Chapter 1: Ten Minutes
Simone had learned how to hide almost everything.
Tears behind sunglasses.
Fear behind a smile.
Exhaustion behind a fresh dress and expensive perfume.
But tonight, standing six feet from the mirror with one hand pressed against the edge of the bathroom counter, she was learning the hardest thing of all to hide.
A bruise.
The skin around her left eye had turned a sickening shade of purple and yellow. Concealer softened it. Foundation blurred the edges. Powder dulled the shine.
But it was still there.
And her mother was going to notice.
Simone leaned closer to the mirror.
“Come on,” she whispered to herself.
“Come on.””
She dabbed another layer beneath her eye.
Her fingers were shaking.
She stopped.
Looked at herself.
Then looked away.
Ten minutes.
That was all the time she had before dinner.
Her family was waiting at a restaurant twenty minutes away, probably already seated around the long table her mother had reserved. Her younger brother would be stealing bread from the basket. Her father would complain that the parking cost too much. Her mother would be watching Simone the entire time, pretending not to watch.
Because that was what her mother did.
She noticed everything.
A new haircut.
A tired voice.
A missing necklace.
A forced smile.
A bruise.
Especially a bruise.
Simone reached for the makeup sponge again.
The bathroom door opened behind her.
She froze.
She didn't need to look.
She knew his footsteps.
Andre walked into the bedroom and stopped near the doorway, adjusting the cuff of his black dress shirt.
He looked perfect.
He always did.
That was part of the problem.
To everyone else, Andre and Simone looked like the kind of couple people envied.
Five years together.
Three years married.
Beautiful house.
Good jobs.
Weekend trips.
Matching smiles in photographs.
Whenever friends asked Simone how she got so lucky, she laughed.
Tonight, she couldn't even fake the laugh.
Andre glanced at the clock.
“We're leaving in ten,” he said.
Simone kept facing the mirror.
“I know.””
“You ready?””
She swallowed.
“I can't cover it.””
Andre's expression didn't change.
Simone finally turned around.
“They're gonna see it.””
He stared at the bruise.
Not with guilt.
Not with concern.
Not even surprise.
Just irritation.
“Then put some more makeup on it.””
Simone blinked.
She had hoped, somehow, that hearing herself say it aloud might change something.
That Andre might finally understand how terrified she was.
Instead, he stepped farther into the room.
“You've done heavier makeup than this before,” he said.
“My eye is swollen.””
“You're making it worse by staring at it.””
“My mother is gonna ask what happened.””
Andre picked up his watch from the dresser.
“Then you better come up with something.””
His voice was calm.
Almost bored.
Simone felt something inside her go cold.
She looked down.
There was a tiny crack in the bathroom tile near her bare foot.
She focused on it.
Anything was easier than looking at him.
“I don't know what I'm supposed to tell her,” she said.
Andre put on his watch.
“Tell her you walked into a cabinet.””
Simone gave a weak, humorless laugh.
“She won't believe that.””
“Then say you slipped.””
“She knows me.””
“So?””
“So she knows I don't just—”
Andre looked up.
Simone stopped.
The room went quiet.
He didn't have to raise his voice.
He never did.
“Don't start this tonight,” he said.
The softness in his tone was more frightening than yelling.
Simone pressed her lips together.
“I wasn't starting anything.””
“Good.””
He checked his phone.
A message popped up on the screen.
For half a second, Simone saw the preview.
*Mom: Can't wait to see you two tonight. Love you.*
Her chest tightened.
Her mother.
The woman who had once sat beside Simone on the bathroom floor when she was sixteen, holding her hair back while she cried over a boy who had broken her heart.
The woman who still called every Sunday morning.
The woman who could hear one word in Simone's voice and immediately ask, What's wrong?
What would she say tonight?
That she fell?
That she walked into something?
That she was clumsy?
That she had somehow managed to injure one eye without bruising anything else?
Simone looked back at the mirror.
She tried smiling.
The bruise smiled with her.
It looked worse.
She grabbed a small brush and added another layer of concealer.
Andre sighed.
“Seriously?””
Simone turned.
“What?””
“You're going to cake it on.””
“I need to hide it.””
