DENISE

The next morning, I was shoving my stuff into a heavy canvas duffel bag, my movements jerky and fueled by a heavy feeling of frustration.

Every time I heard footsteps approaching in the hallway, my heart did a violent, sickening somersault against my ribs.

I kept expecting the door to burst open—expecting him to come to me.

After Vladimir drove out yesterday morning, he didn't come back home. I even had to sit by my window throughout the night expecting to hear the familiar roar of his beasty car. But he didn't come.

“Plus, he wasn’t even taking his calls, leaving me to worry my ass off. I later...