My Husband Forced Me to Diet — Story of the Day

Utterly gorgeous Megan is trapped in a loveless marriage to a man who forces her to eat nothing but cucumbers and water in order to stay "trim". Half-starved, she manages to find a way to fight out of the abuse thanks to an unlikely ally who shows up at her door.

The aroma hit me before the doorbell—a warm, cheesy promise of rebellion against the cucumber slices and water rations that choked my existence. My hand hovered over the deadbolt, before flinging the door open to reveal the pizza delivery guy.

Not just any delivery guy, though. It was Miles, my favorite—I would ask for him specifically when I made surreptitious food orders while my husband, Boris, was in the shower or otherwise out of sight. Miles was fast becoming an ally in my battle against my husband's domineering dietary demands.

Miles's blue eyes, the color of summer skies after a sudden downpour, always crinkled at the corners when he grinned. Today, that grin was amplified, underscored by the cardboard pizza box.

"Megan! Extra pepperoni, as requested," he said, his voice holding a playful lilt that never failed to put a smile on my lips.

My stomach gurgled in agreement, a traitorous sound in the oppressive silence of Boris's carefully curated prison of a home. My eyes devoured the pizza, pepperoni glistening.

I grabbed a slice in each hand, right there, at the threshold and shoveled as much as I could into my mouth desperately in a defiant act against the invisible bars Boris had erected around my life.

"You okay?" Miles asked. "You look—"

"Starved," I finished for him, a humorless laugh escaping my lips. "I haven't eaten in three days."

The way his gaze softened tugged at my heartstrings. It was a look I rarely saw, hidden beneath the layers of professionalism he wore like armor against Boris's omnipresent surveillance. But at that moment, it was just Miles; no cameras were watching, no apps tracking my every move.

"Hold on," he chuckled, pulling a napkin from the delivery bag. "Don't want you turning into a walking grease stain before you even get inside."

Raw and insistent, hunger gnawed at my insides, growls echoing in the hollows of my stomach. I snatched another greasy triangle, the pepperoni singing its salty siren song to my taste buds.

"Megan!" Boris's voice crackled through the air, shattering the fragile moment.

I stopped the half-chewed slice in my cheeks like a guilty secret. I glanced at Miles, still awkwardly hovering on the threshold, witnessing my "shameful" indulgence. His eyes widened at the dismaying disapproval in Boris's look.

"Who is that at the door? Don't tell me you are eating on the sly," Boris accused, his eyes boring into me.

My throat constricted, the lie forming on my tongue smooth and treacherous. "No," I choked out, swallowing the mouthful of pizza, the word a dry cough against the sudden dryness in my mouth.

"Don't you dare lie to me, woman!" Boris thundered, his voice echoing from the sitting room where he stood, watching Miles and me suspiciously. The air pulsed with his anger, setting my nerves on edge.

Panic fluttered in my chest like a trapped bird desperate for escape. My gaze darted back to Miles, a silent appeal for his understanding, for some shred of sympathy.

He shifted, closing the pizza box quickly. His eyes, now flecked with something akin to pity, met mine momentarily before he mumbled, "I, uh, I should probably go."

"No, wait!" I exclaimed, reaching out, but he was already backing away, shaking his head.

"I—I can explain," I stammered, turning to Boris, noticing that Miles stopped his retreat, about to witness a potentially explosive exchange.

Boris scoffed with a dismissive snort that sent a fresh wave of humiliation over me. "Explain what? That you couldn't resist stuffing your face like a glutton?"

Tears stung my eyes, hot and unwelcome. Every accusation was a searing brand, marking me with the scarlet letter of disobedience. But beneath the sting, a tiny spark of defiance flickered.

"It's just one slice," I whispered, my voice thin and shaky. "Just a tiny bite."

"And that makes it okay?" Boris sneered, taking a menacing step closer. "One bite leads to another, Megan. You know this. We had a deal."

