Six thirty, Friday evening, she isn't home. He let's himself into the flat and flops down on the sofa. He kicks off his shoes without untying the laces. The end of another shitty week. He leans back and shuts his eyes, then Ping, new message received. It's from her.



"Leaving work now. I'll be home around 7:15."



He reads the message, lets the phone drop onto his chest, shuts his eyes and...Ping. He sighs a deep forlorn sigh. He knows it's from her again. He lifts the phone up to his face.



"Get ready now. We're meeting Amy and Duncan for dinner. I don't want to wait for you to finish in the shower."



He doesn't stir. He can't fucking stand Amy or her miserable twat husband. Ping.



"For fuck's sake," he thinks to himself. "What the hell is it now?"



"Have you fixed the light in the wardrobe yet? I'm sick of it being dark in there."



He hasn't replaced the light bulb in the wardrobe yet. It blew three days ago and she has been on at him to do it ever since. He would replace it, but he hasn't bought a new one. He wonders how people ever got on in life without illuminated wardrobes. How did she manage until they got this one six months ago? It doesn't even bear thinking about! Ping.



"Just getting off the train. Did you buy cat food like I told you?"



No, he didn't buy cat food either. There's a tin of tuna in the cupboard, the cat can eat that for now. For a moment he wishes she'd phone instead of text. Why can't she speak to him like a human being? Then he remembers the sound of her nagging voice and is grateful for the texts. He closes his eyes again and waits for the sound of her key in the lock. He doesn't have to wait long.



She starts immediately as she steps through the front door. She doesn't even look at him, just talks at him.



"Oh god. What a bloody day! The Arabs are trying it on again. They are complaining about the price after we settled on it weeks ago. Colin wants to come down a bit to keep them happy, but I told them no way. We've already undercut everyone else. They can walk if the like, they'll be back. There's no way they'll be able to find anyone who knows the regulations in the UAE like we do. If they try to go elsewhere, it's better for us. We'll be in a much stronger position when they come crawling back."



He doesn't bother listening to her. He gave up faking an interest in her work a couple of years ago. Business has always bored him to tears, but that doesn't stop her going on and on, usually with no context at all. He doesn't even know who Colin is.



She busies herself in the kitchen, then comes into the living room sipping a glass of wine.



"Did you get my texts? You didn't reply to any of them," she doesn't wait for a response. "Did you feed the cat? You didn't get cat food, did you? For god's sake. She can have tuna tonight, but you'll need to get some tomorrow morning."



He takes a deep breath in, holds it, then lets it out long and slow.



"You haven't showered. I told you to shower before I got home. You always take too long. Go in now or we'll be late. I don't want to keep Duncan and Amy waiting. I said we'll be there be by half eight."



He pulls himself off the couch, stretches his tired aching back and wanders out of the room. She goes back to talking about work.



"The Americans are idiots of course, but at least they pay up, unlike the Arabs. Once we've finalised this Emirates project, I want to move to the States for six months or so. The New York office has been pestering me to go over for a while and it would be a great opportunity. My contacts tell me it's all kicking off there. You can get leave from work, can't you? It doesn't matter if you can't. I'm sure you'll be able to find a job in America."



Just like that, she wants them to pack up and leave for half a year or more. She earns substantially more than him and doesn't consider what he does important. They could easily do without his salary. Her last bright idea was that she wanted a baby, but didn't want it to interfere with her career. He was to quit is job and stay at home with the kid. Luckily he managed to convince her to postpone that for a while.



He goes into the kitchen and opens the fridge. A nice cold bottle of Becks. He cracks it open and she appears behind him.



"So, you're going to start drinking beer now? Don't you think it would be a better idea to get ready first? We're going to be late."



He takes a long, satisfying glug, nearly finishing the bottle in one. She leaves the kitchen in a huff and heads for the bedroom. He burps then follows her. He wants to have a lie down, maybe a nap. She opens the wardrobe door.



"You didn't bother to do the light again. Typical. Why can't you ever do anything I ask? Is it so difficult? All I ask of you is a bit..."



Suddenly he is upon her. So quickly she didn't even have time to react to the flash of movement in her peripheral vision. He grabs her shoulders and spins her round to face him. With hardly any effort at all, he lifts her off her feet and throws her onto the bed.



He comes at her again. This time she's ready. She kicks out wildly, but it doesn't bother him. He bats her feet away like he's shooing flies. He's on top of her. Mounted high on her torso, just under her bust. Straddling, his knees either side of her body. Trapping her, holding her in place.



She attacks him with her hands, trying to hammer him with closed fists. He takes a wrist in each hand and slams them down either side of her head, then stretches her arms out, crucifix fashion.



