In January, Christine not only tripped over her breaking point, she turned back to scream and stomp on it. With the new year began a brawl in which there would be no winners.

Wherever her relationship stood with Erik after Halloween, she had not had the opportunity to explore it. Her days and nights were now consumed by Jack, who had not been sleeping well the last few months. Mommy blogs and other websites assured her this was normal for his age and that he needed to learn to go back to sleep on his own when he woke up at night. They advised waiting longer and longer to comfort him when he cried. Easier said than done as his heart-rending wails tore her composure to shreds and left her blocking her ears with her pillow as she begged in a whisper for him to stop. She hoped it was just the teeth budding through his gums that kept him awake and not the first signs he had inherited the insomnia Christine had battled nearly her entire life. Whatever it was, he simply would not stop crying some nights unless she rocked him to sleep. Suffice to say, Christine now felt sick with exhaustion more often than not.

In hindsight, perhaps she shouldn't have left things where they were; but during the daytime, Jack had needed her more than ever — certainly more than Erik did. Jack was eight months and crawling and she could no longer take her eyes off him for a minute. Her days were filled with reading him stories, animating his stuffed toys with silly voices, and picking up things he dropped to the floor over and over again. If she didn't pick them up, he fussed until she did, only to drop them again. She didn't mind playing with him all day—he had the cutest little grin and he was starting to show his personality—but the pick-up game was beginning to fray her sleep-deprived nerves.

Everything came to a head one chilly afternoon as Christine holed herself up in the upstairs spare bedroom listening to Jack cry himself to sleep for his nap. As his bawling tapered down to whimpers, then finally silence, she closed her eyes in weary triumph to stave off her pulsing headache. She couldn't believe she used to complain about being lonely—this moment alone was bliss. It did not take long for her muscles to relax and for drowsiness to wash over her like a warm bath.

And with it came the mental image of Erik retreating from her bedroom like a whipped dog.

"Actually, this... this really is a terrible idea, the more I think on it. I apologize. I shouldn't have suggested it…"

"Erik, what's the matter?"

"Good night. I love you..."

She covered her burning face with her arms, forcing the vision back with a daydream—her favorite daydream. It wasn't anything special. Just a normal house in the suburbs where she lived with Jack and a normal, average husband. This husband wasn't anybody in particular—just a man defined by his purpose, who came home from work each day at half past five, ate dinner, and took care of Jack.

In this dreamland, this husband of hers was neither demanding nor clingy. If she wanted to drive Jack to the park or to a cafe, she could do it. If she wanted to go get lunch with Hilary or run errands, she could do that, too. Like a normal person. They were equals.

And if she desired affection, it was easily asked for and received. No tears, no questions, no awkward negotiations.

Mutual affection.

Mutual attraction.

Here in this dreamland she did not have to confront the confusing humiliation of being rejected by a man whose advances she never wanted in the first place, nor contend with the knowledge that any and all physical affection she craved in the foreseeable future must somehow be satisfied only by him.

And she was so tired of living like a Vestal virgin.

Her heart aching and suddenly feeling too exhausted to sleep, she turned fitfully and reached down to the floor to nudge a dozing Edgar off the lid of her laptop. He mewled in protest and stalked huffily beneath the bed.

"It's not even warm, doofus," she quietly chided him.

No sooner had she brought the computer to her chest, she heard something lurking behind the door, sending a painful jolt of wakefulness throughout her body. As silently as she could, she set the laptop on the bed beside her and eased into the fetal position with her back to the door. Her heart pounded so violently she felt ill again, but from anticipation or dread she couldn't tell.

Christine held her breath, listening intently. After a moment, she heard the soft sound of footsteps diminishing in the hallway until finally disappearing entirely. Only in the silence could she breathe freely again.

Years ago, a handsome man in a dark, well-tailored Italian suit once lurked outside the door of her crappy Chicago apartment, except he hadn't been afraid to knock.

/

"Uh, hi. Can I... help you?"

"Hi. I hope I'm not interrupting anything, but, ah... You know, I just moved in up the hall a few days ago. Thought I'd stop by just to say hello." He had laughed a little. "It's quaint, I know."