The deal. The invisible chains bound me to a life of deprivation, where cucumbers were currency and water was the only acceptable libation. My stomach rumbled again, a low protest against the tyranny of lettuce and limes.

"I'm hungry, Boris," I said, my voice barely a whisper. "Very hungry."

His face contorted in disgust. "That's your weakness, Megan. Always giving in to your pathetic cravings. No willpower, no self-control."

His words were like thrown pebbles bruising my soul. Willpower. Self-control. Words he wielded like weapons, stripping me bare, leaving me trembling and exposed.

But this time, something inside me shifted. A tiny seed of rebellion, nourished by the stolen bites of greasy pizza, took root.

"Maybe it's not my weakness, Boris," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Maybe it's your cruelty that's the problem."

His eyes narrowed, slits of obsidian glinting with suppressed rage. "Don't you dare talk back to me!"

But the tide was turning. The fear ebbed, replaced by a cold, defiant anger. "I'm tired of being told what to eat, what to wear, what to think," I said, my voice rising in a shaky crescendo. "I'm tired of living in a prison of your making."

Boris lunged, his hand a blur as it whipped across my face. The stinging slap rang around the room. I stumbled back, a sob ripping through my throat, but I didn't cringe. My eyes met his unwaveringly. The fear was gone, replaced by a steely resolve.

"You can hit me, Boris," I said, my voice trembling with a newfound courage. "You can control my food, my clothes, my life. But you can't control my spirit." The tension in the room crackled, thick and suffocating. Miles, frozen at the doorway, watched the scene unfold like a horrified spectator at a train wreck.

Boris stared at me, his chest heaving, his eyes flickering with fury and something else: fear? Doubt?

For the first time, I saw myself reflected in his gaze, not as the pale, emaciated creature he'd sculpted, but as the woman I was.

My heart hammered against my ribs, as Boris's eyes burned with accusation, pinning me under their searing gaze. The half-chewed pizza slice stuck in my throat, a wad of guilt and rebellion.

"I just wanted—" I stammered, the words dissolving on my tongue.

"Spit it out, woman!" Boris boomed. "Don't try your pathetic lies on me."

Miles shuffled his feet at the doorway, witnessing the escalating conflict. His eyes were clouded with unease, drifting between my tear-streaked face and Boris's simmering rage.

Shame twisted in my gut, a serpent coiling tighter with each accusation.

"I didn't eat the pizza," I said, my voice barely a whisper.

Boris snorted—a harsh, dismissive sound. "Don't play games, Megan. I saw you, stuffing your face like a—" He didn't finish the sentence, but the unspoken insult hung heavy.

A surge of anger, hot and unfamiliar, coursed through me. "I said I didn't eat it!"

His eyes narrowed, dangerous slits in his flushed face. "You think I'm a fool, Megan? Do you think I can't tell when you're lying?"

He took a menacing step closer, his shadow engulfing me like a cold wave. Fear prickled at my skin. "Maybe it's not me who's lying, Boris," I said, my voice surprisingly steady. "Maybe it's you."

He froze, his face a mask of disbelief. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until a sarcastic chuckle escaped his lips.

"You're delusional, Megan," he sneered. "You think you can twist reality to suit your whims? You, with your pathetic self-control and insatiable cravings?"

His words were like whips. But this time, the lash only fueled the fire within me. For a moment, we locked eyes. A tense silence descended.

My legs trembled, the adrenaline finally ebbing, leaving behind a shaky exhaustion.

Across the threshold, Miles remained frozen, an awkward statue bathed in the early morning light. Shame crawled up my throat, choking back the defiance that had just roared within me.

Boris stepped over and confronted the deliveryman head-on. "You!" he said, eyes burning with suspicion. "Explain yourself."

Caught off guard, Miles stumbled over his words. "Sir? Uh, about the pizza— there was a mix-up, I think. This order was meant for the house next door. My apologies."

