Breaking Free from the Cage

Late at night, my husband came home with a young model.

"So, you are the washed-up wife that Mr. Dawson keeps at home?"

The girl looked at me with a mocking smile and said.

Jay Dawson, my husband, reeking of alcohol, glanced between us with interest. He then hugged the young girl and led her into the bedroom.

I sat alone on the living room couch, wrapped in a blanket, and listened to their shameless noises all night.

I endured it for two years.

Our agreement had finally ended this year, and so had my love for Ethan.

I walked away. But Ethan chased after me like a madman.

Jay Dawson and I were married for six years. Back then, the news about his family forcing him to get married was all over the place.

He would rather marry a random woman in a hospital than follow his family's plan.

That random woman was me.

"There were so many people in that hospital. Why did you choose me?" I asked him once.

"It's because you cried the hardest. You looked easy to control," he replied.

Jay was right. He controlled me for six full years.

I had no parents, so my grandmother raised me. I thought I could give her a better life once I graduated and started working.

However, before that, she fell into the final stage of cancer, and it was Jay who paid for her expensive treatment.

After that, we became husband and wife in name only.

…

The next morning, Jay walked out of the bedroom shirtless, his hair messy and eyes still heavy with sleep. He headed straight for the bathroom.

A moment later, the young model from last night followed him out. She wore my black silk nightgown.

She plopped down next to me and scanned through me with her eyes curiously.

"How was last night? Enjoy the show?"

I ignored her, but she kept talking anyway.

"This silk feels amazing. You must have a good life with such a rich husband, but I guess you won't enjoy it much longer. Mr. Dawson is crazy about me."

To prove it, she pulled down her robe to show the red marks on her shoulder.

I glanced for just a second before looking away.

Her pale skin made the bruises stand out. My reaction made her even bolder, leaning closer.

"Let me guess. He's never done this to you, has he? Men love young, pretty girls. Don't you agree, sweetheart?"

The water in the shower stopped. Jay came out with his hair wet.

"What are you doing, Ivy? Go wash up," he said.

Her name was Ivy Grey. Her voice, her appearance—it all felt oddly familiar.

Jay stood there and stared at me, as if surprised I had not brought him his ironed suit or set breakfast on the table.

He sat down, tapped his fingers on the table, then looked at me with a smirk.

"Are you jealous, Rachel? Is this your way of showing