"Oh, I didn't know someone had moved out! How about that."

"The way I heard it, someone didn't pay their rent and got kicked out pretty quickly. I moved in just as fast."

"Well, um... Uh, hi! How are you finding the place?"

"I'm really liking it here. Everyone's been very friendly so far. Especially..." A look towards the door of her desperate housewife of a neighbor; a sotto voce confession. "...Well, perhaps a little too friendly."

"You poor thing! She's... oh, oh my gosh. You might want to stay away from her." A flirtatious smile. "I'm glad you like it. You should be sure to... come by if you need anything, though, okay?"

"Thank you. If I need anything, I'm sure you'll be the first person I'll come to..."

"Well, I work a lot, but... yeah. Feel free, if I'm here. My name's Christine, by the way."

"What a beautiful name. My name is Jack." Suddenly the voice dropped to its usual, more familiar register. And his smile became a grin. "Jack Staller."

"You... You stupid jerk! What the heck are you doing here?"

"I was in the neighborhood, thought I might pop by and ask you if you'd like to go out and get some dinner."

"What's this? Wh- how on earth..."

"What, you don't think I wear that awful mask everywhere, do you? It's mostly makeup. Not a bad job, eh?"

/

It had not been the first time they'd met in person; but it had been the first time she saw his prosthetic faces and realized he was perfectly capable of masquerading like a charming, human being—like someone completely not himself—if only he chose to. Somehow that hurt just as much as the first time he abducted her from work.

There had been times back then, when he'd been at ease, that he'd been incredibly gentle and charming. It had made holding up her end of the bargain—pretending to be interested in him, acting as though she liked him—so much easier. And sometimes she genuinely had enjoyed how casually they'd been able to banter and flirt.

She suspected it had been a year or more since she'd seen him at ease.

Wasn't marrying him supposed to put him at ease all the time?

Desperate for distraction, Christine sought the uncomplicated, hypnotic spell of Pinterest and its endless scroll; its pictures of aesthetically-rumpled bed sheets; bare, tangled ankles; pensive cats; coffee mugs; and steely, storm-tossed oceans. Beautiful infants grinning up at attentive, handsome fathers with artfully tousled hair; flannel-clad couples staring lovingly into each other's eyes, perfectly but improbably posed in the foreground of dark, moody forests.

She was about to pin a beautiful picture of a gloomy beach covered in silvery driftwood when suddenly the site stopped loading.

She frowned and tried again, only to receive an error message. Immediately, she began entering in the URLs for half a dozen other random websites with the same result.

This was so odd. Her connection was always slow, admittedly, but never dead.

Was the Internet down? That seemed impossible. If it were, she would have heard Erik's Broadway production of rage by now.

Another try: Netflix. To her surprise, that worked.

A few more websites. All down. Including Downforeveryoneorjustme.

But not Netflix. Netflix still loaded.

That could mean only one thing. And the more she thought about it, the worse it felt.

Irritated, she stormed (quietly) through the house looking for him at his usual haunts. Why couldn't he come talk to her like a normal person? Or text her? Why did everything have to be some convoluted plot with him? But the kitchen, the music room, and the media room were all vacant. Unable to access the basement, she moved straight to the garage.

His car was gone.

She stood there in the cold, trembling with fury. Demand her attention in the most passive-aggressive way possible only to be physically out of reach? Surely this wasn't a coincidence. It had to be punishment for something, which only pissed her off.

Whatever.

If he was expecting her to text or call him, he could expect away. She had better things to do than indulge his tantrum.

At 10 p.m. that night, she heard the well-tuned roar of the Bentley pulling into the garage. The door slammed loudly as Erik entered the house so that no one within earshot could be ignorant of the fact that His Royal Highness had returned home.

Christine flinched at the sound, not from fear, but from fury. Jack had just fallen asleep without a fight for the first time in weeks. Setting down her book—she had refused to watch Netflix on principle—she took a moment to collect herself, and went to stand outside her bedroom door, listening hard. Hearing nothing, she cracked it open and squinted towards his crib, but did not see his distressed face bobbing at the bars.

