The Tyrant's Trophy

Maybell.

I’ve always liked summers. The sun hits my body, hugging it gently with its warm rays as the flowers tickle my nose with their alluring perfumes. There is nothing I could dislike about the warm season. What I enjoyed most about summer were gardening and cookouts, and camping. But the main thing about summer that I loved was the nights. Back where I lived, summer nights were my favorite because it meant opening the window of my room and gazing up at the heavens. The stars God made were countless and magnificent - numerous as the sand on the sea.

Since getting married, that all changed. I still adore summertime - only now do I have to admire it from afar. It’s alright. Marriage is about compromise, and it takes sacrifice...doesn’t it?

I convinced myself to say “yes” as I forced my body off the bed. No matter how ‘warm’ it is in this house, I’m always still so cold. My body ached with each movement, and even pushing the covers off irritated my bruises.

Bruises I will have to cover up for tonight.

My husband, Phill, has a very important interview tonight, and I need to make everything perfect. The woman interviewing us is also somewhat of a celebrity herself: Abijah Igair or soon-to-be Abijah Beau. The fiancee of Basil Beau.

Phil hated the man. Now that the billionaire was engaged and their love story was epic, Phil feared that our title of being the ‘it’ couple would now be crowned to them.

We’re not famous by any means, well I’m not, but my husband is a renowned surgeon for trauma patients. He’s won many awards for his deeds and never lost a patient to boot. Being his wife, I have to live up to his style - I’m his trophy wife, after all.

So I need to play my part.

Nodding to myself, I walk to the closet for a towel, and a hot shower will do my wounds good. On the door to the bathroom, there was a note.

‘Wear the black dress.’ Phil wrote. I much prefer flowy colorful dresses. Solid, tight attires were a little depressing for me, and they rubbed my wounds too much, but it is what it is. Phil wants black and tight, so the black dress it is.

I laid the dress out on the bed then headed to the shower with my towel to begin my morning routine. At first, the water stung my injuries, but it felt like a massage - hitting my joints and body in all the right places after a minute. It also numbed the pain, as well as healed them faster. I did the usual ritual of soaping up and rinsing off. Once I washed my hair, I turned off the faucet and dried my body off.

I put on a simple tee and shorts - clothes that made it easier to move around in as I cleaned the house and made the meal for tonight. The house wasn’t dirty, but it wasn’t perfect. It took a good two hours cleaning top to bottom and another hour to prepare the food and get it in the oven.

Now comes the daunting task: getting ready for the interview. Walking back to the room, I placed on the dress and gathered my makeup bag before returning to the bathroom. Personally, I liked Basil Beau’s makeup products. The ingredients were organically sourced and not harsh on the skin. It was also nice that I didn’t need to cake on the foundation to cover up the bruises. Of course, I would never say that to Phil!

I didn’t have to worry about the bruises on my legs or arms; the dress was long-sleeved as well as long on me than ordinary girls - I had always been shorter than the average female. I fixed my hair up with slight waves at the end. Phil used to love this look on me, so I hope he notices it tonight.

Sadly, as always, I’ve gotten my hopes up.

As soon as I placed the finishing touches, Phil came home. I went to the front door so that I could greet him. “Hey, honey.” He didn’t notice my hair or that I had done everything he asked; I even got the suit that he requested via text.

All he had on his mind was that interview...and Mr. Beau. “Who does he think he is?” Phil raved, slamming the front door. “ “Most popular guy” What a joke! I spend my time-saving people in critical conditions while that man just sits on his tush and sells makeup to brainless chicks! I’m the one people should be praising!” Without looking, he threw his suitcase, hitting me with it and nearly knocking me over. Now he noticed me. “Oh, you.”

“Hi, hon.” I pretend the toss was accidental. Standing straight, I inform him. “Everything is ready, and dinner is finishing in the oven.”

“Roast beef?” Phil’s favorite.

Bracing myself, I fearfully shook my head. “I didn’t have time to go to the store, so I made stuffed cabbage and rice with a side of salad.”

“Why didn’t you get the stuff?” He approached me, cornering me between the door and the halls.

“I-I couldn’t,” I jumped when he hit the door frame next to my face.

“You’re lucky the journalist’s coming in a couple of minutes. Just know,” He leaned in and whispered in my ear. “We’ll have this discussion tonight. Now go get my outfit.”

'I hope the interview never ends.' Shakily, I scattered to the room, hoping to calm and appease Phil by showing him I could be a good listener.