“You're making yourself look nervous.””
“I am nervous.””
He stared at her.
“You have ten minutes to fix your face.””
Something about the sentence made her stomach twist.
Her face.
Not her pain.
Not her eye.
Not what happened.
Her face.
She sat down on the edge of the bed.
“I don't want to go.””
Andre's jaw tightened.
“We've already talked about this.””
“My mom is going to know.””
“Your mom doesn't know anything about our marriage.””
Simone looked up sharply.
“She's my mother.””
“And tonight, she's your mother at dinner.””
The words landed hard.
Andre stepped closer.
“You're going to smile. You're going to eat. You're going to act normal. And you're not going to make a scene.””
“A scene?””
“You know what I mean.””
Simone stared at him.
For a second, she wanted to tell him everything.
She wanted to say that she was tired.
That she was scared.
That the first time had been months ago, and somehow she'd kept finding reasons to forgive him.
That each apology had made the next incident easier.
That she had started checking mirrors before leaving the house.
That she'd begun wearing long sleeves even when it was hot.
That she'd stopped taking pictures.
That she had become an expert at saying, I'm fine.
But then Andre noticed she was crying.
His voice changed.
“Are you really going to do this now?””
Simone wiped her cheek quickly.
“No.””
“Then stop.””
“I am stopping.””
“Good.””
He moved toward the closet.
Simone sat perfectly still.
A tear slipped down her cheek.
She wiped it away before it reached the bruise.
On the dresser, her phone vibrated.
She glanced down.
Another message.
*Mom: Simone? Everything okay? You haven't replied.*
Simone's heartbeat quickened.
She unlocked the phone.
Her thumbs hovered over the keyboard.
Yes, Mom. I'm okay.
She typed it.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Running late. See you soon.
She stared at the sentence.
Then sent it.
Across the room, Andre watched her.
“What did you tell her?””
“Nothing.””
“What did you tell her?””
Simone looked up.
“That I'm running late.””
He nodded.
“That's all?””
“Yes.””
He turned back to the closet.
“Keep it that way.””
Simone slowly stood.
She looked at herself one last time.
Black dress.
Gold earrings.
Hair perfectly curled.
Lipstick.
Perfume.
A bruise disguised beneath layers of makeup.
She looked exactly like the woman everyone thought she was.
Successful.
Happy.
Safe.
Her hand drifted toward her eye.
Pain shot through her face.
She winced.
Andre noticed.
He said nothing.
A few seconds later, his phone rang.
He answered.
“Hey, Karen.””
Simone's stomach dropped.
She knew that name.
She hadn't heard it from him in months.
Andre turned away from her.
“No, I said not tonight.””
A pause.
Then, quieter:
“I know what she saw.””
Simone stopped breathing.
Andre glanced over his shoulder.
Their eyes met.
He ended the call immediately.
“Who was that?”” Simone asked.
“No one.””
“Andre.””
“I said no one.””
“You said, ‘I know what she saw.’”
His face hardened.
“You were listening to my conversation?””
“You were standing right there.””
He took one step toward her.
“Get your coat.””
Simone didn't move.
“What did she see?””
Andre stared at her for a long second.
Then he smiled.
It wasn't warm.
It wasn't kind.
It was the smile he wore whenever he wanted her to understand that she had pushed too far.
“You ask too many questions when you're upset.””
Simone's pulse hammered.
“I asked one question.””
“And I'm telling you to get your coat.””
Silence filled the room.
Then the house doorbell rang.
Once.
Twice.
Simone frowned.
Andre looked toward the hallway.
“Who is that?””
They both stood still.
The bell rang again.
Then came three sharp knocks.
Simone walked toward the bedroom door.
Andre caught her wrist.
“Wait.””
Her eyes widened.
“Why?””
He didn't answer.
Another knock.
Then a woman's voice came through the front door.
Clear.
Familiar.
And impossible.
“Simone?””
Simone's breath caught.
Her mother's voice.
Then, after a pause:
“Open the door, sweetheart.””
Andre's hand tightened around Simone's wrist.
May you like
And for the first time that night, Simone realized her mother hadn't been invited to dinner.
She had come looking for her daughter.
