“Maya. And yes, I thought I was going to die.”
Anna laughed. “You did great. Want to grab coffee? There’s a place next door that makes amazing lattes.”
Coffee after class became a ritual. Anna had this way of making me feel seen. She noticed when I was running on fumes and offered rides when my car was in the shop. She texted funny memes when I looked stressed.
We’d been friends for about six weeks when she mentioned her husband over cappuccinos.
“He’s been so stressed lately,” Anna said, stirring her coffee absently. “Work’s been brutal. He runs this marketing firm downtown, and the pressure’s just constant. Sometimes I worry it’s making him hard, you know? Like he’s losing the soft parts of himself.”
My stomach started to sink before she even said the name.
“But he’s loyal to his people, at least. That’s what matters.” She looked up at me. “He works for WH & Associates. Do you know it? His name’s Daniel.”
My heart skipped a beat.
Daniel. My boss, Daniel. Her husband.
I managed to smile and nod. “I’ve heard of the company. Sounds stressful.”
“It is,” she sighed. “But I’m grateful he’s dedicated to the work, to his team, and to us.”
I changed the subject as quickly as I could, asking about her kids, her garden, and anything to move away from the man who was destroying my life while going home to the woman who’d become my lifeline.
That night, I sat in my car in the Pilates parking lot for 20 minutes, trying to breathe. The universe had a cruel sense of humor. The one person showing me kindness, the one friendship keeping me sane, was married to my abuser.
I couldn’t tell her. How could I?
She’d never believe me over him. Or worse, she would believe me, and I’d destroy her life along with mine. Either way, I’d lose my only friend and probably my job.
So I swallowed it.
Week after week, I smiled at Anna and said nothing while Daniel made my work life unbearable. I laughed at her stories about family dinners while Daniel humiliated me in meetings.
I hugged her goodbye after Pilates while Daniel sent me nasty emails at midnight.
The night everything shifted, I was sitting in my car outside the hospital, going through another stack of medical bills. Mom had just finished her latest round of chemo, and I was trying to figure out how to stretch my paycheck to cover both the co-pays and groceries.
That’s when I saw Daniel’s Mercedes. It slid into the parking lot of the boutique hotel next to the hospital.
I watched, confused, as Daniel stepped out of the driver’s side. Then he walked around and opened the passenger door. A woman emerged, laughing at something he’d said.
She wasn’t Anna. Not even close.
This woman was younger, wearing a tight dress and heels that clicked on the pavement. Daniel’s hand settled on her lower back as they walked toward the hotel entrance, intimate and familiar.
Without thinking, I grabbed my phone. My hands shook as I snapped photo after photo. His face was clearly visible in them.
I sat there for ten minutes after they disappeared, staring at the photos on my phone. Part of me wanted to delete them immediately. What was I going to do with them anyway? But something made me back them up to three different places. Just in case.
I kept the pictures to myself as Daniel’s harassment escalated.
The very next week, he started a new torture technique. Every day at exactly 5:29 p.m., just as I was packing up to leave, he’d appear at my desk with a stack of work.
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