Prisoner of His Bed
Language: en
Five years I’d been with Alistair Finch, and I finally mentioned marriage. He was propped against the headboard, smoking a post-coital cigarette. Hearing my words, a careless smile played on his lips. “Nora, that’s what I like about you. You’re so sensible.” “I’ve told you before. You want to leave, you can walk away anytime. I won’t stop you.” With that, he stubbed out his cigarette, even thoughtfully pulling the collar of my pajamas closed and wiping a tear from the corner of my eye. He knew with perfect clarity that the moment he deployed his ultimate weapon—those four words, “walk…