She isn't going to just take it from him. She isn't going to allow him to manhandle her like that. She is determined to fight back. She strains against him with gritted teeth. She tries desperately to bring her hands together and push him away. He holds firm. She tries bucking her hips to throw him off. He is too heavy for that to be affective and when he puts his weight on her, it hurts and restricts her breathing. She tries to roll, but that gets her nowhere. Her arms are locked down and his legs squeeze her rib cage.



Her anger rises rapidly as she tries in vain, with all her strength, to get free, to get the upper hand somehow. She thrashes about in a violent frenzy. Every time she makes the slightest gain, he smashes her back down on the mattress with authority. She tries to hook her fingers around his forearms and twist her wrists free. This only makes him tighten his grip.



She is beyond frustration. All the pulling and tugging and pushing and straining and fighting and kicking and heaving, the lack of breath and the pain are making her tired. She is exhausted and has achieved nothing. She is in exactly the same position as when they started. She has been giving it her all, working her damnedest to get free, while it took barely fifty percent of his force to keep her there. She is flushed red and panting, out of breath. Sweat has broken out on her forehead. Strands of wet hair are stuck to her temples. She hasn't physically got anything left. He isn't even breathing heavily.



Her energy might be spent, but she is still raging at him. Furious that he could do this to her. How dare he treat her like this? Who does he think he is?



She gives up physical resistance and switches to verbal. She lets out a tirade of screamed abuse.



"Let go of me you bastard! Fuck off, you cunt! Get off me, now! Fuck you! You can't fucking do this to me! I'll fucking kill you for this! Fucking cunt bastard!"



Still he holds her down. She cannot move. He remains silent.



Eventually she has to rest. Her muscles ache. Her voice is horse. Her breathing is laboured. Her wrath is turning to fear. What if he never lets her up? She looks at his face for the first time since he's had her there. He stares down at her.



She sees that his face has completely changed, it's unfamiliar to her. She knows it's him, but at the same time he's unrecognisable. What's happened to him?



It's his eyes. She looks straight into them, only they aren't his any more. They are not the eyes of the man she fell in love with. Usually so kind and bright, now they are cold and dead. Almost reptilian, more like a snake than a man.



She sees no love, affection or tenderness in those eyes. No passion, no desire. Nothing. His face is blank, expressionless. His gaze isn't even one of hatred and loathing. It's much worse than that. He is looking at her with absolute indifference. No emotion whatsoever.



Her anxiety becomes pure panic. It grips her from the inside and squeezes her wind pipe. Everything in her body wants to flee. She has to get away, now! But she can't budge. He is sitting on top of her, holding her down and glaring at her with stark, blank orbs.



She doesn't know what he is capable of. She believes he could do anything. If his mind is as blank as his eyes, then he could end her right here and not even wince. He wouldn't feel a thing. She is completely at his mercy. She has no energy left to fight.



There is only one course of action open to her. Acceptance. To give in. Total capitulation to her fate. Utter surrender to him. She can only trust. Have faith that the man she loves is still there, even though she cannot see him. She has to hope that his love for her, the love she can usually see shining in his eyes, is still within him.



Once she finally submits, turns her body over to him, she is able to think clearly. The mist and fog of anger and fear is lifted. She sees now that she caused this. She drove him to it. If he doesn't love her any more, if he no longer feels at all, then it is because of her. She killed it. She extinguished the spark he once had.



She was so used to being the "Boss" all day. Surviving in a man's world. Living up to her reputation as a demon in the boardroom. Demanding respect. She forgot to leave that persona at the office. She brought it into the home. He hadn't been her partner, she treated him like an underling, like one of her staff.



He had wanted to make her happy, to make her life easier. He loved her, worshipped the ground beneath her feet. He had tried to be understanding. He wanted her to be confident and knew her work was important to her. So he took it. Day after day he had allowed her to throw her weight around. He ate it. He bit his tongue.



Until today. Something in his head just snapped. She needed to be put in her place, which at this moment was beneath him. Literally under his body, under his hands.



She allows her entire body to go limp. Not one ounce of resistance remains in her. She lies, prostrate on her back. He holds fast. Their eyes locked together.



Finally she speaks.



"Please baby, let me go, you're hurting me."



Her voice is soft and low. Her tone is sweet and passive. No orders, no demands. No rebukes or condemnation. Just a simple, polite request.



He closes his cold, staring eyes and holds them shut. A smile passes over his lips. When he raises his eyelids, she sees him again. The light she feared had gone out forever has returned.



He loosens his grip, bends down and kisses her nose. She smiles at him, happy just to know he is there.



He lets go of her wrists and dismounts. He sits on the edge of the bed and stretches. She rubs the feeling back into her numb arms and gets her breathing back to normal. She is glad to have the weight off her chest. He gets up and leaves the room.



"I'm going for a shower," he tells her. "Call Amy, we're not meeting them for dinner tonight."



She finds her phone and dials the number.