.

from the bank. Joint Account endi

oxygen. He wanted her

and pulled out the bottom drawer. She felt around underneath it

t card fell

"Sunny"-the anonymous designer-deposited her freelance royalties

he was rich. But Jackso

into the living room. A massive portrait of her and Jackson hung over the fi

itchen and grabbed a p

tating, she jammed the point of the scissor

, then across. She cut her own face out of the frame, leavi

nvas with her face on it and

he glass, blurring the city lights into streaks o

r around herself. The apartment fe

door loc

ed against her ribs. He wasn't s

forehead. He looked wild, unlike his usual composed self. He scanned the roo

do?" he asked, his vo