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“No, no. I’m okay. Thank you.”

I try to keep the tremble out of my voice but am not entirely successful.

After Chad cleaned my face again, things went from alarming to downright terrifying. He’d pulled an overnight bag from the closet and retrieved a toiletry bag. Pulling a chair to sit in front of me, he sat down and unpacked the bag’s contents onto the table next to us.

Shivers that had nothing to do with the temperature wracked my body.

It was my makeup. Not from my apartment. These were brand new, right down to the brushes.

“Now,” he said, picking up a tube of eyeshadow primer, “I’ve been practicing. Got one of those sheets that they use in cosmetology school with the face. I spent hours studying pictures of wedding makeup. We may not have the cake or the string quartet, but we will look our best so the photographer can capture the moment I make you mine.”

He'd snapped. Chad has always been obsessive. Controlling and abusive. Those qualities, I’ve seen and know well. The same way I know how he spins everything around to fit his perfect narrative. But that…that was a whole new level of insanity. The way he said mine had tears welling in my eyes.

I’m not his.

I’m Auggie’s.

A single tear fell down my cheek.

Chad, in all his de-lu-lu glory, smiled at me before wiping away my tear.

“I know, sweetheart. We’ve waited so long. It’s hard not to be overcome with emotion,” he said, voice growing thick. He cleared his throat and began to apply the primer to my eyes. “We have to save our tears of joy for after the ceremony. You’re going to do that for me, aren’t you, Cordy?”

There was a threat in the question that had my hair standing on end.

“Yes,” I whispered, swallowing down the lump in my throat, “I can do that.”

“That’s my girl,” he said cheerily.

For the next hour, Chad talked. And talked, and talked, carrying on about how much he’s missed me. Then about our future, which sounds more like the Stepford Wives than an actual life. All while he applied my makeup.

He leaned back, hand cupping his chin like an artist studying a masterpiece. With a satisfied nod of his head, he rose, put away all of the makeup, and returned it to the larger overnight bag. When he came back, he had a brush, hairspray, and a curling wand. Again, all the same things I own but purchased new.

He plugged in the curling wand and began to brush my hair.

I felt like I was his personal doll in the creepiest way possible.

“After the wedding, we’ll need to change your hair,” he mused. “I’ve found a few styles that will work for your face shape as it is now. Of course, that will change once we get you onto a proper diet. I need my wife looking her best.”

If he hadn’t had a curling wand inches from my scalp, I’d have thrown my weight backward with the hope of squashing him. He was always making comments about my weight. When he really started to take control of my life, he’d been restrictive with what I could and couldn’t eat.

Fatphobic asshole.

I decided the best course of action was to make small sounds of agreement. I might be going along with this psychotic plan he’s orchestrated, but I would not verbally feed into this madness.

When he finished my hair, he went back to the closet and pulled out a garment bag. With the showmanship of a ringmaster, he slowly undid the zipper and pulled back the bag.

A wedding dress.

Empire waist, cap sleeves and a full skirt.

Simple.

Plain.

Just like Chad.

“Ta-da,” he’d said with the excitement of a toddler opening a birthday present.