January, 2014

It was supposed to be magical.

They were going to watch the Times Square Ball drop, in exquisite company, drinking the finest champagne. Ingrid loved the dress he'd picked out for her. An elaborate silk and chiffon affair, sexy and sparkly, with glimmering jewellery to match. Shoes, crystalline like Cinderella's glass slippers, and a fabulous Audrey Hepburn-inspired updo.

Ingrid had felt like a princess when she'd left the house. A sheltered damsel, finally out of her ivory tower, about to have the best night of her life at the most extravagant of balls. A night to remember.

And sure enough, she'd never forget it.

Ingrid stormed out of the venue soon after the clock had struck midnight. She had no pumpkin carriage waiting for her, though. Had to contend with a yellow cab. Thankfully, she'd had the sense to stuff some dollar bills in her clutch purse. Just about enough to get her to Jack's apartment in the city.

Blazing fireworks lit up the sky above her. Ingrid clambered out of the taxi, eyeliner tears streaking her cheeks black. The gown she'd loved so much felt stuffy now. Her shoes constricted her feet, but she feared that if she took them off, she might cut herself on bottle shards on the pavement.

Luckily enough, there was a doorman still working even on the night between the years and he let her into the lobby. She had no key, so he dug out his spare and accompanied her to the apartment.

"Everything alright, ma'am?" the man asked and she thought he looked genuinely concerned.

Ingrid considered it.

The evening had started out well enough. Jack's upper-class friends were beginning to accept her – or at least pretended to accept her – into their circle, which made for a lively exchange of anecdotes around the table. The food had been fantastic and the cocktails absolutely delicious.

Ingrid had danced and laughed and danced some more. One of the men Jack held in very high regard had seemed to take a liking to her and that flattered her. She'd entertained his attempt at flirtatious banter until his hand on her lower back tried to slide even lower.

She'd distanced herself from him but, like some lewd leech, he wouldn't leave her alone. He crowded her into a corner at some point, snuck his hand up her skirt.

In the heat of the moment, Ingrid had slapped him.

The old, bellied bastard had had the nerve to take offence. Complained to her husband. Jack pulled her aside to have a word and she nearly slapped him, too.

"What do you mean, why did I hit him? The motherfucker tried to cop a feel somewhere he shouldn't have!"

"Keep your voice down!" Jack hissed angrily at her. "That motherfucker is the reason you look like a million bucks tonight – and wearing it, too."

Ingrid blinked, incredulous. "This couldn't have cost a million dollars."

"No, just about ten to twenty large," he retorted with a dark chuckle.

She clenched her jaw. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," his voice turned into a patronising treacle, "you gotta start earning your keep, baby girl." His hand first cupped her cheek, then gripped her jaw. "Now get back out there, apologize to Malcolm, and let him have his five or ten minutes. He'll be done before midnight."

Rage surged through her veins, setting off bitter, boiling tears. "No," she spat through gritted teeth. "Fuck no!"

"No?" His eyebrows rose with the question. "No?"

His lips trembled with a tranquil-looking, but evil-sounding snicker. His fingers latched onto her throat and pushed her head back against the wall.

"I've given you everything, you ungrateful little bitch. You do as I say. When I say."

Fear bloomed in her chest but as its petals unravelled, it transformed into fury.

"No!" she screamed and kneed him in the groin.

He doubled over, releasing his hold on her, and she ran like her life depended on it.

Jack caught up with her at his apartment, not long after she'd managed to rid herself of her suffocating dress. She'd dropped it in a heap on the living room floor.

"Ingrid!" he shouted. "Ingrid! Get out here, right now!" He kicked at the fabric, before he picked it up out of his way and threw it aside.

"I'm not your fucking toy, Jack!" she yelled back at him, emerging with a vengeance from the bedroom. "I'm not for sale! I'm your wife, Jack, not a commodity you can share with your pals whenever you feel like it!"

He struck her across the face. So hard, she nearly lost her balance. She pressed her palm to her burning cheek, unable to turn her head and look at him. Tasted blood in her mouth.

"What do you think you are, then? You were nothing – you are nothing without me! Just some third-world gypsy whore who'd still be waiting tables and sucking dick for a living, if not for me!"

He poked a patch of bare chest behind the half-unbuttoned shirt. Eyes wild with wrath and hair dishevelled, he looked like a madman who'd escaped from the asylum.

"I civilised you, you ungrateful little bitch! I raised you up from some godforsaken shithole and made a respectable woman out of you, you belong to me," again with the chest poking, "you do what I tell you to, you stinking, spoiled brat!"

When he was done, Ingrid stood listening to him pant, until he spun on his heel and strode away. She heard the front door slam shut and that freed her from her frightened trance. Sobbing violently, she collapsed on the floor and wailed.

*

January, 2018

Ingrid quietly snuck out amidst excited cheers as the Times Square Ball dropped on TV and the cork sprang from the champagne bottle. The living room walls seemed to close in on her and she escaped upstairs, to the first-floor landing, where she stopped to stare out the window.

Edgar soon appeared at her side in the darkness. He stood beside her, silent in the shadows, as she watched the sky ignite with a myriad of exploding lights. It sounded strange, how the noise came muffled through the thick glass pane, mixed with the distant cacophony floating up from the living room.

The fireworks filled the sky with sparks and smoke, ushering in the new year and, despite herself, Ingrid felt tears trickle down her cheeks. Sniffling, she reached up to wipe them and Edgar must have heard her, because he put an arm around her shoulders and pulled her to him.

