shuhaige
A Different Touch
The silence was oppressive, a thick shroud that seemed to smother Cathleen’s calls for help. Thirty excruciating minutes had crawled by since she woke up, and Xavier was nowhere to be found, and the room felt colder with each passing second. Lying there, immobilized by the accident, she cursed her own body’s betrayal.
“Xavier,” she hissed under her breath, her tone laced with venom. But the name evaporated into the stillness, unanswered. The pain reminded her she was alone, truly alone-no husband to come to her aid, no confidants to rely upon. Her eyes scanned the sterile room; it was a cage of luxury, each piece of furniture a reminder of the facade her life with Xavier had become.
Cathleen’s mind raced, calculating her next move with the precision she would have used in a courtroom. It wasn’t defeat but frustration that gnawed at her-a predator she couldn’t outmaneuver. She needed assistance, yet the woman who’d offered it was as anonymous as a ghost. In a place where names held power, she had none to summon this stranger.
“Hello,” Cathleen called out again, the word sharper than before, slicing through the hush. It was a command more than a plea, her voice resonating with an authority that belied her vulnerable state.
“Hello,” she repeated, louder now, the edges of her resolve beginning to fray. Each echo was a stark reminder of her isolation.
“Hello!” The word ricocheted off the walls, a desperate incantation hoping to conjure the unnamed woman, the only link she had to the world beyond these opulent, imprisoning walls.
The door burst open, the hinges protesting as a breathless figure appeared at the threshold. “Ma’am, you called?” The urgency in her voice clashed with the stillness of the room.
Cathleen’s fingers tightened around the bedsheets, her knuckles whitening with the effort to restrain herself. The woman, panting slightly from her sprint, seemed oblivious to the storm brewing within Cathleen. A tempest of irritation rose and fell in the space of a heartbeat; Cathleen had indeed been the one to dismiss her earlier.
“I need to use the bathroom,” she stated, her words clipped and precise like the closing argument to whisper of defiance and of the strength that coursed through her veins, unbowed by the man who shared her name but not her heart.
In the solitude of the bathroom, Cathleen found her battleground. It was here, among the soap suds and solitude, that she plotted her next move in the silent war against her husband’s tyranny. Here, the motif of violence and abuse that haunted their marriage was washed away, if only momentarily, by the cleansing waters.
And yet, underneath it all, betrayal’s sting lingered, a reminder that love could be a weapon just as sharp as hate in a courtroom that left no room for doubt or deliberation.
“Of course, ma’am.” The woman’s smile was a stark contrast to the severity etched across Cathleen’s features. She moved with brisk efficiency to where the wheelchair rested against the wall. As she unfolded it and locked the wheels into position, she added, “Ma’am, you can call me Grace.”
A muscle twitched in Cathleen’s jaw, the only betrayal of her surprise at the offer of familiarity. It was a rare occurrence-names were power, after all, a currency she was accustomed to wielding with calculated intent. Yet here was an offering without expectation, without guile.
Cathleen allowed the tension to leach from her body, her posture softening to the slightest degree as a sharp but genuine smile curved her lips. “Grace,” she echoed, tasting the name and measuring its weight and texture against her tongue. It was a small surrender, a nod to the humanity she so often kept shrouded in the armor of her reputation.
“Thank you… Grace,” she added, acknowledging the woman’s service and, perhaps, the beginning of something more-a truce, however fragile, in a world brimming with battles yet to be fought.
Grace’s hands were steady as she guided Cathleen towards the pristine bathroom, the white tiles reflecting the morning light and casting angular shadows across the floor. A soft click echoed as the door shut behind her, leaving Cathleen alone in the echoing space.
“Take your time.” Grace’s voice filtered through the door, muted and distant.
Cathleen attended to her needs with mechanical efficiency; years of courtroom battles had taught her the art of compartmentalization. Alone with her thoughts, the room felt like a cold, sterile cell, despite its luxury.Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.
Minutes ticked by, each second stretching out taut like a wire ready to snap. Finally, the door eased open, and Grace returned, her movements deliberate as she twisted the faucet, water cascading into the tub with a roar that drowned out the silence.
“Let me know if you need any.” Grace began, but Cathleen cut her off with a sharp gesture.
“I can bathe myself.” Her voice was a blade, slicing through the steam rising from the water. “I’ve made myself perfectly clear to Xavier on this.”
Grace paused, her expression unreadable. She knew the tension that brewed beneath the surface-the marital discord wrapped in silence and stubborn pride.
“Of course, ma’am.” The words were formal, edged with an understanding that went unspoken.
“Call me Cathleen.” Cathleen insisted. She hated formalities.
“Of course, Cathleen.”
As Grace left, the door closing with a soft thud, Cathleen’s reflection stared back at her from the mirror-confident, unyielding. This was a battle of wills she refused to lose-not to Grace and certainly not to Xavier.
The thought of her husband’s touch was an unwelcome intrusion; his calloused hands on her skin were not born of tenderness but of possession. Xavier, with his cold demeanor and ruthless grip, had tried to strip her of autonomy and dignity under the guise of marital duty. He had seen her bare and vulnerable, yet he knew nothing of her true self-the undefeated lawyer, the woman who wielded words like weapons.
She slowly stepped into the bath, the hot water lapping against her resilient frame. Each ripple see