I held my breath. Boris's eyes narrowed, scrutinizing Miles's every twitch. Could he see through the flimsy lie? I thought, my heart hammering.

Then, mercifully, a flicker of doubt replaced the fury in Boris's eyes. "Hmm," he grunted, his gaze finally straying from Miles to the pizza box clutched in his hand. "My wife seemed keen on eating the whole thing," he challenged.

Miles's voice remained steady. "I'm sorry, sir. As I explained to your wife, it was just a mistake. If you'll open the gate for me, please, I'll be on my way."

The tension eased up a fraction. Boris, with a curt nod, reached for his phone. "Fine," he muttered, tapping the screen. The gate began to crawl open. "Gate's opening. Get out of here."

The metal grid of the gate clattered open, a mechanical sigh in the tense silence. Miles, muttering another apology, slipped away, disappearing onto the street.

Boris watched him go, his face unreadable. Then, with a final, lingering glance back at me, he stepped out to his car parked in the driveway, started it up, and whipped off on his way to work.

I was alone. My legs gave way, and I sank onto the cold floor. This battle had blown over, but the war would rage on. My defiance had tasted sharp, but it left a bitter aftertaste of fear and uncertainty. What now? Where did I go from here?

One bite at a time, I had whispered to Miles. But now, alone in the aftermath of my rebellion, the future stretched before me: one bite, one act of rebellion, one shaky step at a time.

The darkness pressed in, but a tiny spark remained within it—the spark of defiance. Tears pricked my eyes, blurring the room's edges, but I blinked them back, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my weakness.

Instead, I focused on the footsteps approaching and the soft crunch of leaves beneath sneakers. Miles emerged on the garden path, his face a mask of concern, eyes scanning my face like a worried puppy. He stopped a few feet away.

"He's gone," he said, his voice gentle. "I hid behind a bush and ran back in before the gate closed." I nodded, the lump in my throat making speech a Herculean task. My hand went to the burning sting on my cheek.

"Thank you," I managed to say, the words rasping out dryly, "for covering for me."

He gave me a small smile that didn't reach his eyes. "It's alright," he mumbled, standing uncomfortably. "Just the right thing to do, I guess."

Silence settled between us, pregnant with unspoken words and the lingering traces of the fight. The smell of pepperoni and mozzarella returned to me from the huge, air-tight delivery bag still on Miles's back. "Are you okay?" he asked tentatively.

I looked at him, at how his blue eyes held something I couldn't decipher. Was it pity? Disgust? Or something else, something closer to understanding, to shared pain?

"I don't know," I confessed. "I'm scared, Miles. I'm scared of what he'll do and become."

He took a step closer, hesitation melting into quiet resolve. "I won't let him hurt you," he said, his voice low but firm. "I promise."

His words were a balm to my raw nerves, a flickering candle in the darkness of my fear. I looked into his eyes, searching for the truth in their depths. And I saw not just a stranger but an ally for the first time.

"You don't even know him," I whispered, doubt gnawing at the edges of my newfound trust.

"Maybe not," Miles admitted, his gaze unwavering. "But I think I know you. And I know nobody deserves what he's doing to you."

He held out his hand, a lifeline. My hand trembled as I reached out to him, the distance between us a chasm of uncertainty. But as our fingers met, a spark of something unexpected ignited. It wasn't the heat of passion nor the spark of friendship. It was the glimmer of a shared resistance, a common enemy uniting us against the darkness.

He pulled me gently back to my feet. "What happens now?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper, but it held a tremor of hope I hadn't felt in months.

Miles smiled genuinely. "Now," he said quietly, "we have breakfast. My bag is full of orders intended for others, but I can think of no better home for all this food than yours."

And in that moment, under the canopy of a suburban sky, with the taste of rebellion and the sting of betrayal still fresh on my tongue, I knew I wasn't alone. I had chosen my side, and in choosing Miles, I had chosen myself.

