Loving a Lie

They call my husband the embodiment of cruelty.

Demetri Ferraro was forged for control, vengeance, and bloodshed without conscience. Strangers murmur cautions about what he might do, forgetting I sleep inches from him nightly.

If only they could witness what I have.

There's a terrifying authenticity to our marriage. With me, he's attentive to the point of reverence. I wear his fingerprints like brands. His vigilance wraps around me, reflexive as breathing.

I trusted him completely because betrayal seemed impossible.

That was my undoing

The merger of our families cost me things I didn't know I was losing. I salvaged only the skating rink-solitary hours on pristine ice before dawn or after midnight.

The architecture of my future was more elaborate than I comprehended.

The truth doesn't announce itself with confession.

It arrives without remorse, manifesting as inevitability, as though questioning his constructed reality was never an option.

I don't doubt that my husband loves me.

For the true terror of Demetri Ferraro isn't found in shadows or violence.
It's in how he determined I belonged to him, by systematically eliminating any alternative path.