Page 5 of Peak Cruelty

Marlowe

I pour myself another cup of coffee. The first one’s cold. The second’s not much better. That’s the rhythm here—starts soft, ends sour. I think about warming it, but I don’t have the energy.

The house is still quiet. I like it that way. Quiet doesn’t ask questions.

I move through the kitchen, making mental notes. The cabinets are stocked. The fridge is full of things I don’t need, things I keep on autopilot for a version of myself that’s still trying to pretend everything’s fine.

The smell of burnt toast lingers from breakfast. I barely ate. I can’t stomach anything right now.

When I step into the living room, there he is, sitting at the dining table, eyes glued to his phone.

I try not to think about the puppy. How he pried it from my arms, sent it away to die.

I can’t care. I can’t not care. It gnaws at me—like a loose tooth I keep tonguing, even knowing it’ll bleed. Cruelty always finds a way to feel familiar.

The part of me that could fix it is asleep with the dog. Maybe that’s the kindest thing he ever did—put it down first.

I sobbed in the closet. Briefly. Then I shook it off, put on a smile, and let it slide. Because what else is there to do?

I tell myself he’s not wrong. I do have a lot on my plate. I just need to get through the day .

Still, he’s waiting for me to say something. I know that.

His voice breaks through the silence, a low drawl. “You’re late.”

I don’t answer him. He doesn’t expect me to. But he’s going to make his point nonetheless.

“I was out for a run,” I say, without looking his way.

He looks me over once, his gaze quick and dismissive, like he’s assessing a minor problem he hasn’t decided how to fix yet.

“You look like you’ve been running through a dumpster.”

I close my eyes just long enough to kill the expression. No use showing him something he’ll only use later.

I reach for my phone, checking the time. “I have a full day ahead,” I say. “Appointments to get to.”

“Appointments,” he repeats, like he’s tasting the word. “Busy woman.”

I nod, ignoring the bite in his tone.

He looks up, raising an eyebrow, like he’s about to say something.

I brace for it.

“You’re still wearing those?” He nods toward my clothes—leggings I know he hates.

“You could at least put in some effort, Marlowe.” His voice cuts through the air. “No one’s going to take you seriously looking like that. And remember, dear—you’re a reflection of me.”

My fingers curl around my phone, the edge of the screen digging into my palm. “I’ll stop by the mall on the way home,” I say, my voice flat. It’s not a defense. It’s a sedative.

His eyes narrow. He sets his phone down, taps his fingers on the table. “You know what people are saying?”

I don’t. But when he tells me he raises his voice so loud it feels like the windows rattle. “Some are saying I can’t take care of my woman—others are saying I can’t make her take care of herself. And I don’t know which is worse.”

He leans back, folds his arms over his chest, and looks me up and down. “You’re always on that app. You’d think you’d have picked up a beauty tip or two, with as much time as you spend. I’ve seen the way you look at yourself in the mirror. It’s pathetic.”

His words hit hard. Not because they’re new—but because I let them land.

“But don’t let me keep you. You’re going to have a long day ahead, I’m sure. Just know—if you put as much energy into your appearance as you do your ‘appointments,’ the rest of us might not have to be so embarrassed.”

He says appearanc e like it’s a curse.

I try to swallow down the bile that rises, and when that doesn’t work, I force a smile. “You’re right.” My voice doesn’t crack. I make sure of it. “I mean, I know you’re right.”

He looks at me like I’ve disappointed him again.

No sigh. No lecture. Just quiet judgment, as though it's a ritual and I’ve failed the part.

Then he stands and grabs his keys.

“I hope one of those appointments is for your hair or your face. Neither are doing you any favors. Manny’s girlfriend—she looks like she knows what she’s for. You?” He pauses, shakes his head. “You look like a mistake I still have to feed.”

A slow, wide-eyed smirk. Like he’s letting me in on some cosmic joke he already told the punchline to. “Wowza, that one.”

A beat later, one of the housekeepers appears in the hallway—wrong place, wrong time. She clocks the tension in an instant. Shoots me a look that says I could kill him and make it look like an accident.

I raise one eyebrow. Not worth it. Manslaughter doesn’t come with benefits.

Her eyes: Say the word.

Mine: You don’t get paid enough to bleach that much blood.

I stay seated, watching him gather his things without hurry.

At the door, he turns and crooks a finger at me. A summons. Nothing more.

“You could learn a thing or two from her, you know.”

He taps his mouth once, expectant.

“Seriously. Call Jenny. Who knows? Maybe she’ll rub off on you.”

I don't move.

Not right away.

The hesitation costs me.

He crosses the room in two strides, clamps a hand around the back of my neck, and forces me forward until there's nowhere left to go, until my lips are on his.

It’s not violent.

It doesn’t have to be.

Eventually, I give in.

That’s the game.

Let him think you’re kissing. So he doesn’t notice you’re counting.