My stomach rumbled, a reminder of my neglected body, but it was a different kind of hunger now. It was a hunger for justice, autonomy, and the right to exist in my skin without fear or shame.

I invited Miles in, and we stepped into the kitchen. Harvey, the "robo-cheerleader" installed by Boris, buzzed into action on the floor. "Remember, Megan," his metallic voice chimed, "one healthy snack a day keeps the fat away!"

I rolled my eyes. Not today, robot overlord, I thought, with a defiant sigh. Miles began to unpack his delivery bag, decorating the kitchen table with an array of delights. "Chicken salad?" he offered, placing a dish near me and adding with a smile, "Wrong address, you know."

"Miles," I whispered, his genuine concern piercing the layers of doubt I'd built around myself. "I'm starving." Like dam gates breaking, the words brought tears pricking at my eyes. He nodded, understanding.

"Come on," he said, waving at the fare, "let's eat." The pepperoni pizza I had so craved, pasta arrabbiata, a chicken wrap, a plate of sushi—all stood before me. I tucked in ravenously, gratefully, as Miles kept me company. Each item felt like a rebellion against the cucumber regime, a shared feast in the face of deprivation.

While we wolfed down the misappropriate bounty, we talked. Not small talk, not about the weather. We spoke about Boris, about his controlling rage, the way he chipped away at my sense of self. Miles listened without judgment, his eyes holding a quiet empathy I hadn't felt in years.

"He makes me feel like I'm broken," I confessed. "Like I'm nothing without him. And like I'm nothing to him unless I remain thin and, in his eyes, sexy."

Miles reached across the table, his hand a warm anchor on mine. "You're not broken, Megan," he said firmly. "He's broken. He wants to control you because he can't control himself." His words were a balm to my bruised spirit. "Boris is not so much a tyrant but a wounded child," Miles explained, "clinging to power in the face of his demons.

"And what about me?" I whispered. "What can I do about it?"

Miles squeezed my hand. "You've already taken the first step, Megan," he said warmly. "You spoke up. You chose yourself."

His words fueled my rediscovered courage. The road ahead wouldn't be easy, but I wasn't alone. The pizza delivery guy, the man with eyes like summer skies, had become more than a witness. He was a companion, guiding me towards the light.

As we finished our meal, the shadows seemed to shrink, replaced by a quiet glow of newfound possibility. My journey had just begun, but with a friend by my side, a confidante, I no longer walked alone.

The cucumber chains were loosening, and with each step, I was rediscovering the woman I was always meant to be—the woman who was strong, defiant, and, most importantly, free.

Miles's words cut through the haze of my delight. "Megan," he said softly, "why do you let him treat you like that?"

My throat constricted, Boris's thunderous voice still ringing in my ears. I wanted to say it was habit, fear, the slow erosion of my will against the relentless tide of his control. But the truth, sharp and jagged, lodged in my throat.

"He—he has me," I whispered, the words tasting bitter. "Trapped."

Miles's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

I took a deep breath. I told Miles about the financial dependence, the carefully calculated isolation that kept me locked in Boris's orbit. The cameras, the apps that tracked my every move, my every bite. The constant threat of eviction, the manipulation that painted my escape as a betrayal, not a liberation.

As I spoke, Miles listened intently, his face hardening with each revelation.

Suddenly, the shrill ring of my phone pierced the silence. Boris. My heart lurched. "Answer it," Miles urged.

I tapped the screen, and Boris's face filled it, a mask of fury. "Hi, babe," he began, but in an instant, his demeanor shifted. "Megan!" he yapped, his voice amplified by the phone's speaker. "What is that on your face?"

He leaned in, the camera focusing on the telltale smear of tomato sauce I hadn't noticed.

"It's just—it's just—lipstick. I must have smeared it on my cheek accidentally," I stammered, my voice barely audible.

"Lipstick?" Boris snarled. "Why are putting on lipstick at this time of the morning, like a—like a—?" He searched for an insult; his eyes narrowed slits. "Are you going out somewhere? Who are you trying to impress?"