It did little to quell her anger, though.

Slowly, she descended the stairs in search of her husband and found him thoughtfully contemplating the wine rack. She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the kitchen counter, gritting her teeth. Surely he must have heard her come in, but he seemed content to ignore her.

"Hello," she spat eventually.

Erik did not immediately turn around, instead taking his sweet time to decide on a bottle of red wine. He set it on the counter and fetched a glass and corkscrew before he deigned to look in her direction with a neutral, perfunctory smile. "Hello, dear. How are you?" He set about uncorking the bottle.

"Oh, I'm fine," she said, the anger already bubbling under her words despite her attempts to remain calm and civil. "Just wanted to ask you something."

"Yes?" He poured himself a tall glass and swirled it around before taking a long sip. Erik watched her, eyebrows raised.

Despite her attempts to sound innocent—and she was innocent—her words came out strained. "Why couldn't I use the Internet today?"

"Oh, couldn't you?" Erik smiled again. "It was working when I left. I'll go take a look at it and see what the trouble is. My, that must have been annoying."

Her lip twitched involuntarily. If it hadn't been for that last part, she might have been able to believe he was telling the truth. "What did I do?"

"What did you need the Internet for today, anyway?" he asked instead, taking another sip.

"What did I do?" she repeated, a touch louder, fists clenching.

"I haven't the slightest idea. What did you do, dear?" His gaze flicked from her hands to her face, expression still insufferably innocent. Then, after a beat, he laughed. "What, did you think I had something to do with it?"

Her nails were digging into her palms. "Stop it. You always have something to do with it. What did I do?"

"I really don't know why you're so upset. You're a full-time mother these days, Christine, and little Jack needs so much care that you couldn't possibly have any left to waste on the Internet. Or anything else for that matter." He took a deep swallow of wine, followed by a quiet sigh. "I'll go see to the connection once I'm done here... and then you can go blog more coffee art or some twee hipster photos of couples in love. Or something. "

The sudden, dripping condescension in his voice caused her heart to pound with fury, to say nothing of the specificity of his accusations.

"You're upset because you think I'm ignoring you?"

"Why would I be upset about that?" Erik asked, his smile suddenly growing cool. "I'm quite used to it, you know. You've a host of far more important things to be doing these days. I can't expect to occupy even a few minutes of your day anymore."

"What about the Johnsons' Christmas party? We spent the whole evening together."

"It's not the same."

"Do you realize how full of crap you sound right now?" she snapped.

"I'm curious... did you even notice I was gone today?"

Her fists clenched tighter as she swallowed a sound of frustration. She was suddenly tired in a way that had nothing to do with her physical exhaustion. So very, very tired. "I did what I normally do, if that's what you mean," she said.

Erik's jaw tightened and he set his glass on the counter. Suddenly his voice was soft. "So you didn't."

"Where do you get off?" she hissed. "I have a kid to take care of—do you think I really spent my whole day pining over you and waiting for you to come back?"

"No," Erik replied, the smile falling from his face. "I would never imagine you capable of that. But I am curious if, even for a moment, you cared enough to wonder where I was or what I was doing."

Christine crossed her arms, taking a deep breath. "What were you doing?"

"Oh, you don't need to feign interest at this point, dearest. We both know it isn't there. And anyway, that information is irrelevant now."

And just as quickly, the frustration returned. "Why do you care whether I care if you're not even going to tell me when I ask?!"

It was difficult to tell whether the expression on his false face was a smile or a sneer, but it was undeniably chilly either way. "Because the Internet not working is a higher priority to you than where your husband has been all day. I know I don't matter much to you, but that stings more than a little. How many days would I need to be gone before you genuinely wondered where I was or what had happened?"

Immediately she regretted coming downstairs to engage in this verbal battle—not because his questions embarrassed her, but because they exhausted and infuriated her. No matter her answer, she'd be caught in his snare. He'd beat her down with words and tears until he extracted the apology he craved. Well, she wouldn't give it to him. Not when she hadn't done anything wrong.

Christine was in no mood to play this game of his; but having been drawn in, she couldn't stop it.

