Chapter 3 - The Cycle Begins
The violence did not start all at once. It crept into our marriage slowly, disguised as passion or stress. The first time Ethan hurt me was just a month after our lavish wedding. We had been arguing over something trivial—a misplaced set of keys, a delayed contractor—when he suddenly shoved me hard against the hallway wall. The impact knocked the breath from my lungs.
I remember staring at him in shock, waiting for the punchline of a terrible joke. Instead, I saw a flash of dark satisfaction in his eyes. Hours later came the tears, the apologies, the desperate pleas for forgiveness. He blamed the stress of the business. He swore on his life it would never happen again. The next day, two dozen red roses arrived at the house, followed by a romantic weekend getaway.
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I wanted to believe him. I desperately tried to convince myself it was an isolated incident. But the shove soon escalated to a tight grip on my arm that left purple fingerprints. Then came the throwing of plates, the shattered mirrors, and the installation of new deadbolts on the doors "for my safety."
The apologies grew shorter, the roses stopped coming, and the violence became a routine mechanism of his control. I learned to read the subtle shifts in his mood—the tightening of his jaw, the specific pitch of his voice—bracing myself for the inevitable storm. The man I married had vanished, replaced by a warden who guarded his territory with ruthless aggression.
