Page 19 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

I stare at the pills for exactly one second.

Not because I’m tempted. But because if he’s watching, I want him to see it.

They’re perfectly placed, of course. Two white capsules centered like a goddamn choice. Like I’m a problem that easily solved.

I give them a full five seconds of consideration. Then I tip my head back, let my mouth fall open, and go completely still.

No twitch. No breath catch. Just slack limbs and the deadest expression I can manage.

It takes effort. Which is ironic.

I count to forty. Then sixty. Then I stop counting altogether. Because that’s how real death works, isn’t it? Eventually the numbers don’t matter.

He doesn’t return right away. In fact, I’m pretty sure I actually do fall asleep. Maybe for hours. I hear the shift before I see him—the sound of his shoes on the floor, the breath he holds just a little too long when he enters the room.

He says nothing. But I sense his hesitation. He’s not sure.

I keep my eyes shut. Jaw loose. Breathing so shallow it barely qualifies.

There’s a pause. Then a footstep. Closer. Then another.

He crouches. I feel the weight of his gaze before I feel his hand.

Two fingers press against the side of my neck. Too clinical to be gentle, too slow to be indifferent. Like he’s checking the oil in a car he doesn’t drive. He holds them there and waits.

Gives up and lifts my wrist.

Ends up with his hands in my mouth. His thumb grazes the edge of my lips. Pulls slightly at the corner. Checking for moisture. Swallow response. Death cues.

He pauses—just long enough that it stops feeling medical.

He leans in. I can feel his breath, warm and sharp, like he’s trying to sniff out a lie.

Still, I don’t move.

Not even when he places his palm over my sternum. Like he’s checking for a heartbeat. Or reminding me he could stop it.

I hold it one more second.

Then I open my eyes.

“Well done, you. I don’t think I’ve ever enjoyed an examination more.”

His expression doesn’t change, but I see it—the smallest pull in his posture. Not anger. Worse.

Interest.

He pulls his hand back slowly. Watches me like he’s waiting for the punchline.

So I give it to him.

“If I wanted to die,” I say, “I’d have married someone like you.”

He stares at me for a long beat without saying anything.

Then, casually: “You sound like someone who’s made peace with her situation.”

“If you were smarter, you would have come to that conclusion twenty-four hours ago.”

I look at him when I say the next part. “And that’s the problem.”

The words land. Not like a slap. Like a scalpel.

He crosses the room again—this time slower.

Leans down until he’s at eye level.

“You think this is funny.”

“No,” I say. “I think this is boredom in a well-decorated house.”

He studies me. Not like I’m defiant. Like I’m defective.

Then: “You think anyone’s coming for you?”

I smile. “I don’t think it. I know it.”

That’s the last thing I say.

He steps behind me, hands on the back of the chair. One push would send me straight through the glass.

But he doesn’t.

He leans in instead. Close enough that I feel it—not heat, just proximity. Cold breath. Stale resolve.

Then he says it.

Soft. Flat. No triumph in it. “You made your point.”

I don’t respond.

He walks to the door.

And this time, when he locks it behind him, it’s not strategy.

It’s insurance.