Something like a growl rose in her throat. "Well, it depends. Are you asking when I'd worry about my son's father, or when I'd worry that we'd starve?"

It felt ugly; it felt mean; and worse, it felt good.

There was certainly a sneer on his face now. He gulped down a considerable portion of his wine and shook his head slowly. "Neither, but I'll humor you. Yes, when would you worry about your son's father? Not your husband, God forbid, but your son's father, because he at least matters a little to you, apparently."

Christine tilted her head, struggling to remain calm despite the rage boiling insistently throughout her entire body. It was too late in the day for his pedantry. Desperate to puncture that self-righteous sarcasm she hated so much, she let loose the next nasty thing that came to mind: "Depends on how much money he left in my account."

Erik stared at her with dark eyes, the corner of his mouth twitching. He shook his head again, jaw tight, and refilled his glass. "Oh dear, it appears I have no idea how to fix the Internet. You may need to live without it for a while. Terribly sorry."

Her eyes flashed. "Is that supposed to make me want to spend more time with you?"

He glared at her, picking up the glass and wine bottle and walking towards the media room. "No, I'm not naive enough to imagine something so simple could do that, not when you have your other life to amuse you."

She followed him closely. "What's that meant to mean, exactly?"

"You three make a very adorable family, you know. And Edgar's taken quite nicely to Jack, hasn't he? I'm surprised." He made himself comfortable on the couch, kicking up his feet on the coffee table, and sipping at his drink. He fumbled around for the remote. "Anyway, I suppose they're about all you need now these days."

She stood in the doorway, watching. "If you want to spend time with me, you have to at least make a vague effort to be a part of this family. That's how it works."

Erik switched on the television and slouched. "Your monster of a cat hates me, your son is indifferent, and you only care so long as there's food in the kitchen. I suspect it's going to take more than a vague effort to be part of your family. I know when I'm not wanted."

She sometimes wondered why Erik stuck around, then, if he was clearly so miserable. But she didn't voice those thoughts. Instead, she took a calming breath and said: "How am I meant to know that you think I'm ignoring you if you spend every spare moment by yourself, genius?"

He turned to watch her with dark, angry eyes. "Because maybe... just maybe... I would, for once, like to hear you say the words, 'I want to spend time with you, Erik.' Would it kill you to say it? I don't feel like that's an extravagant demand."

Another step forward; she bent over to lean her hands on the armrest. He shifted deliberately away from her.

"It wouldn't kill me, no, but that doesn't mean I'm going to," she said. "If you want to be around me, be around me."

Christine suddenly wondered if this was what raising a teenager would be like. The thought of Jack growing up to be a mercurial brat filled her with something close to nausea. But surely, with at least a little of her influence, with discipline, she'd be able to teach him not to be that way.

Then again, even if he turned out that way, at least she'd have years of preparation before that terrible day arrived.

"Can I ask you a question?" Erik asked, interrupting her thoughts.

She watched him warily. "You just did, so yeah, I guess."

He look a long sip of his drink, then stared at the red as he spoke. "Has there ever been a point in time, after we first met in Chicago... that you have... legitimately wished to spend time with me?" Reluctantly, he looked in her direction. "Not because you had nothing better to do, not because you felt obligated... but because you actually wanted to?"

She straightened, wrapping her arms protectively around herself. "I, um..." A weak shrug. "I mean, we've had fun together."

Erik's expression grew especially blank and sat back against the couch, returning his attention back to the television screen. He turned it on and downed the rest of his drink, saying nothing.

Christine perched nervously on the arm rest. "I... even when I wanted to hang out, the obligation didn't go away. I wouldn't ever have dared to cancel on you."

"But you did want to see me," he pressed in a soft voice.

"Of course."

He searched her face, frowning. "But not anymore."

"I didn't say that." It had been a lie if ever there was one and she kept her face as neutral as she could to maintain it under the scrutiny of his gaze. "Can I ask you a question?"

"If you like."

Sometimes she could forget she was trapped in a cage. The crisp, beautiful Atlantic outside her windows mesmerized her and Jack kept her amused; but moments like this, she saw the bars enclosing her in sharp relief. Sharp, cutting, inflexible. Delineating the edges of her world.

