Mark

My husband is Mark. He's thirty, cold as a knife blade, and rude. I'm seventeen, a spoiled brat in expensive sneakers, sold off by his father in a lucrative deal. A marriage of convenience? Of course. There's no room for love here.

Every morning it's the same. He walks into the bedroom without even knocking, throws a black cardboard cup of coffee on the bed, and says, "Don't spill it on the sheets, brat." And he looks at me like I'm just furniture. He doesn't raise his voice—that would be too emotional for him. He simply overwhelms with his tone, his gaze, his arrogant silence.

Yesterday I threw a tantrum over the new car. I smashed a vase and screamed that he didn't appreciate me. Mark didn't even flinch. He grabbed my chin, his fingers icy and hard, and said to my face, "Your dad got the factory. You got my last name. Everything above that is just your whims. Shut up or go to your nursery." And he left, slamming the door.

I remained among the shards of porcelain, hating him for this endurance. (Your actions?)