Chapter 2 - THE BOOK HE DID NOT HAVE PERMISSION TO READ
Damian called Martha before she left the island.
She told me later.
“What are you carrying?”
“Mrs. Romano’s diary.”
Silence.
“Did she ask?”
“Yes.”
“Then take it.”
Good.
He did not open it.
That mattered.
Martha arrived at St. Anne’s three hours later after roads reopened.
She handed me the blue diary.
No Damian.
Good.
Dr. Nair reviewed dates with me.
Not contents.
Only symptoms.
February 2.
Chest pressure eleven minutes after dinner.
February 16.
Seventeen minutes climbing stairs.
March 3.
Twelve minutes after an argument. I had written Damian/Victor beside it, but Dr. Nair did not need those details.
March 17.
Twenty-three minutes.
Last night no entry because party.
This morning again.
Testing continued.
My troponin was normal.
ECG showed nonspecific changes.
They kept me overnight for monitoring and imaging.
Dr. Nair explained:
“We are not calling this indigestion until we know more.”
Good.
No dramatic diagnosis.
She asked family history.
Dad died of stroke at sixty.
Mom hypertension.
No early heart attacks.
Stress?
I laughed.
She did not.
“Stress can trigger symptoms. That does not mean symptoms are imaginary.”
There.
Good.
I wrote that down.
Martha sat beside me.
“Do you want Mr. Romano to know?”
“He knows I’m here.”
“He called me twice.”
“Did you answer?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“That you’re being evaluated and will contact if you want him.”
Good.
“Was he angry?”
“Terrified.”
Different.
I looked away.
Martha said:
“He found where the diary had been.”
“What?”
“He went upstairs for your insurance folder.”
I closed eyes.
“Did he read it?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“He asked if you had given permission.”
That surprised.
Martha continued:
“I said no. Then you called me.”
Good.
One correct choice.
Not enough.
Still correct.
That night, I could not sleep.
The diary sat on hospital tray.
Five years.
I opened first page.
April 9, five years earlier.
Three weeks after wedding.
Damian doubled security because someone photographed me outside pharmacy.
I told him two men were too much.
He said: You’ll get used to it.
I remember thinking love was supposed to feel safer.
Next.
June 1.
Olivia asked me not to tell Damian she crashed his mother’s car after drinking. I called tow truck and said I had been driving because I was afraid Damian would send her away.
I lied for her.
There.
I had forgotten that.
Next.
September.
Damian learned I lied.
He did not speak to me for two days.
Olivia thanked me privately.
At dinner, she joked I was “the family fixer.”
Next.
Year two.
January 14.
I wanted to visit my friend Clara in Seattle.
Damian said security assessment made it inconvenient.
I said fine.
He booked me spa weekend instead.
I told everyone it was romantic.
There.
Not prison.
A compromise I had accepted.
Still.
March.
Victor Romano called me “the scholarship wife” because I grew up poor.
Damian told him to stop.
Later Damian said I should not look wounded in front of Victor because he enjoys reaction.
I wrote:
I think Damian believes teaching me not to react is same as protecting me.
That line hurt.
Year three.
Winter benefit.
The real catering story.
Detailed.
Olivia’s call.
My lie.
Damian’s four-day silence.
Then:
On day three, he left coffee outside bedroom door.
I drank it.
Neither of us apologized.
There.
Both.
Not simple villain.
Year four.
I stopped freelance work for six months to help his mother’s foundation after director resigned.
Damian said temporary.
Eight months later I was still doing it without title because hiring someone would “create drama.”
I wrote:
I am useful enough to work and too emotional to be taken seriously.
My throat tightened.
I had eventually restarted freelance grant work.
Part-time.
Enough income to keep a separate account.
Good.
Year five.
Chest symptoms.
More frequent.
Also entries about Damian.
Not all bad.
He sat with Mom during surgery.
He made soup when I had flu.
He remembered my father’s birthday.
He never mocked my family’s lack of money.
He asked before sex even after years.
He slept on floor outside bathroom one night when I had panic attack because I told him not to come inside.