Boris's face contorted with rage, but another app notification popped up on my screen before he could unleash further fury: "Weigh-in time," it read.

My breath caught in my throat. The digital scale, perched on the bathroom floor, was linked to Boris's phone via the app. He could see my weight in real-time, a constant measure of my compliance, my obedience.

"Well?" Boris's voice was a whipcrack. "Do it!"

Tears pricked my eyes, but I knew defiance wouldn't help now. With a heavy heart, I shuffled towards the bathroom, the weight of the stolen mouthfuls of pizza, pressing down on me.

Miles followed me into the bathroom, bringing along his delivery bag. "I have an idea," he offered. I was curious. What was he thinking, bringing the agent of my downfall—that huge, brightly colored bag—into the bathroom with us?

As I set one foot on the scale, the numbers flashed brightly, but Miles stopped me. "Wait, wait!" he insisted. "First, take off your jumper and shoes. That'll save 10 to twenty ounces. Now, what does he expect you to weigh?" he asked.

"100 pounds is his demand," I answered nervously. "There's no way I'm going to come in under that now, with that huge lunch we just had. He's going to punish me for sure!" I cried.

"Don't worry," Miles said comfortingly, "we'll figure this out."

For the first time, I didn't feel alone in my struggle. Boris might control my weight, my food, my phone. But he couldn't hold my spirit, not anymore. With Miles by my side, I was ready to fight back.

And figure it out, he did. Miles transformed my bathroom into a clandestine war room in a whirlwind of whispered calculations. The bathroom scale became the enemy, the digital display its flashing eye. My phone was a silent pawn in the game.

His plan was audacious, a daring act of defiance in the face of Boris's tyrannical control. We would fill his delivery bag with water, meticulously measured to reach the magical number: 100 pounds. One pound over, Boris's fury would rain like an unforgiving hailstorm.

Harvey the robot whirred into the bathroom, its metallic voice muted, but I barely paid it any mind as Miles hefted the bulging bag onto the scale, the plastic creaking with the weight. The numbers ticked up, agonizingly slow, each like a knife twisting in my gut: 98... 99... 100... 102!

My heart plummeted, the victory snatched away at the last possible moment. But Miles, quick as a hummingbird, scooped out a brimming cup of water. My breath caught again as the numbers flashed temporarily before settling on the final number broadcast to Boris: 97!

Miles had done it. We had done it. A shaky laugh escaped my lips, bubbling up from somewhere deep within. Tears welled in my eyes, not of fear, but of relief, of joy so fierce it threatened to burst forth.

Before I could stop myself, I was in Miles's arms. We clung to each other, two figures adrift in a sea of uncertainty yet tethered by the rope of this shared victory.

"We did it," I whispered.

"We did," Miles echoed with a smile. "One battle at a time, Megan. One bite at a time."

His words were a mantra, a promise uttered against the shadows. At that moment, the walls of my prison seemed to crack, the chains of restriction loosening around my soul. It was just a number, a few pounds on a scale, but it felt like a revolution.

The phone remained silent, no angry tirade erupting from its speaker. For now, at least, we had bought ourselves a reprieve—a stolen breath of freedom outside of Boris's control.

As we pulled apart, a slow smile bloomed on my face. Even Harvey, usually stoic, tilted its head in a semblance of a nod. It was a small victory, but it tasted like hope, like the first bite of forbidden fruit after years of deprivation.

The battle was far from over. The scars, physical and emotional, would take time to heal. But with Miles by my side and the taste of rebellion lingering on my tongue, I knew I wasn't alone.

Because beneath the fear, beneath the scars, burned a fire. A fire of defiance, hope, and a woman finally refusing to be broken. And that fire, fueled by friendship, and the weight of a lie on a scale, could only grow brighter.

The emotion of our victory still pulsed through me, vibrating in the laughter escaping my lips. Miles's arms, warm and solid, were an anchor.

