He’d treat you like a vase. Viewed you as delicate, fragile, easy to break. You were none of those things. You didn’t need to be kept up on a shelf out of harms way, only to be looked at and taken down to touch when it suited him.

“You should quit.”

He muttered, looming behind your figure on the couch. He’d mentioned it before but you’d never relented. You loved your job, despite the long, strenuous hours. It was your job. Not his.