chapter 2

(Susan's POV)

Greg came home angry again.

I smelled the alcohol on him before I even saw him. The scent of whiskey and cheap perfume clung to his clothes like a second skin. He slammed the front door shut, making me flinch as I folded the last of the towels in the small laundry area.

"Where the hell were you?" he slurred, his voice already thick with irritation.

I didn't look at him. I never did when he was like this. "Working," I said softly, keeping my tone careful, neutral.

He grunted and stumbled toward the couch, collapsing onto it with a heavy sigh. "You always got an attitude when I come home late?"

I shook my head, even though I knew he wasn't really looking at me.

"Have you eaten yet?"

"No," I whispered.

He clicked his tongue, muttering something under his breath before reaching for the remote and turning on the television. The sudden burst of noise filled the room, making the air feel heavier than it already was.

I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the tension crawling up my spine.

"Come here," he said suddenly.

I hesitated.

"Now."

Slowly, I turned and walked over to where he sat. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips twisted in something that was supposed to be a smirk.

"You're a good wife, huh?" he muttered, reaching up to grab my wrist. His grip was tight, his fingers pressing into the bruises I had tried to hide.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from wincing.

He pulled me closer, his breath hot against my neck. "Don't go getting any stupid ideas, Susan. You belong to me. You hear?"

I nodded.

His fingers loosened slightly, but he didn't let go. Instead, he traced a thumb over one of the bruises on my arm, his smile stretching into something cruel. "You're lucky, you know. Most women would kill to have a husband like me."

I forced myself to nod again.

Satisfied, he let me go and as I walked away he spanked me on the bottom and laughed, before leaning back against the couch, returning his attention to the TV as if nothing had happened.

I turned and walked to the bathroom, closing the door behind me before I let out a shaky breath.

I caught my reflection in the mirror. The dim light cast sharp shadows on my face, making the faint bruises stand out even more.

I touched my cheek gently, wincing at the tenderness there.

Accidents happen.

I had said those words to Dermont the night before.

But we both knew they were a lie.

***

The next night at The Margarita, Dermont was waiting for me.

He was sitting in the same spot as before, his dark eyes watching as I moved behind the bar.

For a moment, I considered pretending I hadn't seen him. Pretending that I hadn't spent the entire day thinking about his words, his presence, the way he had looked at me like he actually saw me.

But ignoring him wasn't an option.

So I walked over.

"Whiskey again?" I asked.

He nodded. "No ice."

I poured his drink in silence, my fingers steady even as my mind raced.

"You okay?" he asked after a moment.

I kept my eyes on the glass, watching as the golden liquid swirled against the light. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you weren't okay last night," he said simply.

His words made my fingers tense around the bottle.

I exhaled and placed the whiskey in front of him. "You ask a lot of questions for someone who barely knows me."

"You don't have to know someone to see when they're in pain."

I felt something tighten in my chest.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The sounds of the bar filled the space between us—laughter from the corner booth, the shuffle of feet against the worn wooden floor, the distant clatter of a pool table.

Dermont lifted his glass and took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving mine.

"Where'd you get those bruises?" he asked softly.

My stomach twisted.

I had rehearsed the answer a hundred times before. But for some reason, I couldn't bring myself to say it now.

"I already told you," I said, my voice quieter than before. "It was an accident."

He tilted his head slightly, studying me like he was searching for the truth in my words.

I forced myself to hold his gaze.

A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he didn't push further. Instead, he nodded slowly and leaned back in his seat.

I turned away quickly, trying to focus on anything other than the way my hands were trembling.

***

The night stretched on, and Dermont stayed longer than he should have.

He watched me work ,cleaning tables and arranging cups and glasses, his presence a steady weight in the room.

At one point, a group of drunk men stumbled in, their voices loud and slurred as they ordered round after round of beer. One of them—a guy with greasy hair and a beer belly—leaned across the bar, his breath reeking of alcohol.

"Hey, sweetheart," he slurred. "How 'bout a smile?"

I forced a polite, practiced expression.

But it wasn't enough for him.

"Come on," he said, reaching for my wrist. "Give us a real one."

Before I could react, Dermont was there.

He moved so fast I barely saw it happen. One second, the guy was leering at me, and the next, Dermont had grabbed his wrist, twisting it just enough to make the man yelp.

"She doesn't owe you anything," Dermont said coldly.

The room went silent.

The drunk guy blinked, his face twisting in confusion. "Who the hell are you?"

Dermont let go of his wrist, his expression unreadable. "Someone who doesn't like seeing people get pushed around."

For a second, I thought the man was going to fight back. But then he glanced at Dermont—at the way he carried himself, at the quiet strength in his stance—and he backed down.

He muttered something under his breath and stumbled away, his friends pulling him toward a booth.

I exhaled slowly.

Dermont turned back to me, his dark eyes searching mine.

"You okay?" he asked again.

I swallowed hard and nodded.

But we both knew the truth.

I wasn't okay.

And for the first time in years, someone had noticed.