My phone, abandoned on the edge of the sink, suddenly buzzed—the harsh vibration was like a slap back to reality. Miles and I exchanged a nervous glance, the bubble of joy pierced by Boris's presence.

He wouldn't let this go quickly. I knew that better than anyone. The number 97, glowing on the scale display, might have bought us temporary peace, but it wouldn't satiate his insatiable hunger for control.

My fear was confirmed moments later. The phone buzzed again, a notification flashing: "House Access." My heart lurched, remembering the hidden cameras, the silent eyes that watched our every move.

"Oh, no! He can see us!" I whispered in panic, the words stealing the oxygen from the room.

"The security cameras! He must have even hidden one in the bathroom," I noted. Then it struck me. "Of course! How could I be so stupid—that damn robot, there must be a camera in the thing."

Panic flared in Miles's eyes, mirroring my own. We weren't celebrating a victory anymore. We were sitting ducks, exposed in the crosshairs of my domineering husband's blind rage.

And he didn't disappoint. Electric motors started grating and grinding all over the place as the first window shutter clattered down, steel bars slamming shut. I stumbled back in fear, a cold fist squeezing my chest. The doors clicked locked, one after another, the bolts snapping into place like shackles.

"What did he do?" Miles roared.

I reached for my phone, desperate for answers, but the screen was blank. Boris had severed our connections to the outside world, plunging us into a suffocating physical and emotional darkness.

"He locked us in," I whispered hoarsely. "He trapped you here."

Shame burned in my cheeks. I had brought Miles into the tangled web of my nightmare. He, however, surprised me. Instead of panic, a steely resolve settled in his eyes. He grabbed my hand, his grip a lifeline.

"It's okay, Megan," he said firmly. "We'll figure this out. Together."

Trapped, we may have been, but we were trapped together. And in that shared confinement, in the flickering candlelight of his courage, I felt safe. The shadows might have closed in, but we weren't alone. In the face of Boris's tyranny, we had each other, which was a weapon. The battle lines were drawn, the game afoot. And this time, we were playing to win.

With Miles by my side, with the taste of rebellion still raw on my tongue, I knew we were far from beaten. We were just getting started. The house may have become a cage, but two hearts beat in defiance inside it. Boris might have locked us in, but he would never lock us down. The hunt was on. And the prey, this time, had claws.

Miles's hand remained clasped in mine, a grounding touch in the chaos. We huddled in the bedroom, silently in the darkness, waiting for Boris's inevitable return.

And it came. The sealed house amplified his voice. "Megan?" he yelled, coming through the front door and locking the shutter again. "There's no way out. You can't hide forever. Come out and face the music. I saw everything on the camera. You can come out too, pizza boy. Come out and face your punishment like a man."

Panic gnawed at my insides. We couldn't stay there, trapped and vulnerable. "I'll lure him up," I said and slipped out of the room; my legs, fueled by courage, propelled me down the stairs, each wooden step thundering with every determined footfall.

I reached the bottom and squared up to Boris as he approached me with heavy treads. "Where is the pizza boy, Megan? I'm going to pound him to death," he growled menacingly. "And then I'll deal with you and your insubordination," he added.

Didn't he understand? This wasn't just about a number on a scale anymore. This was about me, about finally breaking free from his suffocating grip.

I said nothing but turned and ran back up the stairs, Boris in fast pursuit. The bedroom doorway, a haven, beckoned. I scrambled inside, slamming the door shut, and sliding home the bolt lock—a flimsy barrier against the hurricane of my tormentor's rage. His fist pounded against the wood, his voice spitting threats.

Miles was waiting in the bedroom. My heart, already a frantic drum solo, leaped into overdrive. But his eyes, instead of fear, held that steely resolve I had seen earlier.

