“What would you like to drink?”
“I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
My response was immediate. Instinctive. He stepped next to my chair and placing his finger under my chin, he lifted my gaze to his. “Starting now, you need to start making your own decisions.”
My eyes slid closed and my voice wavered. “I’m not sure I know how. Can’t you just decide? Dominic always decides for me.”
“That’s part of the problem. I’m going to teach you how to make your own choices.”
His direct way of talking gave me the courage to ask, “Why is it wrong that Dominic helps me make decisions? He’s teaching me how to be a good wife.”
There was a slight paused before Ashton answered, and when he did, I noted a tone to his voice that I recognized all too well. He was unhappy. “That’s the second time I’ve heard that from you. He’s not teaching you, Elena, he’s controlling you—there’s a big difference. As long as he has control, you’ll stay with him, no matter how badly he treats you.”
“He doesn’t treat me badly,” I whispered, doing so because a lot of what Ashton had just said made sense, and that in turn was making me question a lot of things; things that I didn’t have time to process right then.
“Oh really? How many times have you cried because of things he said or did the last time you saw him?”
Stunned into silence, I sat there. Dominic made me cry at least three times a day—most days it was more. I didn’t really enjoy crying or hearing him insult me, but I knew it would continue to happen until I learned. I blinked up at Ashton, staring, unsure how to respond.
“I think you just answered my question. Now I’ll ask again, what would you like to drink?”
I knew Ashton wouldn’t let it go until I made a decision so I said quietly, “Can I have a glass of red wine?” It felt good to decide for myself, especially when he didn’t reprimand me for making the wrong choice.
“That I can do.” He smiled and walked to a side table with glasses and different bottles on top and poured two glasses, bringing one to me before taking his own seat, directly opposite me. We passed the dishes back and forth, filling our plates. It all looked so delicious.
“Everything looks wonderful,” I said, unfolding my napkin across my lap.
“Thank you. Julia made it.”
“Julia?”
He smiled. “My housekeeper. I cook for myself most nights, but every once in a while, if I’m busy, she’ll do it. And tonight I wanted to have time to talk instead of cooking.”
“Talk about what?”
“Anything you want.”
Ashton handed over the tray of chicken. Taking a piece, I then finished filling my plate. The room fell silent and I felt the familiar flush of embarrassment as I fumbled for something to say before admitting, “Dominic and I don’t really talk.”
“Let me guess, he doesn’t want to do anything but eat and then do something else.”
I winced when he said “something else.” My sex life was not something I wanted to talk about. Maybe that wasn’t what he was referring to, but that’s where my mind went. With each passing moment his gaze intensified, his eyes darkening, becoming heated. Under his watchful eye a feeling unfurled in my stomach. It wasn’t unwelcome—quite the opposite—but acknowledging that him looking as me was having a physical effect on me . . .
Shame washed over me. Ashton must have noticed because his face went soft. He opened his mouth to say something but I got in first.
“Usually there was a game on he wanted to see. He always ate quickly so he wouldn’t miss it.”
“Did you watch the games with him?”
“No, I had to clean up dinner, get laundry done, make his lunch.”
“So you were his slave.”
I gasped. “No! He’s my husband, it’s my job to take care of him.”
His brows drew together. “But you worked at the diner, didn’t you?”
“Well, yes. I needed to help pay the bills.”
“Yeah, he was definitely spending his paycheck on the bills—that’s why he borrowed money from me in the first place. Jesus, Elena, this isn’t the 1950s. You have a job outside the home; it isn’t your job to take care of him as well. What he’s doing to you—it’s abuse.”
“Dominic’s never laid a hand on me,” I scoffed.
“He may not beat you, but it doesn’t always require fists to hurt someone.”
Ashton let the comment hang in the air and took a bite of his chicken. We ate in silence, the cold atmosphere creeping through the room a sharp contrast to our earlier light conversation, and all the while I sat and contemplated what he’d said. A voice in the back of my head, one I hadn’t heard in a long time, started screaming at me that Ashton was right. What Dominic had done, and continued to do to me had nothing to do with love. It was twisted and wrong.