Married to a Monster: My Silent Scream

My eight-year marriage to tech mogul James Slater was a secret, a perfect facade of love and devotion. I was a celebrity chef, he was the doting husband, but it was all a beautiful lie.

On our eighth anniversary, James showed me a video: my younger brother, Kelley, tied to a chair, humiliated, being tortured by an "artist" named Kirsten Casey. James called it "performance art," a twisted display of his new muse's "vision."

He dismissed my horror, his staff echoing his words, claiming I "wouldn't understand." He gave me an ultimatum: prove Kirsten's illegality or publicly apologize for slandering her. When I pleaded for Kelley, he offered a million dollars for therapy, his voice flat and final. He said Kirsten was "important" and I wouldn't stand in her way.

The truth was a physical blow. James was Kirsten's patron, her lover, her legal shield. He was using his immense power to protect her cruelty. I was trapped, isolated, my home a cage.

"You're her lawyer? You're helping her do this?" I choked out, my voice raw. He just looked at me, his eyes devoid of love, and said, "Hannah, don't make this difficult."

I signed the papers, desperate to protect Kelley. But it was too late. Kelley jumped. At the hospital, James, the primary benefactor, ordered them not to "waste resources." My brother died. My baby, too, lost in the horror. I was shattered, blaming myself for trusting him.

Chapter 1

Hannah Howell, a name synonymous with culinary genius, was a secret. My marriage to tech mogul James Slater was a bigger one. For eight years, we were the perfect, hidden couple.

To our closest friends, he was the doting husband, the powerhouse who worshipped the ground I walked on. It was a beautiful lie.

On the eighth anniversary of our marriage, James sat across from me in our minimalist living room, his expression calm. He tapped his tablet.

"I have something to show you," he said.

His voice was even, the same tone he used to discuss stock prices or server capacity.

The screen lit up. My breath caught in my throat. It was my younger brother, Kelley. He was on a stage, but not with his guitar. He was tied to a chair, his clothes torn, his body exposed in the most humiliating way.

A woman, Kirsten Casey, circled him. She held a paintbrush, not to a canvas, but to Kelley' s skin. She called it art. She moved his limbs like he was a doll.

Kelley tried to fight. He strained against the ropes, his face a mask of terror and shame. But he was held fast.

His pained groans echoed from the tablet's speakers. James tilted his head, a small smile on his lips.

"She has a certain flair, doesn't she?" he murmured. "Adds to the passion of the piece."

The sound made my stomach turn. This wasn't passion. It was torture.

Kirsten dipped her brush in black paint and drew a vicious line across Kelley's chest, her touch a violation.

James reached out, his hand gentle on my arm. The contrast between his soft touch and the horror on the screen made me flinch.

"It's just performance art, Hannah," he said, his voice a soothing poison. "Kirsten is a visionary. She' s pushing boundaries."

His eyes flickered to the staff standing silently in the corners of the room. It was a silent command.

Immediately, one of the assistants spoke up. "Mr. Slater is right, Mrs. Slater. It's avant-garde. You might not understand it."

Another chimed in, "It' s for a good cause. All proceeds from the exhibit go to charity."

I felt trapped, isolated. They were all his people, their loyalty bought and paid for. My own home had become a cage.

My mind refused to accept it. This couldn't be James. Not the man who held me when I had nightmares, the man who said my name like it was a prayer.

"I'll give you until tomorrow night," James said, his voice losing its fabricated warmth. "Bring me proof that she's done something illegal. Otherwise, you will issue a public apology to Kirsten for slandering her."

"An apology?" My voice finally broke through the shock, raw and shaking. "James, why are you doing this?"

"Look at him!" I screamed, pointing a trembling finger at the screen. "Look at what she did to my brother!"

James glanced at the tablet, his expression bored. "He' s a musician. A little drama won't hurt his career. It might even help."

"His career?" I felt a cold dread wash over me. "She's destroying him! For her own sick game!"

I told him Kelley hadn't left his room in a week, that he wouldn't eat, wouldn't speak. I told him our family friend, Irene, was worried he was having a complete breakdown.

"You're talking about a human life, James! A twenty-year-old boy's future!" I pleaded. "You're letting her ruin him for what? For her career?"

"Kirsten is important," James stated, his voice flat and final. "I will not let you or anyone else stand in her way."

He saw the look on my face and sighed, as if dealing with a difficult child. "I'll have my assistant send him a check. A million dollars should cover his therapy bills."

Tears streamed down my face. My body trembled, not from the air conditioning, but from a cold that came from deep within my soul.

I remembered the day he proposed. It was in a small, crowded restaurant, not a five-star place. He said he didn't care about the setting, only about me.

He had pursued me for a year, a relentless, charming campaign that swept me off my feet. He, a titan of industry, had learned to cook my favorite dishes just to impress me.

He swore he would follow me to the ends of the earth, that I was his sun, his moon, his entire sky.

Our marriage was a fairy tale whispered about in elite circles, the tech king and the celebrity chef. He moved his company's headquarters just to be closer to my restaurant. He built me a kitchen that was the envy of the world.

I truly believed I was the most important person in his world.

Now, that world was rubble at my feet. The woman on the screen, Kirsten, was not just torturing my brother. She was exhibiting the video as part of a public gallery show.

I had already tried to get a lawyer, to file an injunction. It was useless.

James Slater was Kirsten Casey's patron, her lover, and now, her legal shield. He was using his immense power to protect her, to promote her cruelty.

My heart shattered into a million pieces. My voice was a hoarse whisper.

"You're her lawyer? You're helping her do this?"

James finally looked at me, really looked at me. His eyes were devoid of any love, any warmth. He reached out and gently tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear, his touch as cold as his gaze.

"Hannah," he said softly, "don't make this difficult."