The Runaway Husband

Chapter 35

Third Person (POV)

The gilded cage had a new rhythm. Gone were the opulent parties and the fleeting displays of wealth. Evelyn, consumed by the echo of Hazel's music and the gnawing jealousy it had ignited, sought to break him further. Her weapon of choice? Humiliation.

Hazel, his body still aching from the previous night's assault, awoke to a new reality. He wasn't just a prisoner anymore; he was now Evelyn's personal servant. The mansion, once his home, had become his workplace, with every inch echoing with the unspoken threat of her wrath.

His day began at dawn, not with the gentle caress of sunlight but with the shrill ring of an alarm clock. He donned the crisp uniform of a receptionist, the starched fabric a stark contrast to the bruises blooming on his skin. Each smile exchanged with the deliverymen, each polite greeting for the handful of visitors, was an exercise in self-preservation.

The work itself was menial, answering calls, scheduling appointments, managing deliveries. But the mundanity was punctuated by Evelyn's subtle barbs, cutting remarks disguised as playful jabs, each one designed to chip away at his remaining dignity.

He served tea to her guests, his trembling hands a constant reminder of the violence he endured, the terror lurking just beneath the surface. He endured her guests' curious glances, their whispered speculations about the handsome receptionist with haunted eyes.

The clock ticked its relentless march towards noon, marking the end of his shift. Relief washed over him, replaced by a gnawing hunger. Evelyn, in her twisted cruelty, refused to provide him with any salary. His only sustenance was the meager dinner he had to prepare before reporting back for his waiter shift.

He stepped out into the bustling city, a stark contrast to the gilded cage. The honking horns and chattering crowds were a world away from the oppressive silence of the mansion. Here, he was anonymous, just another face in the throng.

He found solace in a small food stall, the hot coffee and sandwich warming his body and providing a fleeting sense of normalcy. Here, for a few moments, he wasn't Hazel, the broken trophy husband, but simply a man in need of a meal.

Back in the gilded cage, the oppressive silence returned. He donned the waiter's uniform, the fabric scratchy against his bruised skin. The evening brought a new set of challenges: navigating the opulent dining room, balancing trays full of expensive food, enduring the drunken ramblings of Evelyn's guests.

Each touch, each glance, held the potential for her ire. She lurked in the shadows, a predator monitoring her prey. One spilled drink, one muttered complaint, could be the spark that ignited her fury.

The night stretched on, each minute an eternity. The exhaustion gnawed at him, the physical toll of the day mirroring the emotional weight he carried. He served champagne and caviar, his stomach growling in protest, while Evelyn indulged in lavish feasts, each bite a mockery of his hunger.

Finally, the last guest departed, leaving behind the echo of laughter and the stench of expensive perfume. Hazel collapsed onto a chair, his muscles screaming in protest. He was a puppet, dancing on Evelyn's strings, his every move orchestrated for her amusement, his every breath a silent plea for freedom.

He looked at the clock, the only source of comfort in the oppressive darkness. A few more hours and he could escape back to the solitary confinement of his room, a small haven within the gilded cage.