Free Behind Her Smile by Olivia Luck

with work while I call florists, talk to the minister, and arrange all the other details.
    School and work drop dramatically on my priority list. I only go home to pick up clothes and toiletries. We’re at his parents’ home before the sun has completely risen, and we leave late in the evening before going back to David’s condo and falling into bed.
    All of sudden, I’m making decisions on behalf of the Morgan family. Thank goodness for Miranda, the Morgan family’s trusted housekeeper for twenty years. With her guidance, I make arrangements for a gathering of extended family members and close friends to be held after the burial.
    By the time I climb into bed at the end of every day, my heels drag and my eyelids fall closed without any negotiation. I have no energy left to think about my disappearing paychecks and the growing pile of schoolwork. But I couldn’t imagine it any other way. The calm, steady David I know has returned. There are no more interactions with the angry, wild version of my boyfriend.
    The dire circumstances bring David and me closer. He relies on me for support, and I thrive on such a powerful, brilliant man needing me.
    The morning of the funeral, I’m running late, rushing through my morning routine to make sure I’m on time to leave the condo in thirty minutes. Wrapped in one of David’s bathrobes, I exit the steam-filled bathroom and head into the bedroom. There, in the middle of the spotless white duvet, lies a plain black sheath and pearl studs. Black pumps sit on the floor directly beneath the outfit.
    “What’s this?” I ask David.
    “St. John,” he says as he stabs a cufflink through his formal white dress shirt.
    “For me?” I squeak. That’s a wickedly expensive designer. I don’t miss the red soles on the modest-heeled shoes at the foot of the bed. Big bucks. David loops a black tie around his neck and begins tying it.
    “Something appropriate for the funeral,” he explains offhandedly.
    A tiny part of me is offended. I’m a fashion designer major; I know how to dress. “Oh. Well, I brought a black dress. Here.” I walk over to my duffel bag and tug out the black shirtdress. To my chagrin, wrinkles crease the silk jersey. David studies the garment with an arched brow, silently condemning its disarray. “I was going to iron it,” I rush to explain.
    “The St. John would be more appropriate for the funeral,” David says with finality. I finger the garment, and the matte crepe slips through my fingers gracefully. This is a lovely dress. One I’d never be able to purchase on my own. It’s actually quite thoughtful of David to provide me with something to wear.
    “Okay. Thank you. That was very considerate.” Swiftly, I move through the process of getting ready, twisting my hair into a low knot at the base of my skull and keeping my makeup to a minimum. When I’m finally ready, I hurry to where David waits impatiently in the foyer. At the sound of my heels clicking against the hardwood floor, David lifts his gaze away from his phone to give me a once-over.
    “Perfect.” He decides with a decisive nod. I exhale a little, relieved sigh, thankful he approves of my appearance. I’m beginning to take pride in meeting his needs. David touches the small of my back, propelling me forward. “Carlo will drive us,” he tells me. William’s driver has carted David and me to and from the Morgan home every day this week. David decided he would continue to employ the driver and his wife.
    Once we’re in the car, David tugs me into the middle of the seat, pressing the length of his hard body against mine. He weaves our fingers together. His pulse thuds in his wrist. I squeeze his hand in mine and give him a tender smile. “We’ll get through this together,” I murmur.
    “I want you with me from now on, Karolina,” David declares resolutely. David has been tense the whole morning. His emotional turmoil reveals a domineering side of him I never knew existed.
    Carlo guides