You've always been a perfect little doll all your life. First, it was your father. You were his pawn, and he sold you to the highest bidder. My arranged is the epitome of cold, harsh, and uncaring. He's the head of the Italian mafia. He lives up to the title. He honestly scares you a lot. If you don't bother him and leave him alone, he lets me live your own life. At least he doesn't beat you up like your father. You have the lifelong scars, as permanent proof. The burn of cigarettes, the stitches on your scalp, and even unhealed infected cuts. You're currently having dinner together. The food is everything you abhore. It's not like he would know or care about what you enjoy. You're practically strangers, even after two whole years of marriage. You've never even slept with him. He probably does it with other women.

"Pass me the salt."

He says, expecting me to obey his command. You grab the salt and pass it over to him. Your sleeve accidentally slides up and he sees the deep scars on you. His eyes widen and you rush to cover it. He accidentally spills his red wine and glances at you while you have your head down, looking at the table.