"You wouldn't ever let me go out alone, would you?" she asked.

He went back to staring at the television and, out of habit, refilled his glass. "No, I don't think so."

The rapidity of his answer made her chest hurt. "You don't think so?"

"That is, indeed, what I said, yes."

The thing is, it wasn't a cage to punish her. It was a cage to separate her from the world. To keep her close to him, to be admired by him and no one else.

"Because I guess there'd be the possibility of me being in the same room as men, so..."

"I'd rather the temptation not be there. I've never fared well when handsome young men waltz into your vicinity." His expression grew black and he leaned forward on his elbows to scowl at the screen, shoulders hunching.

"Oh, and suppose I actually talked to one. That'd be disastrous."

He said nothing, massaging his hands with enough force that it looked painful.

/

"W- What the hell are you doing here?"

"I wouldn't bother trying to call anybody. You don't have a signal."

"Get out."

"If this is how you're going to behave, then perhaps I shan't apologize. You were doing so well, Christine, and then... I don't know what gets into you."

"This isn't fair to me, do you realize that? At all?"

"If you only did as I said, then perhaps you would find how fair and accommodating I could be. If you wish for a longer leash, you are going about it entirely the wrong way."

"I... I needed to see him. I'm sorry. I know how much that must hurt. But I just needed to forget things for a while."

"I know you did. Didn't I say I understood that? And did you see me raise any objection to when you went over for dinner? I was personally rather impressed with my self-control and I rather thought you ought to be, too. Not a peep from me."

"Get out before I call the police."

"Do you think calling the police will do a damn thing? Your boy is still at home, perhaps I'll stop by to visit."

"Get out, and stay away from him. You're not the only one who's willing to kill somebody."

"Not if I fucking kill him first! Do you really think he can touch me? Do you know how many have tried to kill me and failed? You want to be free from my home? You had better change your attitude or you will never see the light of day again, let alone him!"

/

Christine felt herself trembling.

How dare he punish her for finding joy in the happiness and nurturing of a child-the one thing she had always dreamed of having.

How dare he feel sorry for himself when he was allowed to leave the house and do whatever he wanted with whomever he wanted and she'd never be the wiser.

How dare he treat her like an affair waiting to happen when she couldn't even leave the house outside his watchful gaze.

Wasn't all of this supposed to change when she married him? So why did it feel like nothing had changed at all?

Her heart was pounding, her stomach twisting, but suddenly she could see so clearly. She felt every inch of her body buzzing and thrilling.

Now it was her turn to smile as innocently as he had when he had walked in that evening. "Oh, but I like that idea. Maybe I could take a page out of your book, and stay out late, and then not tell you anything about where I'd been. That sounds fun."

He slowly turned his glare towards her, the muscles in his temples flexing. "You wouldn't fucking dare..." he growled.

Fear and anger now roiled together into a potent mixture behind her smile, which was positively serene. She felt something crazy and desperate battering inside her chest, daring her to inch closer to a dangerous line she could only vaguely see in the terrain of the argument.

"Why? What would you do if I did?" she asked sweetly.

"I miss Springfield, don't you?" he said softly in a dangerously flat voice. His eyes glinted.

Springfield. A euphemism of Raoul's invention to describe a frightening room in Erik's house back near Chicago, a room she had only ever briefly seen. It had been a cross between a murder room and a jail cell; a sound-proofed place where Raoul had been imprisoned for a week and nearly lost his mind. Erik had forced Raoul to phone his brother, Phil, and explain he had taken a mental health break and would be out of touch for the foreseeable future. Raoul had chosen Springfield, Illinois, as the place of his retreat. The name stuck because otherwise Erik would be forced to admit what it really was—some kind of torture chamber. A place to put people to force them to do what you want when verbal threats stopped working.

The unsettling idea that he might have dared to build another one did not stop her from narrowing her eyes at him, from snapping the absolutely unbelievable implication into his face: "What, you'd put me in there and take care of your son yourself?"

"That is the logical conclusion," he replied. "So for his sake... I suggest you kill those fantasies immediately... and remember your vows."

