Chapter 18

Hearing the men discuss their careers today, I realized with sudden clarity—I deserved that same confidence, that equal seat at the table.

Jared called again as soon as I got home. I answered while sinking into the couch.

“Why weren’t you answering your phone?” Jared’s suspicion bled through the line.

“Must’ve been on silent. What’s up?” The lie came automatically now.

“Who were you out with? Yvonne said you went out again.” He might as well have been taking attendance.

“Just some college friends,” I said lightly. “They’re all doing well here. Thought I’d reconnect before starting work.”

He seemed to turn my answer over in his head before responding. “You’ve changed lately. What’s going on?”

“Changed how?” I toyed with my hair, suddenly recalling my younger self—the one who wanted to burn bright, not fade into someone’s background.

“You’re dressing differently these days,” Jared said, proving he noticed every detail about me.

“Don’t I look good?” I asked with a playful smirk.

“You look fine. Just not… dignified enough.” He was never one to mince words.

“Dignified?” I barked a laugh. “Those wedding vows about loving me unconditionally—were those just empty promises?”

The silence on his end was satisfying. “I never said it was bad,” he finally offered after a loaded pause.

“Was there anything else? I’m tired.” I had zero patience for his critiques tonight.

The line went quiet for a beat. “Fine. Goodbye,” he said tightly before the line went dead.

I clutched my phone with a humorless chuckle. Jared was always perfectly composed, the genteel husband who never raised his voice. But that same restraint made him emotionally sterile.

The truth had always been simple—women mirrored what they were given. Coldness turned them to ice. Passion set them ablaze.

In college, I used to radiate joy, always smiling, always bright. That changed when I married Jared. The real smiles disappeared, replaced by careful words and actions tailored to his expectations.

“Madam, I’ve made some gruel,” Wendy offered softly. “Would you care for a bowl?”

“Yes, thank you.” I drew a steadying breath. This was the day I’d stop playing a role and start being myself again.

I slept deeply that night until the nightmare came at dawn.

In my dream, I died again, experiencing the same helpless terror and crushing despair. I woke gasping, the sheets damp with sweat.

I stumbled barefoot to the bathroom mirror, pressing my palms against the sink until my reflection—young, unmarked—convinced me I was safe.

The phone rang as I was having breakfast. It was from a charity representative.

“Ms. Murphy, the student you sponsored before would like to take you to lunch. If you’re available, of course,” the person said.

I paused with my spoon halfway to my mouth. “That’s odd. I can’t quite recall.”

“Five years ago,” the voice said warmly, “when you volunteered with us, you donated 250 thousand to help that college student after his family went bankrupt. Do you remember?”

The old memory came rushing back. “Oh, that. But we signed an NDA. How did he get my name?”

“Ms. Murphy…” The voice turned apologetic. “He formally requested your contact through proper channels. If this causes you any trouble, we’ll handle it.”

“I’ll pass on the lunch,” I replied. “Just tell him I’m happy being a Good Samaritan. No thanks necessary.” With that, I ended the call.

Yet I felt strangely moved. That he remembered suggested maybe the world wasn’t completely rotten.