Chapter 1 :Shattered Promises

MARTHA’S POV

I ducked as the lamp smashed into the wall, ceramic chunks flying everywhere. My heart slammed against my chest, loud and frantic. Nicholas stood in the middle of the living room, panting like a bull, his eyes blazing with that wild fury I knew too well. The air stank of whiskey and his unwashed shirt. He’d been drinking again, and I was the one who’d pay for it.

“Martha, you don’t get to walk away from me!” he shouted, kicking the coffee table hard. It flipped over, legs snapping with a loud crack, papers and coasters spilling onto the carpet.

I shrank back, pressing myself into the couch. My arms shook, barely holding me up. “Please… please, Nicholas, stop it. Just leave.”

“Leave?” He laughed, a sharp, nasty sound that made my stomach twist. “You think you’re too good for me now? Is that it?”

“No, I—” My voice cracked, tears burning behind my eyes. “I just can’t keep doing this.”

He charged forward, towering over me. His hand shot out, grabbing my wrist, twisting it until I yelped. “You don’t decide that. You’re mine, Martha. Always will be.”

I pulled back, desperate, but his grip tightened, nails digging into my skin. “Let go! You’re hurting me!”

“Good!” he spat, shoving me hard. I stumbled, crashing into the couch, my hip slamming against the armrest. Pain flared, and my breath caught in my throat. “Maybe then you’ll remember the only person who loves you in this world.”

His words hit me like a slap, tearing open old scars. I’d loved him once—two years of him whispering I was his everything, holding my hand through lonely nights, promising I’d never be alone again. I’d believed him, said yes when he proposed, thought he’d be my savior. But that man was a ghost now, replaced by this beast who got off on breaking me down.

“Love?” I choked out, tears spilling down my cheeks. “This isn’t love, Nicholas. It’s a nightmare.”

He smirked, leaning in so close I could smell the booze on his breath. “You’re nothing without me. Nobody else wants you—nobody ever will, even your parents died and left you because they can’t stand you. You’re lucky I stick around, you pathetic little mess.”

I sobbed, curling into myself, hands clutching my stomach. He was right, of course he was right. On the night my parents died they were arguing about who would be my primary caregiver when they got through with their divorce. His words were like a truth carved into me. Worthless. Unlovable.

The tears came harder, loud and ugly, and I hated how weak I sounded, how weak I was. “Please just let me go, I’m begging you, Nicholas.”

“Go?” He snatched a picture frame off the shelf—us on our wedding day, smiling like fools—and hurled it to the floor. Glass shattered, crunching under his boot as he stomped it. “I’m not going anywhere. In fact, I’m moving back in. Tonight.”

My stomach dropped, a cold wave washing over me. “What?”

“You heard me.” He kicked the frame’s pieces aside, grinning like he’d just won a prize. “This is my place too. You don’t get to kick me out.”

“No, no, please—” I slid off the couch, knees hitting the carpet hard. Pain shot through my legs, but I barely felt it over the panic.

He crouched down, grabbing my chin, forcing my eyes up to his. His fingers dug in, bruising. “You don’t have a choice, sweetheart. I’ll be back by seven. Be ready.”

I whimpered, shaking my head, tears streaming. “Nicholas, don’t do this. I’ll do anything, just don’t—”

“Anything?” He chuckled, low and cruel. “Then stop crying like a baby and start packing my stuff in. I’m done sleeping on the street because of you.”

He let go, and I crumpled forward, hands slapping the floor. Sobs tore out of me, raw and loud, echoing off the walls. He stood up, brushing his hands like I was some mess he’d cleaned up. “See you tonight, Martha. Don’t make me mad.”

The door slammed shut, the whole apartment shaking. I stayed there, knees aching against the carpet, crying until my throat felt like sandpaper. His voice looped in my head—nobody else wants you. It hurts because it stuck, sinking into every crack of my broken self. I’d given him everything—two years of hope, a ring on my finger, my trust—and he’d turned it into this. A cage. A threat waiting to strike.