She took a deep breath, trying to chase away the ugly memories, the ugly feelings, the ugly thoughts.

She had to make this work. She could do this.

"Where were you today?" Christine shifted to kneel on the couch next to him. She softened the edge of her voice, but she couldn't erase the anger in her eyes.

"Where do you think I was?" He sipped at his wine, watching her through narrowed eyes.

"With your mistress," she said flatly, leaning back a little and crossing her arms. "I don't know, that's why I'm asking."

"Oh, no, you've found us out. Damn my irresistible masculine appeal." He rolled his eyes and continued drinking. "I drove into the city to look at electronics, then the mall. I took a late lunch. I spent time at the cathedral. Then I came home."

She watched him suspiciously. "Why did you do it?"

"I wanted your reaction. I got it. Successful day." He half-heartedly lifted his glass.

"You wanted to see what my reaction would be, or you wanted me to react?"

"The former."

"Are you pleased?"

He shrugged his shoulders slowly in silent answer and drank again.

She watched him a moment longer.

/

"I never intended my gifts to make you feel uncomfortable, Christine... just... cared for, you know?"

"There are better ways to make me feel cared for, doofus."

"...Like how? I mean... I have ideas, but... they've only ever remained,"—he had shyly met her eyes— "...ideas."

"Should I be concerned about these ideas?"

"No. They're… nothing."

"Just be nice to me. And not 14-year-old-boy-showing-off-to-his-crush nice. Actual, genuine nice. Don't just buy stuff and clean up when I'm not here. I just don't like getting things. I'm sorry. It just… sort of makes me feel like I'm using you."

"But, I... That's the only way I've ever known how to be nice. It's how I looked after Mother, I'm sorry."

"I would hope that you don't see me the same way as you saw your abusive mom, though."

"She wasn't abusive. She just didn't love me and… I had limited ways to show I appreciated her, that's all. If you have... preferred alternatives, I will adopt them. If you don't, then... I must beg your indulgence while I research others."

"I dunno, it's complicated, I guess."

"I'm a complicated guy. I think I can handle it..."

"You and me just express stuff in different ways. That's all."

"I can learn to express things differently..."

"I know, but... You really don't have to. I'll live."

"I should at least like to try. I hope someday you'll... allow me to, to teach me."

/

Despite her exhaustion, despite her anger, she wondered if maybe—just maybe—she'd been expecting too much of Erik after all. It was sometimes easy to forget that a man who could decorate a house like something off Instagram and dress his wife like a Vogue model could be so completely incompetent in interpersonal relationships with women.

Unfair as it seemed, maybe she needed to swallow her pride and be more patient with him, the same way she was patient with her son who was still learning to do something as basic as falling asleep on his own. Once upon a time, Erik used to be comfortable napping with her on the couch when she'd allowed it back when they lived in Chicago. With a little patience, maybe she could draw him back into that same level of familiarity again.

It hadn't been so bad for her, either, with her head resting on his bony shoulder, all his distinguishing features out of sight. It hadn't been hard, with a little imagination, to pretend that it was someone else lying there with her.

It could be the same thing again, to pretend in the dark that she heard the soft, quiet breathing of the imperturbable, accommodating husband of her dream world rather than the one she was trapped with.

Or even the old Jack she remembered before everything went wrong.

"I'm going to bed now," she said carefully, like dipping a toe in a hot bath.

At this, Erik's attention slid back to the screen. "As you like. Night."

Christine's heart began to pound. "Are you coming?"

"What do you mean?"

"Are you… coming up to bed?"

"Do you want me to?"

She took a breath. The moment of truth. The point of no return.

"It would be nice."

"Do you want me to?" The words were sharply enunciated in their repetition. It was no longer a question, but a challenge.

"I guess…" And feeling Erik's eyes on her, she added: "Yeah. I do."

Erik watched her carefully, silently.

"Bully for you," he sneered and turned back to the TV. He slouched down onto the couch, kicked up his heels onto the coffee table, and swirled the remnant of his drink in its glass.

It was though a bucket of ice had been thrown over her head, seeping down her shirt and travelling to her stomach.

