The Runaway Husband

Chapter 36

Third Person (PoV)

Two Months Later...

Two months had bled into each other, each day a monotonous echo of the last. Hazel's life had become a relentless cycle of servitude, the gilded cage his purgatory, and Evelyn the cruel warden. The receptionist's crisp uniform now bore the wrinkles of exhaustion, the waiter's jacket a silent witness to countless spilled tears.

His days were measured in stolen moments. The warmth of a fleeting smile exchanged with a deliveryman, the comfort of a hot sandwich devoured in a hidden corner, the solace of a melody hummed under his breath – these were the embers that kept the spark of his spirit alive.

But the nights were Evelyn's canvas, painted with humiliation and fear. He served champagne and caviar to her guests, his stomach gnawing with hunger while she flaunted her wealth and indulged in extravagant feasts. Each clinking glass, each burst of laughter, was a mocking counterpoint to his silent symphony of suffering.

One Tuesday evening, the air crackled with an unfamiliar tension. A new guest, Mr. Thorne, a man whose wealth whispered in the cut of his suit and the glint of his Rolex, had captivated Evelyn's attention.

Hazel watched, a cold dread settling in his gut, as their gazes met across the room. Mr. Thorne's smile, once reserved for the hostess, now lingered on Evelyn, his eyes lingering on her with a suggestive curiosity.

Evelyn, basking in the newfound attention, reveled in the role of the unattainable. Her laughter, usually sharp and brittle, now danced with a practiced sensuality. Her touch, usually dismissive or cruel, lingered on Mr. Thorne's arm, sending shivers of anger down Hazel's spine.

He felt a primal urge to intervene, to shatter the illusion of Evelyn's singlehood, to pull her back from the precipice of infidelity. But the words caught in his throat, choked by the iron grip of fear.

His voice, once a melody of hope, was now a forgotten instrument, silenced by the trauma of abuse. He was a shadow in his own life, a ghost haunting the halls of his own imprisonment.

Evelyn, sensing his internal struggle, turned to him with a cruel smile. "Hazel, darling," she drawled, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, "refill Mr. Thorne's glass, would you? And try not to break anything this time."

Her words, laced with venom, were a public display of his powerlessness. He felt the eyes of Mr. Thorne and the other guests boring into him, judging him, their pity a balm that only intensified his shame.

He clenched his fists, the fragile glass threatening to shatter under his grip. This wasn't just humiliation; it was a calculated manipulation, a reminder of his place in her twisted play.

He managed to fill Mr. Thorne's glass, his hands trembling, his gaze downcast. The laughter and chatter around him seemed distant, replaced by the deafening rhythm of his own heart.

Evelyn's voice cut through the haze. "Oh, darling," she cooed, placing a playful hand on Mr. Thorne's arm, "I almost forgot, Hazel is just a waiter here. Don't mind him, he can't seem to grasp the concept of personal boundaries."

Her words, spoken with feigned innocence, were a dagger plunged into Hazel's soul. His face burned with a humiliation he couldn't hide. He was exposed, stripped bare of his dignity, his pain a spectacle for Evelyn's amusement.

He wanted to run, to disappear into the shadows, to escape the suffocating air of betrayal and mockery. But his legs were rooted to the spot, his pride a wounded animal refusing to let him flee.

Mr. Thorne, caught off guard by Evelyn's revelation, cleared his throat awkwardly. "Ah, I see," he stammered, glancing at Hazel with a newfound sympathy. "Well, then, all the more reason for you to take good care of your employees, Mrs...."

"Evelyn," she cut him off, her smile never wavering. "And I do, darling. He's quite...decorative, don't you think?"

The rest of the night blurred into a tapestry of forced smiles and hollow laughter. Hazel served, his movements mechanical, his mind a maelstrom of conflicting emotions. The spark of defiance he had nurtured with such care seemed to have been extinguished, replaced by an aching sense of defeat.

When the last guest departed, leaving behind the cloying scent of expensive perfume and betrayal, Hazel felt the walls of the gilded cage close in around him. He stumbled out into the night, the city lights blurring through tears of humiliation and despair.

His walk home was an agonizing pilgrimage, each step echoing the rhythm of his shattered dreams. He had no money for a taxi, no haven to retreat to,