I Married My Rapist

Emma's POV

A heart-wrenching scream tore from my throat, dragging me back from the nightmare.

Damn it, that dream again.

My body convulsed against the silk sheets, cold sweat soaking through my nightgown. Those dark hands, those mocking laughs, and that face—always Damien's face, watching me get torn apart in the shadows.

"Shh... it's just a nightmare. I'm here, you're safe."

His voice was sickeningly gentle, followed immediately by his solid arms wrapping around me. I felt his warm breath brush my forehead, then a soft kiss.

GET AWAY! Every nerve in my body screamed.

"Don't fucking touch me!" I shoved him hard. "Get off!"

He immediately let go, raising his hands in surrender. I scrambled to the other end of the bed, curling up in a ball with my knees to my chest. Morning light filtering through expensive silk curtains illuminated his face—deep brown eyes, sharp jawline, black hair slightly messed from sleep. Three years ago I'd loved this face. Now it just made me sick.

"Okay, I won't touch you," he said softly. "Deep breaths, Emma. The nightmare's over."

Over? Hell, nothing was over. My life WAS an endless nightmare.

I stared at him as he slowly got up from the bed.

"I'll make breakfast," he said while pulling on a white t-shirt. "Blueberry muffins, your favorite."

"You really are the perfect husband," I said sarcastically.

His movements froze for a moment, but he said nothing. Just looked at me with that hurt but still gentle expression, then left.

I listened to his footsteps fade down the hallway, then the soft sounds from the kitchen. Pots and pans, running water, the oven's preheating hum. Such normal domestic life, if you ignored that our marriage was built on rape and coercion.

I looked around the master bedroom—or rather, my prison. Custom Italian furniture, hand-woven Persian rugs, priceless artwork on the walls. Everything reminded me that I now belonged to Damien Cross's world.

Belonged. Such a disgusting word.

The scent of blueberry muffins drifted up, and my stomach betrayed me with a growl. I forced myself out of bed, dragging my stiff legs toward the kitchen.

Damien stood at the counter with his back to me, focused on baking.

I slid onto a bar stool, the wooden seat bone-chillingly cold. A plate of steaming muffins appeared before me, golden surfaces dotted with plump blueberries. They looked delicious.

"Coffee or orange juice?" he asked carefully.

"Whatever." I took another expressionless bite of muffin. "It's not like I have any choices left anyway, right?"

His hand froze on the coffee machine. Good, let YOU taste some pain too.

"Emma..." He turned to look at me painfully. "I know you hate me, but—"

"But what?" I sneered. "But it's for my own good? But it's all out of love?"

"Yes. I love you, Emma. I've loved you since the first time I saw you in college."

"Love?" I nearly choked on the muffin. "So love means raping me first, then forcing me to marry you? Damien, you have such a unique understanding of love."

His face went deathly pale instantly. "I..."

"You what? Want to deny it?" I stood up, hands braced on the counter as I loomed over him. "Three years ago, on campus, that damn night—do you remember? Or is rape so common for you that you can't keep track?"

"Emma, please..." His voice shattered. "If I could go back..."

"But you CAN'T!" I screamed, all my rage and pain exploding. "You can't go back, just like I can't forget that night!"

The coffee machine's steam hissed loudly in the silence. He hung his head, shoulders slightly shaking. A tear dropped onto the marble counter.

God, he was actually crying. This rapist, this devil who destroyed my life, was crying in front of me.

"Does crying help?" My voice was ice-cold. "Can your tears change anything?"

He looked up at me. "I know it can't change anything. But Emma, I swear, I'll spend the rest of my life making amends..."

"Making amends?" I laughed sharply. "How will you make amends? Keep me locked in this golden cage? Keep playing the perfect husband?"

He fell silent, just looking at me. That expression reminded me of a moment three years ago—before everything was destroyed, he'd looked at me like that too.

I shook my head, pushing that thought away. That Damien was dead, if he'd ever existed.

"I need to go out for some air." I turned toward the door.

"Emma, wait." He called after me. "It's cold outside today, put on a jacket..."

"Fuck your concern!" I shouted without looking back.

But no footsteps followed. He'd learned when to let go, at least on the surface.

I walked to the balcony, pushing open the heavy glass door. Cold wind hit my face, but I didn't close the door. I needed this bone-piercing cold to keep me alert.

Just then, I heard his phone ring.

"Yes, I know... move the meeting to 2 PM... okay, I'll be right there."

I held my breath. He was going out?

Footsteps headed toward the bedroom, then the sound of the closet opening and closing. He was changing clothes to leave.

A few minutes later, he appeared at the balcony door. "Emma, I need to go to the office to handle something. I'll be back in about two hours."

I didn't turn around. "Whatever."

"If you need anything, call me. And..." He paused. "Don't do anything stupid."

Stupid? What did he mean by that?

The footsteps faded away, then the elevator door sounded. I waited, listening to the elevator descend until everything fell silent.

He was gone.

I rushed back inside, heart pounding. This was my only chance—to search for evidence while he was away. If I could find proof that this marriage was built on fraud, maybe I could escape this nightmare.

I tiptoed toward his study. The door wasn't locked. Damien never locked any doors, as if proving his trust in me. How ironic.

I burst in, heading straight for that massive mahogany desk. Drawers, filing cabinets, safe... there had to be some clue.

The first drawer contained ordinary business documents. The second... my heart raced. Here was a folder labeled "Emma Wilson."

I opened it with trembling hands.