“I’ll still be able to come and cook,” I rushed on. “It’s not that far. And we have two months left anyway before we can . . . ” Before we can do what? Before we can get divorced. The word stuck in my throat. “Before we can end this,” I finished instead.
Silence. Heavy. I looked up at him.
The anger radiated off him, but it was not explosive like it had been the night I discovered the rooms. No, this was controlled. Contained. Rolling in waves beneath the surface.
“What?” I asked quietly.
He stepped closer.
“Do you truly believe,” he said, voice low and measured, “that you are still subject to the whims of that man?”
“It’s my job.”
“It is exploitation.”
“It may be, but it is still my income.”
“It is coercion.”
I blinked. “He didn’t force me.”
“He threatened your father’s stability.”
My chest tightened. “He didn’t threaten Dad.”
“Not outright, he did not need to. He knows you will do whatever you have to do to take care of him.”
I crossed my arms defensively. I wanted to argue, but I knew he was right. “It’s temporary. I’ll handle it.”
“You will not,” he said flatly.
Something sharp flared in me. “You don’t get to decide that.”
His eyes flashed. “And you do not get to pretend this is merely about a paycheck.”
“It is about a paycheck!”
“No.” The word landed like a strike. “It is about control,” he said quietly. “And you are still allowing him to exercise it.”
My throat burned.
“This is my life,” I said. “I don’t have the luxury of deciding to quit. Some of us have to work for everything.”
He stepped closer, the air between us charged now.
“You believe this is about money.”
“It is.”
He looked at me like I had just fundamentally misunderstood something. The anger wasn’t at me. It was at the idea.
“You still think this ends in two months,” he said softly.
My stomach dropped.
“Well,” I whispered, “doesn’t it?”
And the silence that followed told me I might not understand him as well as I thought I did.
