His Obsession, Her Agony

"I want a divorce, Ethan." The words came out, quiet but steady, hanging in the sterile air as my husband, Ethan, stopped swirling the amber liquid in his glass. He didn' t look at me, but at my reflection in the dark, floor-to-ceiling window. "No," he stated, his eyes cold and empty, "You' re my wife, Autumn. You don' t get to leave." I clutched my suitcase, my knuckles white, heart a frantic drum. He smiled, a slow, cruel curve of his lips, a monster I now saw clearly. "Aren' t you? I own this house. I own the clothes you' re wearing. I own your career, what' s left of it." He ignored my whispered pleas, stroked my hair, then grabbed my arm, fingers digging in. "After what you did? After you killed your sister?" The old accusation, his favorite weapon, slicing me open. "You drove her to it. She' s dead because of you. And you will spend the rest of your life making it up to me." Tears burned my eyes as he yanked me closer, the smell of whiskey on his breath. "You belong to me. In this life and the next. Did you forget your vows? Till death do us part." His hand connected with my cheek, a sharp crack, and I fell, tasting blood. He loomed, not a trace of remorse. "This is your fault, Autumn. All of it." He nudged my suitcase. "Unpack. We' re having dinner with my business partners tonight. Wear the blue dress. And smile." Lying there, a plan began to form. He was right about one thing. Only death would part us. So I would die.