Free Behind Her Smile by Olivia Luck Page B

lose you either, David.” I would rather be with him in rushed marriage nuptials than not have him at all.
    “Then it’s done. We’ll get married in a month’s time,” he says with finality and a nod of his head.

W hen I come to some undetermined amount of time later, I’m bound to a chair in David’s office, sitting adjacent to him. Darkness still cloaks the room. The right side of my face throbs from my unfortunate encounter with the unrelenting gun. I’m unable to open my eye completely, as it swelled while I was unconscious. I am thankful that no symptoms of nausea plague me; a good sign that I don’t have a concussion. There aren’t any ties around my legs; I can wiggle my toes against the carpet and rotate my ankles.
    Swallowing back the mounting fear, I take in my surroundings.
    David doesn’t notice I’m awake yet. He’s staring, hard , at the man with the closely cropped hair who sits in the four-thousand-dollar chocolate leather sofa the decorator put on the wall opposite his foreboding walnut desk. After his parents had died, David decided that we should move into their home. The house was part of the makeup of the Morgan DNA, he told me. And as the man at the helm of Morgan Financial, he couldn’t live anywhere else. As his wife, David left the interior decorating to an insanely overpaid designer and me. For a moment, I’m lost in the memory of David approving the designs as I stood next to his desk nervously waiting for him to sign off. Back then, I hated to disappoint my husband.
    “Yo, Cox, get your ass out here,” the other man shouts from outside of the office. Cox, the bald man, jumps to his feet and prowls out of the room, leaving the door wide open.
    “We need to find the generator,” the Latino says.
    Their boots clunk against the marble floors. These must be the dumbest crooks in Miami for leaving us all alone in here. My husband is a man of considerable strength. Surely, they figured that out when they tied him to the chair.
    “David,” I hiss.
    His head whips to the side, and he stares at me in shock. “How long have you been awake?”
    “Long enough to know they’re trying to find the generator. I guess they figured out the safes are all digital, and they need the power to open them.”
    David jerks his head back toward his desk. “They tried to get into the safe in here but couldn’t figure it out. Fucking idiots. Listen—”
    “We have to figure out a way to get out of here,” I say urgently, not caring that I interrupt whatever he was about to say. “This chair isn’t terribly heavy. I can wiggle over to you and maybe you can figure out a way to untie me.”
    “Shut up, Karolina,” David snaps.
    “Don’t tell me to shut up!” I’m loud. Shrill. Remembering that there are two armed robbers in the house, I lower my voice to a whisper. “Why aren’t you doing anything? David, they have guns.”
    “Exactly, you moron. This isn’t an episode of television. I don’t have a pair of cable cutters in my back pocket to save the day. These guys are professionals. They know their way around our house, and they know their way around hostage scenarios. And, as you so brilliantly noted, they have guns. If we want to make it out of here alive, we need to play by their rules. That means shut up and let me do the talking. You’ve already pissed them off and have the black and blue marks to prove it.”
    “You always find a way to talk down to me. Even in a crisis of epic proportions, you treat me like some stupid hick. Fuck you, David.” I spit the words at him. I feel a freedom knowing that he’s tied to a chair. Whatever I say won’t end with a backhand or kick in the ribs. This time, my husband can’t physically hurt me in retaliation.
    “You really are an idiot,” he scowls.
    “And you married me,” I return sweetly. “What does that make you?”
    David chuckles evilly, shaking his head. At that moment, I realize David’s missing something: fear. He exudes