Right at five, Abijah Igair arrived. She was much taller than I expected, standing a good foot above me. “Evening.” She greeted me as I opened the door. She was simply dressed in a navy turtleneck and black dress pants. Her hair was in a high ponytail, and she wore the slightest bit of makeup. Still, she was naturally beautiful as a model.

I wish I were that tall.

She had a photographer at her side.

“Evening.” I welcomed them in and led them to the dining room table, where Phil waited for them. He stood up and shook the woman’s hand, and all three of them sat down as I went to fetch the beverages and meal.

“You must be Mrs. Sweetheart.” She stated, thanking me for the water I brought her.

“I am.” I took my seat next to my husband. “And I am excited that you’re here.” I gave my best smile.

“Likewise.” She returned as she sipped the water. She eyed the meal with amazement. “My, what a feast! This looks delicious!”

I felt some pride from the comment and sadness because the compliment came from her...not Phil. Phil wanted roast beef, and I failed him.

“We figured you might be famished.” Phil’s molasses voice cut in. “My wife slaved over that. Please enjoy.” He gave her a lopsided grin. His hazel eyes gleamed as the journalist took a bite with gusto. He made a point to take my hand and perform loving gestures each time the camera flashed our way.

“This is tasty!” She exclaimed. “I wish I could cook as well as this.” Abijah giggled. “I bet this took hours to make.”

I couldn’t help the blush from the compliments. Also, because the meal did take long hours actually, I should say that’s not something. “Oh, it was nothing. The oven did all the work for me, and I bet you cook amazing things too!”

From the side of my eye, I could see my head nodding approvingly.

Abijah Igair shook her head fiercely. “I can do simple things but nothing like this.” She snorted. “And my fiancee is useless in the kitchen; the man can’t even cook an egg.”

The image made me giggle along with her, which eased my nerves. “At least he tried,” I pointed out, recalling her book. “It’s in your book.” I couldn’t stop myself from fangirling. “I couldn’t put it down once I started it. I think it was sweet of him to nurse you back to health, even though it was a complete disaster.”

My husband squeezed my hand, signaling me that I was out of line. However, Abijah laughed aloud at the memory, unaware of the pain going through my hand. “Very true.” She wiped a tear from her eye. “To this day, there are still stains on the backsplash!”

I forced out a laugh to make everything seem normal, but Phil’s squeeze remained firm. I had to bite on my tongue to keep from whimpering.

Phil was a better actor, and he had the best poker face, and he directed the conversation. “Yes, my wife’s a huge fan of yours. In fact, she was ecstatic when I told her you wanted to interview us.”

She took the bait. “I was the one ecstatic!” With that, the writer took out a notebook and pen. “After all, if it weren’t for your help or the police force - I would be dead.”

“Well, we’re glad you’re not.” Phil’s mood lifted. His grip on me finally released.

The interview finally began.

“You’re known for never losing a patient too - one of the most brilliant doctors I’ve heard. Tell me, why do you do it?” Abijah asked, hand ready to jot down notes. “What interested you in taking this particular career path?”

‘To get away with things.’ It was an unintentional thought that I hastily squashed down.

“To save lives.” My husband paused for a photo before continuing. “My job has many titles, not just surgeries, and I even aid police in forensics and autopsies. Even so, I do it because I want to prevent death, and I want to do what I can to help people get a second chance of life, especially victims such as yourself.

Abijah didn’t seem to enjoy being called a victim, but she commented on that as she wrote down every word. “I bet, and thank you for your work.” She paused for a moment. “I heard that you also delve into domestic cases as well. Tell me, what are some of the cases you’ve encountered?”

That took Phil and me by surprise. We assumed she would want to discuss Phil’s role in her case, and it was what we prepared for. Guess studying for this was useless. So Phil entertained her with some cases like “Sheryle Woods - a woman whose husband locked her in the basement with no food or water. Also, Martha Andrews: A young teen that was tragically beaten to death by her boyfriend. I repressed a shiver, remembering the photos he showed me - a warning to behave.

“That must be hard to deal with every day.” Abijah sympathized. “How do you cope with such sad realities?”

“It’s not easy. Examining each wound and knowing how they got them but what makes it unbearable at times is when the victims return to their abusers.” That was a lie. What gets Phil riled is the flaws the abusers make - that’s what gets them caught. He finds ways to practice on me with each case he gets and makes it seem like an accident. “But really, what can I do?” Phil sighed, wrapping me in an empty embrace. “So sometimes I find myself coming home and hugging my wife. She does a lot to calm my nerves.”

I forced an “Aww.” at that compliment.

More lies.

“Eventually, though, we always catch the guy, and every patient opens up to me; they find freedom, and that makes the job worth it.” He finished.