"Life goes on," he murmured, "the world keeps spinning. All we can do is our best as we spin along."

"I killed him," she mumbled into his chest. "Four years ago today, I wished him dead and then he died."

"No, Ingrid, that's..." He held her upper arms, tipping her chin to look into her eyes. "That wasn't your fault. Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault the man was deranged."

She laughed, her vision blurry. If he only knew...

"Maybe I should try believing in Satan," she added, "as opposed to God. Turns out he's actually listening and making your wishes come true."

"Hey, don't say that. Besides, you can't have one without the other. So you have to make up your mind whether you believe or not."

She detached herself from him. "Uninspired joke. Forget I made it."

His big, warm hands framed her face and tilted her head back as he leaned in for a kiss, so gentle it hurt. Her arms reached out for his body, wrapped themselves around it with the comfortable ease of familiarity. He engulfed her in a protective embrace, full of his soothing fragrance, tight but tender.

In that moment, she loved him so much, words could not possibly begin to express it. So much her heart could not contain it and it ached. So much, she cried at the hopeless futility of it. Was this even love? This needy misery that made her cling onto him for dear life. Like a blood-sucking parasite, she'd dug her roots into his flesh and stolen her sustenance from him.

Edgar held her as she sobbed, held her together, caressed her hair, whispered sweet nothings in her ear the way only he knew how. She tightened her grasp, cried harder, but he didn't budge. Didn't let go. He stood his ground, like a rock, her rock, that her sanity anchored itself to.

"Do you want to go to bed?" he asked, kissing her temple.

She wiped at her face, struggling to rein in her tears. "No, I've kept you too long. We should... You should go back to your kids. I'll, um..." She swallowed a knot in her throat, brushed her knuckles over her wet eyelashes. "I'll be fine."

He helped her erase the final remnants of salty sadness from her face. "I know you will, but I want to be with you."

"You shouldn't." She shook her head. "Edgar, you... Oh, fucking hell. You shouldn't be saddled with my mess. You've got enough on your plate already, I'm – "

His thumb on her lips shushed her.

"Bit late for that, don't you think? And besides, you let it slip."

Her eyes snapped up, caught his mischievous gaze and slid sideways.

"You were in the heated throes of passion, I know that, we both were, but as far as I'm concerned, it still counts."

"Edgar – "

"Uh-uh," he pressed his thumb against her mouth. "Can't take it back now."

The tip of her tongue darted out and tickled his finger, before trapping it between her teeth.

"So, um..." He licked his lips, biting on his lower one at the end. "You sure you don't want me to go to bed with you?"

She held onto the back of his hand and nuzzled her face in his palm.

"We can always go later." She interlaced their fingers and lowered their arms. "Let's go back to the party now. We've kept the kids waiting long enough."

He closed in for a kiss on her forehead.

"Yeah, let's. Then take me to bed. I'll let you tuck me in."

Ingrid and Edgar walked hand in hand into the living room and Cait and Cillian came running. They had a group hug, took a selfie, clinked their glasses of champagne. If they noticed any change in atmosphere, the siblings did not react to it.

And when Ingrid and their father sat side by side on the sofa, his arm around her shoulders and her hand on his knee, Cait plopped down beside Ingrid and Cillian, next to his sister. The girl leaned on her friend, while Cillian reclined sleepily on the sofa's armrest.

"I wanna go shopping," Ingrid announced, out of the blue. "New year, new me, that kind of shit."

Caitlin chuckled. "You want to renew your wardrobe?"

"Yes. I do believe I've earned it, haven't I?"

"You definitely have," Edgar agreed.

"Anybody wanna join me?"

"I'd love to," Cait replied, eyes sparkling.

"Not me!" her father quickly said.

"Hey, Cillian," Ingrid called out to the boy.

His sister nudged him awake – he'd dozed off.

"What is it?" he grumbled.

"Wanna go on a little outfit inspiration trip for your jetsetter?"

An exhausted, yet excited smile as he nodded.

"It's settled, then," Ingrid clapped her hands. "Soon as the high-street shops open, we'll go hunt some high-fashion."

"High-fashion?" Edgar raised an eyebrow at her. "You can afford that shit?"

"I thought you were paying me a small fortune for my Midas touch." She winked, waving her fingers at him, which then dropped on his leg mid-thigh, sneaking higher.

He supressed a gasp.

Cillian yawned, loud and stretching. Edgar took advantage of the lucky break.

"Alright, mate," he stood up and reached for his son, "let's get you to bed."

The boy grabbed his dad's forearm, letting himself get dragged up to his feet.

"You lot are no fun!" Cait complained.

"Sorry, pumpkin." Edgar kissed his daughter's forehead, stroking her red hair. "Happy New Year. I'm so glad I got to spend the holidays with you."

The girl hugged him and her brother joined in.

"I love you both so much," Edgar told them. "Don't you ever forget that. No matter what. My sweet babies."

Cait groaned at his chest. He pecked the top of her head.

"Shut up, pumpkin. You'll always be my babies, no matter how old you get. You'll be my babies until the day I die and I wouldn't have it any other way. I'm a lucky dad. So proud of you both. Here's to another great year together."

He herded them upstairs, each on one side of him as he held their respective hands, while Ingrid watched from the sofa.

The blade returned to her throat and cut her breath off.

*

song of the chapter: so happy i could die by lady gaga

https://youtu.be/6aQLpayx0i4