Chapter 1
My husband, Andrew Miller, has these bipolar rages where he uses me as his personal punching bag, but he always pays for the damage. Each blow is followed by a three-thousand-dollar deposit to my account and a heavy dose of guilt.
I never fight back. I just quietly bank the cash and layer on the foundation until the bruises vanish.
My best friend, Laney Howell, calls me a spineless tragic case and begs me to file for divorce.
But I just watch the numbers in my savings account climb with a cold smile.
"Not yet," I tell her. "The pig isn't fat enough for the slaughter."
But then comes the day Andrew's fist slams into my stomach, and I lose the baby.
*****
The sharp ding of a Venmo alert sliced through the hollow room. I received three thousand dollars.
The sound of the vibration was sharp and ugly in the silent, cavernous living room.
I spat out a mouthful of blood. It tasted like rust.
Andrew Miller sat on the couch across from me, his head in his hands, fingers clawing at his scalp in a frenzy of self-loathing. His hair was a disaster, torn at by his own hands during his manic episode.
"I'm sorry... Honey, I'm so sorry... I can't control it..." he sobbed, his voice trembling like a dead leaf in the wind.
I said nothing.
I just pushed myself up from the floor. My knee screamed in protest. I had slammed it against the corner of the glass coffee table on my way down. It would be a deep, ugly purple by morning.
I walked to the full-length mirror by the door.
My left cheek was already swelling, the perfect imprint of his hand blooming in shades of red and violet.
He hadn't held back. In that moment, the "other" him, the monster, had wanted to kill me.
I picked up a tube of concealer and began to apply it, dabbing on layer after heavy layer.
The cool cream against my burning skin was a strange, grounding sensation, pulling me back from the edge.
I heard his heavy footsteps behind me.
He wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in my neck. His tears were hot as they dripped into my collar, making me flinch.
"Babe, hit me. Scream at me. God, I'm a monster..."
"It's okay."
Gazing at our reflection, I sculpted a perfect smile, radiant and divine, a mask of saintly forgiveness that defied the darkness in my eyes.
I whispered, "I know you're sick, Andrew. I don't blame you."
That, of course, made him cry harder, like a child caught torturing an animal.
He fumbled for his phone again.
A notification banner lit up the phone again. He wired another three grand.
Combined with the first transfer, that was six grand total.
One slap for six thousand dollars was indeed a good trade.
My salary was barely three grand a month, and for that, I had to endure my boss' condescending remarks and the endless demands of our clients. Here, all I had to do was endure a few minutes of pain, and I could make double my monthly pay.
Any way you sliced it, the math worked out.
Andrew was a trust fund baby. His family owned a manufacturing empire. To him, money was just a number.
To me, every cent mattered.
Andrew was asleep.
Beating someone senseless, it turned out, was exhausting.
I pulled the duvet over his shoulders, studying his face. Even in his sleep, a storm cloud seemed to hang over his features.
When he wasn't in the throes of an episode, he was handsome.
His face featured high cheekbones, a straight nose, and eyes that could look so deceptively soulful.
Who could have guessed they were merely a mask for the predator within?
I closed the bedroom door behind me and stepped out onto the balcony, lighting a cigarette.
I didn't smoke often, only when the pain was a dull, constant throb that kept me from sleeping.
My phone screen lit up.
It was a message from my best friend, Laney Howell.
She asked: [Still alive?]
I took a screenshot of my bank account balance and sent it to her.
After a few moments of silence, she sent a long, furious voice memo.
"Jessica Noel, are you out of your goddamn mind? Is this some sick BDSM thing for you? Six grand is all it takes to buy you off?
"Don't you get it? Domestic violence is never a one-time thing. It's zero, or it's endless. What happens when he finally kills you? What good will those millions do you in the grave?"
She was livid, but I knew it came from a place of love.
She was the only one who knew about Andrew's "episodes."
I blew a smoke ring into the dark, watching it dissolve into the night.
I typed back: [Almost there.]
She replied: [Almost where?]
I explained: [The pig is almost fat enough.]
She replied with a string of periods. She thought I had lost my mind.
But I hadn't. I was clearer than I had ever been. I knew exactly what I was doing.
I rested a hand on my stomach.
Beneath my touch, my belly remained smooth and empty, a silent void where no heartbeat lived.
Yet, for my plan to work, I needed a pulse.
Andrew's bipolar disorder was getting worse.
It had started with him throwing things. Then it escalated to shoving. Now, it was closed fists.
The frequency had increased, too, from once a month to nearly once a week.
I knew we were approaching a threshold.
Once he crossed it, he might actually kill me.
But I couldn't leave.
The guilt he felt was a powerful tool, but it wasn't powerful enough.
His remorse hadn't peaked yet. I didn't come this far for a couple of measly transfers. I was aiming for the jackpot.
I wanted everything.
Technically, I wanted his life.