Abijah grinned, but her eyes were unreadable. Her smile came out polite rather than stunned, and it seemed her mind was processing everything. In the end, she simply said, “Admirable.”

The conversation continued for another hour. Once it was over and the food was done, I gathered the dishes. Igair got up and helped me despite my objections. She insisted on washing the dishes with me, and surprisingly, Phil did not hover over us. I guess the photographer wanted some more pictures. Phil took him to his wall framed with all his awards and achievements.

Being alone with the journalist made me uneasy. She was fun and easy to talk to, but I felt lost at what to talk about without my husband by my side. What if I mess up and something slips? I could ruin my man’s image, and he doesn’t deserve that.

I wanted to barf. “You can just place them in the sink,” I told her, but again, she insisted the opposite. So I washed, and she rinsed.

“I’m happy you enjoyed my book,” she said after a minute of silence.

“It was breathtaking.” That was my honest answer. Her story made me feel understood in a way. Also, a bit in control too. “I admire how strong you are. After all, you’ve been through, yet you overcame it.”

“Not me.” She returned. “It’s all God’s grace that helps me overcome it, day by day.” Pausing in her rinsing, she glanced at the men in the other room before leaning a bit closer to me. “The pain went deeper than my sister and what she did. I was actually raped when I was 15 by my first fiancee. It was a forced engagement, and he believed it was his right to take me by force.”

I gaped. How could a strong woman have gone through that? I don’t see it. “That wasn’t in the book.”

Abijah shrugged. “Because it’s still a raw spot for me and there are some days where that pain comes back, and I can’t breathe. Poor Basil, I take it out on him on those days, but he’s patient with me now.”

“Why tell me this?” It made no sense. I’m a complete stranger. She doesn’t know me…

That’s when she stared into my soul and I couldn’t help but feel that connection again. She ...got me. There’s no use hiding from those knowing eyes. “You seem to be the type I can trust with that information” Even her response struck my heart.

Not another word was shared after that and we soon said our goodbyes. Abijah had given me her business card, suggesting a day we could hang out. I had said ok but I knew I wouldn’t be able to. Phil didn’t like me with other people. The only times I went out were to get groceries and for events with my husband. Events that had cameras.

I closed the door. My brain still reeled from the fact a total stranger would trust me with such a personal secret.

Phil’s breath on the nape of my neck brought me back to my own reality. Also of the punishment that awaited me.

“So you think Mr. Beau is ‘sweet’, hmm?” My breath caught in my throat. I should have worded that sentence better.

“That’s not what I said.” I closed my eyes as Phil turned me around.

“I know what you meant though. You were practically fawning over another guy.”

“N-no.”

“Shut up.” My jaw clamped shut. “Plus, he’s engaged to a smoking redhead, not a fat lazy cow.” Tears pricked my eyes. “I treat you like a princess; I give you a home and expensive clothes, and I pay the bills so you don’t have to lift a finger. This is how you treat me; like I’m nothing.”

He was right.

I’m such a horrible wife.

“I’m sorry.” I hung my head in defeat and waited for the blow.

Phil didn’t move - his hands kept their firm grip around my waist. “I know how you can make this up to me.” With one hand, he lifted my face and stroked my hair back with his other. Something he used to do when we dated and I couldn’t help but recall back then - before he would beat me.

Unfortunately, those days were long gone.

His hands moved to my throat and he began choking me. “I’m in the mood tonight, sweetie.” He huffed, dragging me to the couch and throwing me down. “And it’s been a while. You can make it up to me this way.”

I would have preferred the beatings. At least that was bearable but if I refuse...he’ll just do it by force and it’ll be worse. So I laid still and allowed him to do as he pleased; I forced my mind off and pretended he wasn’t abusing me - biting me - choking me into unconsciousness.

I pretended to be back home - my old town where everyone knew each other. I would be delivering newspapers on my bike, saving up to go out with friends at the end of the week. My mother would be home, sewing dresses the girls ordered from her. She was a force to be reckoned with. Along with sewing - we also had a garden and sold our products to the townspeople.

I would be in my tiny bed, looking up at the stars from my window. I would talk to God and tell Him about my days...those were happy times.

Times of sunlight and fun. My mom was smart and brave like Ms. Igair.

When I opened my eyes, it was over. I was numb inside and I brought myself to believe that what happened was a dream. Before getting off me, Phil growled, “Tomorrow, get the groceries and if you look at another guy -” He rubbed the fresh bruises forming on my collarbone. “I’ll know. Then I’ll have to mark you all over again. So keep this in mind: I own you.” He leaned down and bit me hard.