The doorknob rattled. Then, the wood surrounding it splintered under the bangs of Boris's repeated kicks. Finally, the lock gave, and Boris burst in through the wreckage, his face contorted with fury. Miles, with the quickness of a striking snake, launched himself at him. They collided in a tangle of limbs.

My breath hitched, trapped in my throat. I wanted to help, to join the fight, but fear rooted me to the spot. Each punch, every grunt as they fought, ripped at my insides, each blow like a blow to my own heart.

The fight, brutal but brief, blurred into a kaleidoscope of movement. Then, a sudden silence. Miles, panting, stood above Boris, the latter sprawled on the floor, a whimper escaping his lips.

My legs finally obeyed, rushing to Miles's side. His nose was bleeding, but he was otherwise unbowed. He snatched up Boris's phone, his eyes flashing with urgency. "Let's get out of here, Megan. He may be down, but he's not out. Quick."

In a blur, he grabbed Boris's feet and dragged him into the bathroom, took the key from inside the lock, and locked the door from the outside—pocketing the key.

We hurried from the room, Boris's phone clutched in Miles's hand. He punched the speaker-phone button, and a reassuring voice rang out: "911, What's your emergency?"

Miles gave the address and explained the situation, then he flicked open the home security app and hit the slider to "OPEN", the locks and shutters obeying immediately.

Downstairs, we stopped just inside the front door, the adrenaline beginning to drain from my body. Hot and cleansing tears streamed down my face, releasing the tension that had coiled in my muscles for months.

Outside, sirens wailed, growing louder. We'd done it. We'd faced the monster and emerged battered but unbroken. As the police secured the house and Boris, the fallen tyrant, was led dazed down the stairs, a mix of emotions washed over me. Relief, fear, and the dizzying feeling of freedom were unfamiliar but very welcome.

"It's not over," I whispered, the words laced with weariness and newfound strength. "But it's a start. I'll file for divorce. There will be a fight for money, but I'll prevail."

Miles smiled, no longer the "boy" who'd delivered pizza just hours ago, but now tempered by the crucible of our shared ordeal. "One bite at a time, remember?"

I nodded, a tear tracing a salty path down my cheek: one bite, one victory, one day at a time. Boris's control had finally lifted, replaced by something new, something vital.

As blue and red flashes rained on the house from outside the street, Miles stood beside me, a pillar of strength despite the worry on his face. The fight, fear, and terror all seemed to recede with the flashing lights.

More officers bustled in, a blur of uniforms and questions. Boris, his face bruised and suit askew, launched into a tirade, spewing accusations and threats. But Miles, his voice calm and clear, laid out the story. The isolation, the abuse, the imprisonment, the terror of Boris's assaults on me.

When I spoke, my voice trembled with the memory, but Miles's unwavering support gave me strength. He painted an accurate picture of a predator, not a husband, a monster who had held me captive, both physically and emotionally.

As the officers listened, their faces hardening, the scales of justice seemed to tip. Boris's bluster faded, replaced by fear. The handcuffs snapped shut, a final, chilling punctuation mark on his reign of control.

He was led away, a fallen king stripped of his crown. And in his wake, a strange emptiness bloomed within me. Relief, yes, a tidal wave of it washing over me, but also a hollowness, the echo of a life lived in the man's shadow.

Miles's hand found mine. His touch, gentle yet firm, grounded me in the present. We were alive, we were free. That was what mattered.

"Come on," he said, his voice soft, "let's get some fresh air."

We stepped out into the sun-drenched afternoon; the world was suddenly vibrant and alive. The past, heavy as a chain, seemed to flit away with each breath of clean air.

"Do you think—" Miles began, then hesitated, his eyes searching mine.

"Think what?" I prompted, a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

He took a deep breath. "Do you think maybe—we could go out for dinner tonight? Just to—celebrate."

I looked at him, at the man who had delivered a pizza and stolen my heart in the process, the man who had fought a monster for me and emerged victorious. A smile, genuine and bright, blossomed on my face.

"I'd like that," I said.

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