I wiped my face, sniffing hard, and crawled to the door. My fingers trembled as I fumbled with the lock, turning it until it clicked. It wouldn’t stop him—he’d kicked it in before—but it bought me a second to breathe. He’d be back. Seven o’ clock. I glanced at the clock on the wall—4:52 p.m. Two hours. Two hours to figure out how to survive this.

I hugged my knees to my chest, rocking back and forth. “Why me?” I whispered, voice hoarse and small. “What did I do to deserve him?”

The room stayed silent, just the hum of the fridge and my shaky breaths. I saw him in my head—barging in, bag slung over his shoulder, that smirk plastered on his face. He’d smash more than a lamp next time. He’d smash me. My chest tightened, panic clawing its way up my throat. I couldn’t let him win. Not again.

I stumbled to my feet, legs wobbly like a newborn foal, and grabbed my phone off the counter. My hands shook so bad I nearly dropped it, tears blurring the screen. I needed out. Somewhere safe—anywhere but here. Then it clicked: Seattle. My uncle’s place. He was a selfish jerk, but his wife, Claire, had a heart buried under all that family greed. She might take me in.

I dialed her number, holding my breath until she picked up. “Aunt Claire?”

“Martha?” Her voice was soft, surprised. “You okay, sweetie?”

“No,” I croaked, voice breaking. “I’m coming home. Can I?”

“Of course,” she said, quick and warm. “Come now—we’re here for you.”

I hung up, a sob catching in my throat. Relief flooded me, but it wasn’t enough to drown the fear. I spun around, eyes darting to the closet. I needed to move fast—he’d be back too soon. I yanked out a backpack, old and frayed, and started stuffing it. A sweater, jeans, my wallet, a pair of socks—I grabbed whatever my hands found first.

My fingers shook, fumbling with the zipper, and I cursed under my breath. “Come on, come on, work!”

It finally closed, and I slung it over my shoulder, the weight pulling at my sore arm. I checked the clock again—5:19 p.m. Less than two hours now. My heart raced, pounding in my ears. I couldn’t wait any longer—he’d catch me if I did.

I staggered to the door, unlocked it with clumsy fingers, and peeked into the hall. Empty. No sign of him yet. I bolted, nearly tripping over my own feet, my sneakers pounding down the stairs. Each step jolted my bruised hip, but I didn’t stop. I burst outside, the cold air slapping my wet face. I waved at a passing cab, voice cracking as I shouted, “Seattle! Hurry, please!”

The driver nodded, barely glancing at me, and I threw myself into the back seat. The door slammed shut, and I clutched my bag tight, like it could shield me. “Go, go,” I muttered, barely loud enough for him to hear. He pulled into traffic, and I sank down, hiding from the windows.

My breath wouldn’t slow, coming in short, ragged gasps. I’d escaped—for now. But Nichola’s voice clung to me, heavy and suffocating. Nobody else wants you. I wiped my nose on my sleeve, sniffling like a kid. Pathetic. Weak. That’s all I was. But I’d run, and maybe that meant something.

The cab weaved through the city, buildings flashing by in a blur. I stared out the window, tears drying sticky on my cheeks. The driver hummed some tunes, off-key and annoying, but I didn’t care. I just needed distance. Miles. Anything to keep Nicholas away.

We hit my uncle’s street, and the cab rolled to a stop. I shoved crumpled bills at the driver, muttering, “Keep it,” and stumbled out. My legs felt like jelly, barely holding me up. The house stood ahead—big, gray, cold as my uncle’s heart. I took a step, then another, the backpack dragging at my shoulder.

A sound stopped me—an engine, low and rumbling, cutting through the quiet. I turned, slowly, dread pooling in my stomach. Headlights pierced the dusk, a beat-up sedan creeping up the street. Nichola’s car. My breath froze, eyes wide. He’d found me.