Chapter 6: The Morning After

Chloe's Point of View

Present Day

The early morning sun beamed through the curtains as I walked downstairs, trying to fathom what had taken place last night. My arm continued to ache with every movement, the bruise constantly reminding me of what had taken place. I placed my fingers against the tender skin, grimacing at the sharp sting. But the ache had been nothing in comparison to the weight of it all: Jonathan's touch, the things he'd said, his apology. The way he'd looked at me, as if torn between regret and desire.

I swallowed hard as I pushed those thoughts aside and reached the dining room. The smell of fresh coffee and toast greeted me, and there-sitting at the table with a newspaper in hand-was Jonathan.

He looked as immaculate as ever in his tailored suit, his expression cold and unreadable as always. He didn't show it if he remembered anything from last night. My heart was racing with tension, but I took a deep breath and stepped into the room.

"Good morning," I said quietly, more to break the silence than for anything else.

He didn't look up. His eyes remained riveted on the paper in front of him, his face hard as stone. The only acknowledgement that I was there was a flicker of his jaw clenching, but even that was gone immediately.

I wavered up to the table, between sitting or leaving. My stomach twisted with nervousness, but I pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. The silence between us grew thicker with each second, and the sting of rejection settled in.

"Jonathan." I started, my voice soft, testing the waters. He didn't even glance my way.

I bit my lip, attempting to steady my nerves. "I was wondering if. If I could stay home today. My arm-" I paused, not wanting to admit the full extent of the pain. "It's still hurting."

Jonathan finally looked up, but his eyes held none of the warmth or concern I'd hoped for. Instead, they were cold, distant, as if I were nothing more than an inconvenience.

"You are coming to work," he returned flatly, in a voice not inviting argument. He stood up, never waiting for an answer, and turned toward the door.

Appalled at his utter indifference, I blinked. "Jonathan, please," I strained, calling after him. "I just need—"

"Enough," he said sharply, the knife cutting off my words. He reached the doorway, where he paused but didn't quite look at me. "You have a job to do, Chloe. I expect you to be there."

Out the door he went, leaving me to stew in the familiar weight of disappointment in my chest. My arm throbbed with the bruise, it was true, but my heart hurt more.

I didn't have the luxury of rest. Not in this marriage.

***

By the time I reached the office, my head was pounding, and the constant ache in my arm was almost unbearable. I tried to push through it, though. There was no use complaining. Jonathan had made clear where he stood. This was my role-to follow, to endure, and to keep going, no matter what.

I sank into my desk chair and attempted to ignore the throbbing ache that stabbed through me with every movement. The office was a beehive of activity, with all persons bustling this way and that with some purpose, while I fought hard not to lose my cool. I had barely been there an hour when Jonathan materialized with a stack of files in his hand beside my desk.

Here," he said briefly, dropping them onto my desk without so much as a glance in my direction. "I need these organized and the reports ready by noon."

I stared at the towering stack of work, my arm already burning from the strain of typing earlier. My pulse quickened as I realized just how much he was asking of me. "Jonathan, I-"

"Is there a problem?" he asked, and the coldness and distance were evident in his voice. He didn't even have the decency to look at me while speaking.

"No," I stammered out quick. "I'll get it done."

He turned and walked away without saying another word, leaving me to stare at the mountain of tasks in front of me. A bruise on my arm pulsed pain, but I bit on the inside of my cheek and refused to show it. What was the use in fighting him? It would just make things harder.

Time oozed along, the weight of the work finally feeling like a heavy boulder upon me. I took to typing through the pain, arranging files, double-checking reports, and trying to keep up with the never-ending stream of demands Jonathan sent my way. Every time I saw him in his office, my heart sank a little bit further. Coldness in his eyes, the manner of treating me as a dispensable employee-just about everything kept slapping me in the face with the fact of how far we had fallen from anything that resembled humanity.

By the time noon finally arrived, I was utterly exhausted; my arm screamed for rest. I carried the finished reports to Jonathan's office, my legs feeling like lead. As I entered, he didn't look up from his desk.

"I've done the reports," I called, my voice taut. I laid them on his desk and waited for any sign of recognition.

Jonathan flicked his eyes over the papers then finally looked up at me. "Good," was all he said before returning to his work.

I stood there for a moment, waiting for something—anything. An apology, a hint of kindness, even just a glance that showed he cared. But there was nothing. Just the cold, emotionless man I had married.

I turned and left his office, my heart heavy and my body worn out. Every step back to my desk felt heavy, just reminding me of how alone I was in this setup.

How much more of this could I stand?