The Scars Behind My Golden Dress

Cristina straightened the silk tie on the table for the third time. It was a dark navy, Jackson's favorite, chosen specifically to match the suit he wore when they first met. The table was set for two. The candles had burned down an inch, the wax dripping onto the silver holders.

She looked at the clock. It was eight-thirty. He was an hour late.

The sound of the elevator pinging echoed through the empty penthouse. Cristina stood up, smoothing the front of her dress. It was a simple beige piece, something that made her blend into the walls, just the way the Floyd family preferred.

The heavy front door opened. A gust of cold November air rushed in, chilling her bare arms. Jackson walked in. He didn't look at her. He dropped his keys in the bowl by the entrance, the metal clatter sharp and loud in the silence.

"You're late," Cristina said softly. She walked toward him, reaching out to take his coat.

Jackson stepped back. His shoulder brushed past her hand, avoiding her touch as if she were contagious.

"I'm not hungry," he said. He walked past the dining room table without glancing at the dinner she had spent four hours preparing.

Cristina's hand remained in mid-air for a second before she dropped it to her side. She followed him into the living room. "It's our anniversary, Jackson. Five years."

He stopped. He turned to look at her, and his eyes were empty. There was no anger, no annoyance. Just a flat, terrifying indifference.

"I know what day it is, Tina."

His phone buzzed against the mahogany surface of the side table. The screen lit up. The name Davida flashed in bright white letters.

Jackson reached for the phone immediately. The hardness in his face melted away. His thumb hovered over the screen, his expression softening into something pained and tender. He didn't answer it, but the hesitation spoke louder than any conversation.

He set the phone back down, face down this time. He reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick Manila envelope. He slid it across the coffee table toward her.

"We need to talk," he said.

Cristina looked at the envelope. She didn't need to open it to know what it was. The air in the room seemed to vanish. Her lungs worked, but no oxygen reached her blood.

"Is this it?" she asked. Her voice sounded like it was coming from underwater.

"Davida is getting worse," Jackson said. He didn't sit down. He stood over her, imposing and distant. "The doctors say stress is a major factor. She needs stability. She needs... she needs to know I'm there for her. Officially."

"So I'm the stress," Cristina said.

"You're the obstacle," Jackson corrected. "It's been five years, Tina. We had an agreement. You knew this wasn't a love match. You were a placeholder until she recovered."

Cristina looked down at her hands. They were shaking. She clasped them together to stop the tremors.