Escape from Cruel Marriage

The tires of Marcus's Bentley crunched over the gravel driveway as we pulled up to the Hamptons beach house. Gray clouds hung low over the Atlantic, mirroring the heaviness in my chest. This was supposed to be our belated honeymoon—a cruel joke that only Marcus found amusing.

I stepped out of the car, clutching my leather sketchbook to my chest like armor. The wind whipped my hair across my face as I gazed up at the glass and cedar mansion. Once, I might have found it beautiful.

"Isabella." Marcus's voice cut through the air, not bothering to look at me as he strode toward the entrance. "Don't dawdle."

I followed him inside, my fingers automatically finding my wrist, tracing the delicate veins beneath my skin—a nervous habit I'd developed since my hemophilia diagnosis. One cut, one bruise in the wrong place, and I could bleed for hours. Marcus knew this. He simply no longer cared.

The house was all sleek minimalism and ocean views, devoid of warmth despite its luxury. Marcus stalked the living room in his tailored charcoal suit, already on his phone, barking orders to someone at Sterling Luxury Brands while I quietly unpacked in the master bedroom.

I placed my sketchbook on the nightstand and hung up the few dresses I'd brought. My fingers lingered on a pale blue silk dress—one I'd designed myself in happier times.

"You brought that?"

I startled at Marcus's voice. He stood in the doorway, his tall frame blocking the exit, eyes narrowed in that sidelong glance that made my stomach clench.

"I thought... for dinner tonight," I managed.

His jaw tightened, the muscle jumping in his cheek. "How appropriate. Wearing the color of mourning to celebrate our marriage."

"Blue isn't—"

"In Chinese culture, it is." His smile was knife-sharp. "But then, you'd know that, wouldn't you? Being half-Chinese yourself. Was it symbolic, Isabella? Like the brake lines in my mother's car?"

I flinched as if he'd struck me. Three years of these accusations, and they still cut deep.

"I'll wear something else," I whispered.

"Do that." He turned away, then paused. "Vivian will be joining us for dinner. Try to look presentable."

Hours later, we sat on the terrace overlooking the churning ocean. The table was set with fine china and crystal that caught the light from the outdoor heaters. I wore a simple black dress, the safest choice I could make.

Vivian arrived fashionably late, her laughter preceding her onto the terrace. She wore a blood-red dress that hugged every curve, and around her neck gleamed a diamond pendant—one of my designs for Sterling Luxury. Seeing my creation on her felt like another deliberate wound.

"Isabella," she purred, leaning down to kiss my cheek. Her perfume was cloying, suffocating. "How brave of you to join us. I know how you hate to travel with your... condition."

Marcus pulled out her chair, his hand lingering on her shoulder. The casual intimacy was designed to hurt me, and it did.

Dinner was a performance of cruelty. They spoke about people I wasn't allowed to see anymore, parties I hadn't been invited to, and shared private jokes while I pushed food around my plate. I was a ghost at my own table.

Vivian reached for the wine, her crimson nails flashing as she refilled Marcus's glass, then her own. "Isabella, more wine?" she asked, already tilting the bottle toward my glass.

"No, thank you," I said quietly. "I've had enough."

"Nonsense." She smiled, her eyes never leaving mine as she deliberately tipped the bottle too far. Wine splashed over the rim of my glass.

"Oh, clumsy me," she laughed, reaching across with her napkin. But instead of blotting the spill, she knocked over my glass. It toppled sideways, the stem striking my forearm before shattering on the stone terrace.

A line of red appeared on my skin—brighter than the wine, spreading faster.

"I'm bleeding," I said, my voice tight with rising panic. With my condition, even this small cut could become dangerous. "I need to get to a hospital."

Marcus's eyes flicked to the blood, then to my face. There was no concern there, only cold calculation.

"Don't be dramatic," he said. "It's barely a scratch."

"Marcus, please," I pressed my napkin against the wound, but the white linen was already soaking through with red. "You know I can't—"

"Go upstairs and deal with it," he cut me off. "You're ruining our dinner."

Vivian's lips curved in a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Yes, Isabella. You should take care of that. We wouldn't want you to make a scene."

I stood shakily, pressing the napkin harder against my arm as I made my way inside. Behind me, I heard Vivian's soft laughter and Marcus's murmured response. My vision blurred with unshed tears as I climbed the stairs, blood dripping onto the pristine white carpet.

Little did I know that this small cut would be the beginning of the end—not just of our so-called honeymoon, but of everything I had endured for the past three years.