He Locked Me in the Suitcase

As the zipper of the suitcase whispered past my ear, I marked the tenth day. The cramped space was heavy with the smell of camphor balls, mingling with the faint scent of gardenias on my skin, piercingly acrid. Peter Luke promised to take me to celebrate our third wedding anniversary, yet he locked me inside a suitcase in the walk-in closet. "Be good. I have a surprise for you. I'll come for you once I'm done with matters at work." His voice then was so tender it seemed water could be squeezed from it; now, in hindsight, it rings with bitter irony. Faint footsteps drifted through the basement vent. I held my breath, my fingertips clutching the fabric lining of the suitcase's wall. Through the narrow gap of the suitcase zipper, the warm light from the living room spilled in, just enough to illuminate Peter Luke's profile. He stood beside the European-style sofa, his fingertips gently brushing Vivian Lincoln's swollen pregnant belly, his touch surprisingly tender for the usually resolute Mr. Luke. Vivian wore my silk robe, its loose collar slipping off her shoulder as she tilted her head back to kiss Peter Luke's chin. Their kiss was soft, laced with lingering intimacy; Vivian's head rested on his shoulder, her smile so tender it seemed to drip honey. That was a kind of indulgence, unique to Peter Luke, that I had never seen before. Before, he would even frown if I accidentally spilled coffee; yet now, he patiently smoothed the stray hairs on Vivian Lincoln's forehead. The icy cold from my fingertips spread along my veins to my heart, as if drenched in ice water. I did not cry out, nor did I utter a single sound. I quietly slipped open the hidden clasp inside the suitcase — a mechanism I had specially asked the craftsman to install back then, fearing Peter Luke's mischief. Tiptoeing out of the villa, the morning dew soaked the soles of my slippers, its coolness seeping into my skin. At the edge of dawn, when the sky had just begun to pale like the belly of a fish and the street lamps were still burning, I wandered aimlessly along the sidewalk until the horizon was set ablaze with a reddish-orange morning glow. When I returned to the villa we shared, Peter Luke was sitting on the sofa waiting for me, his suit jacket draped over his arm, sleeves rolled up to reveal an expensive watch on his wrist. "Where have you been?" His tone was detached, as though asking something trivial, his gaze never leaving the screen of his phone. "Taking a walk." I took the warm water he handed me; my fingertips accidentally brushed against his skin and immediately withdrew, as if burned by a branding iron. Once, I would press him for reasons behind his late nights, cling to him for an embrace, and sulk over a mere glance he cast upon another woman. Now, it all seems superfluous. Those intimacies once cherished as treasures have turned into piercing thorns. He reached out to hold me, but I turned aside, seizing the pretext of preparing breakfast to escape into the kitchen heavy with the smell of cooking oil. Hot oil from the frying egg splattered onto the back of my hand; the sharp sting flared, yet I merely numbly rinsed it with cold water. This slight pain pales in comparison to the relentless, dense ache deep within my chest—not even a thousandth part of it. Life went on in its usual, orderly way. We attended business banquets together as always, embracing and smiling before the cameras. When he held my hand, the warmth in his palm was still familiar, but I no longer gripped back tightly as before—only touched his fingertips symbolically. Friends joked that we were a model couple in the circle, still as in love as ever. I smiled and nodded, though my eyes betrayed no warmth. Peter seemed oblivious to my change, still immersed in his career, busy arranging a villa for Vivian Lincoln's maternity rest. Occasionally, he would come home late, carrying the scent of a strange perfume; I never asked, and he never explained. Three months later, at the charity gala, Yale Shawn stood at the banquet hall's entrance waiting for me. His suit was impeccably tailored, a white rose pinned to his lapel, his gaze as gentle as a spring breeze. "Are you ready?" He asked softly, reaching out to smooth the skirt of my champagne-colored gown, his fingertips careful not to linger. Yale Shawn and I had known each other for three years. He was my senior at university and later became an independent lawyer. Last year, I helped him win a difficult lawsuit, and he said he owed me a favor. "Thank you." I hooked my arm through his, pressing my fingertips gently, steeling myself. As I stepped into the banquet hall, the lilting strains of a waltz began to play, and my gaze fell unblinkingly on Peter Luke and Vivian Lincoln not far away. Vivian Lincoln wore a tailored champagne-colored gown, her pregnant belly clearly visible, cradled tenderly by Peter Luke as if it were a fragile treasure. Peter Luke's face darkened in an instant, the fury in his eyes nearly bursting forth as he strode swiftly toward us. "Who is he?" He fixed his gaze on Yale Shawn, his tone brimming with an unyielding accusation, as if asserting his possession.