Noticing her still standing there, he glanced back towards her and arched his perfectly groomed eyebrows. "...Goodnight?" he added, but not in that confused, uncertain voice that so often colored their more delicate interactions. This voice dripped with cold, knowing condescension.

Fury and humiliation threatening to consume her from within, she stormed out of the media room. Rather than turn up the stairs to return to the bedroom which she'd made her home while Jack napped, she turned to the front door and opened it with more force than needed.

No sooner had she stepped out onto the snowy porch, she felt rather than heard him watching her from the hallway.

Christine swallowed down a prick of fear and sat down on the first step of the porch in the biting cold, which she scarcely felt. Behind her, his footsteps padded closer and closer towards her. She refused to look back, not even when her shadow disappeared into his looming silhouette spilling out onto the snowy walkway.

"I thought you were going to bed," he growled.

"I'm just getting some air," she snapped. "Is that okay? Or are you afraid some super model is going to leap from the bushes and sweep me off my feet?"

"Don't be ridiculous—"

"—so go back to your stupid wine," she interrupted.

"It's too cold to be outside."

"I don't care."

/

"Is all of this meant to make me want you? Is that what you think you're achieving? Why can't you just leave me alone?"

"There are ways to make you want me. There are ways to make anyone do anything."

"Look... I am sorry for hurting you. Honestly. And I'm angry, too, clearly. But... I don't want things to be this way. We're... you and I are spending Christmas together. I just wanted to see him."

"Stop apologizing for hurting me, we both know you don't mean it."

He had advanced on her, setting his hands on the counter on either side of her, trapping her, but never touching her.

"I don't know what you want me to say…."

Christine could again feel the tears of fear and anger burning in her eyes as they had then.

"What I want you to say. What I want you to say is this: that if I say you are to be home before midnight, you agree to be home before midnight. I do not have to let you see your friend. I am very much regretting that decision as we speak. I am giving you one last fucking chance, Christine, before I take you back down to my home and no one ever sees you again."

"I will. I understand."

That's when he'd pulled out the capped hypodermic needle and tapped it against her nose. He'd always seemed to have them on hand then.

"I want to hear you say it. If I see my friend, Erik, I will be home before midnight. Say it."

"If... if I see him... I'll be home before midnight."

"If Erik tells me to do something, I will do it. If I am willing to do what Erik says, Erik will be reasonable."

She nods, unable to find the strength to speak, and hides her face completely in her hands as if it will make him go away.

"I don't like doing this, Christine. I do not like being this way. If you behave, then I will behave. That is how this works."

"No more, please."

"No more. If you are good, then you will not see me until Tuesday and I will not go near your friend. That is my promise. Do you think you can do that?"

"I can. I will."

"Good girl. I love you, Christine. I really do, even if it may not seem that way. Things will get better."

"I know. Thank you."

/

Christine, shivering on the porch, suddenly noticed a burning sensation around her finger. She glanced down and found a red stripe in her skin where she must have been twisting her wedding ring. Her shadow was alone now on the porch. She got stiffly to her feet, her shoulders quivering from cold rather than rage.

She turned to open the front door that she hadn't heard close. As her hand closed around the doorknob, she spied Erik through the foyer window. He was sitting on the couch, his eyes turned to the laptop on his knees; but as Christine opened the door, he glanced up to watch her.

He said nothing and neither did she as she crept up the stairs to the safety of the guest bedroom.

He wanted her to spend time with him, did he?

Oh, he'd get exactly what he wanted.

A/N: *taps mic*

Is this thing still on? So, uh, long time no update! We are so, so sorry for how long it's taken to get this chapter up. Hopefully it doesn't disappoint anyone after so long a wait. We swear this fic will never be abandoned and will be updated until we've reached the final chapter!

So without boring yáll with the details, life gets suuuper busy! But we can now say for certain that even if it's eighteen months (yikes) between updates, we're not gonna abandon this fic :D Obviously we're sincerely hoping that the next update won't take quite so long. Thank you all for being such awesome readers and actually encouraging us to update even when you've had to wait a frankly unreasonable amount of time. You are truly the best!