Penniless, I walked barefoot from the hillside down the city. By the time I reached a park, my feet were raw, blood seeping from torn skin.

With the pen I'd used to sign the divorce agreement, I borrowed paper from passersby and sat on the steps, quietly sketching the scenery. The tranquility felt like a return to the days before I married Craig.

I laid my small, delicate drawings on the ground. A young girl crouched before me. "Miss, your feet are bleeding. Doesn't it hurt?"

I glanced down. The long walk had mangled my soles, but I felt nothing. The heart's pain had drowned out that of the body.

Not wanting to frighten her, I tucked my feet away and smiled. "It doesn't hurt."

She tilted her head, pulling a crumpled ten-dollar bill from her pocket. "Miss, this is all I have. Can I buy one of your drawings? They're beautiful, like something my old friend would make."

Her grown-up tone made me smile. A little girl like her couldn't have any old friends.

"If you like them, take them all. Thank you for the ten dollars," I said.

I never imagined my only money would come from a child. With it, I entered a small internet café, buying an hour online. I logged into the social media account that had tormented me for three years.

The pinned posts were glaring.

[A woman must uphold virtue, obey her husband.]

[A wife should be gentle, submissive, and never complain.]

[Chastity is a woman's foundation. It must be untainted and pure.]

Craig had forced me to post these vile words. Early in our marriage, I'd argued when he brought women home. Then he punished me, making me kneel in the garden while his mistresses watched, reciting archaic virtue texts he'd found.

I fought back fiercely, but he forced me to share them online.

"I paid for you," he'd said. "Act like it. Show the world what a 'virtuous' wife you are."

Whenever I angered him, he made me post more, turning my account into a battleground for trolls. They called me brainwashed, feudal trash, and a disgrace to women.

I couldn't respond or fight back. Silence was my only shield.

But his satisfaction with merely humiliating me began to wear thin. He demanded that I attend to the women he brought home.

The women who shared his bed were the ones I had trained. He said that someone like me, shameless and devoid of self-respect, knew best how to please a man.

Each time, he would stand on the sidelines, watching with twisted delight as I endured the crushing weight of humiliation and pain.

Over time, I grew numb. I stopped arguing or protesting.

He grew bored of the spectacle and no longer cared to watch. He shifted tactics, demanding I beg him not to divorce me.

I complied for my family, but now, with nothing left, I was free.

I deleted every post and sighed deeply. As the last one vanished, I felt the chains of those years shatter.

Exhausted, I slumped over the table, my mind going blank. For a moment, I didn't know if I was alive or dead.

A gentle tap on my back startled me. "Michele?"

I turned to see a kind, surprised face.

It was my mentor in college, Jedediah Kemp.

When my marriage to Craig was announced, he'd opposed it, calling me relentlessly. He didn't attend the wedding.

Unable to explain my family's coercion, I let him drift away. Now, he was my only elder.

My eyes welled up, my voice trembling. "Professor."

Tears broke free, years of suppressed grievances flooding out.

"Don't cry," he said. "My daughter bought your drawings. Michele, do you want to continue your studies?"

His eyes held the same encouragement as years ago. I nodded, tears falling.

Had the crisis not occurred, I'd have gone abroad with him for my first art exhibition.

We handled the paperwork and waited at the airport.

At the Kennedy Villa, Craig paced the living room, agitated. "Still no sign of Michele?"

The butler shook his head.

"Find her! Keep looking until you do!" Craig's voice was sharp, his usually calm eyes wild with panic.

Lucia, wearing my nightgown, draped herself over him. "She is probably just out sulking. She has no friends and no family. What's there to worry about?"

She twisted her waist, leaning in to kiss him.

Craig shoved her off, his glare deadly. "Get out! Who permitted you to wear her clothes? Take them off. No one touches her things."

Lucia ran off, crying.

Craig sat on the sofa, waiting stubbornly. Each tick of the clock fueled his irritation. He called me repeatedly, leaving furious voicemails after the system prompted him.

"Are you running away? Get back here in an hour, or I'll divorce you for real!"

An hour later, he yelled again, "Time is running out. Even if you beg, I'll end this!"

By the third message, his voice cracked with desperation. "You're testing me, right? Come back! You want money? I'll give you anything. You betrayed me first. Why act like this? Come back and say you love me. I'll let it slide. You didn't care about the other women. Why can't you tolerate Lucia? She's gone. Come back. Don't be foolish!"