There.
Complication.
I loved him.
That was not the issue.
Love did not make the structure healthy.
At 2:00 a.m., my phone showed message.
Damian:
I am awake.
No response needed.
That was new.
No:
Are you okay?
No:
Tell me results.
Just presence.
I did not answer.
Morning, Dr. Nair came.
Initial testing showed no evidence of a heart attack or major obstructive coronary disease.
That was good.
It did not explain the recurring pain, so she arranged outpatient rhythm monitoring and further cardiology follow-up, with possible vasospastic or microvascular causes among the things still being considered.
“You did not have a heart attack,” she said.
Relief.
“Then I’m fine.”
“No.”
Good.
She explained recurrent chest pain still required evaluation.
Possible coronary vasospasm.
Microvascular dysfunction.
Arrhythmia.
Other causes.
She arranged outpatient monitor and follow-up.
“You also need to reduce what you can reduce.”
“Stress.”
“Among other things.”
I laughed bitterly.
“Can you prescribe a new family?”
“No.”
Good.
Then:
“Do you feel safe at home?”
That question.
Medical.
Direct.
“Yes.”
She waited.
“Physically.”
She nodded.
“Emotionally?”
I stared.
“I don’t know.”
Good.
She documented.
Offered social worker.
I said yes.
That mattered.
The social worker did not tell me to leave Damian.
She asked:
Do you control money?
Can you access transportation?
Do you have safe place?
Does he monitor phone?
Can you say no without punishment?
Does he threaten?
Answers complicated.
Money:
I had separate account but Damian controlled household wealth.
Transportation:
yes, but island logistics often controlled by security.
Phone:
he did not secretly monitor as far as I knew, but security had location access during threats.
No:
sex, yes.
Security decisions, not always.
Family events, sometimes pressure.
Threats:
not toward me.
Silent treatment:
yes.
Social isolation:
some.
Good.
No label forced.
Just pattern.
I chose not to return to the mansion.
Instead, I booked a furnished studio near St. Anne’s for two weeks using my own account, close enough to visit Mom without turning her room into my refuge.
Expensive.
Manageable.
I texted Damian:
I’m staying near hospital until cardiology follow-up. I need space. Please do not come unless I ask. Do not send security unless police/doctor identifies a specific threat.
His reply came one minute later.
Okay.
Then:
I’m sorry.
I stared.
For what?
He did not specify.
That irritated.
I did not ask.
Specificity could wait.
On the island, Damian returned to our bedroom alone.
The diary was gone.
But one page had torn loose years earlier and slipped behind the nightstand.
He saw blue edge.
Picked it up.
It was dated fourteen months after our wedding.
I had forgotten it existed.
He read because the page was open.
One paragraph.
Damian says I am safer because everyone fears him.
I think sometimes everyone fears him so much that nobody tells him when he is hurting someone.
He sat on the floor for a long time.
Then called Olivia.
Not to punish.
Not yet.
To ask one question.
“What really happened at the winter benefit?”
Olivia went silent.
And for the first time in five years, Damian heard fear not as proof someone was guilty.
But as evidence that his family had learned to manage him too.
Before leaving St. Anne’s, I also asked for copies of every test result.
Not because I understood them.
Because I wanted them.
For years, Damian’s office kept duplicate copies of anything important:
insurance,
security assessments,
travel plans,
medical summaries after threats.
I had always found that comforting.
Now I realized comfort had quietly become habit:
someone else always knew first.
The nurse showed me the patient portal.
I changed password.
Removed an old household email from recovery options.
Added only mine.
Small.
When I told Celeste later, she said:
“That is not about hiding from your husband. It is about deciding who receives your information.”
Exactly.
I also asked St. Anne’s to list Damian as emergency contact but not authorized medical representative.
That distinction mattered.
If I collapsed, call him.
If I was conscious, ask me.
Simple.
The hospital social worker helped put it in writing.
Then I reviewed my phone location settings.
Security app installed after the break-in still had continuous location access for Romano Protection Services.
I had forgotten.
The app was legitimate.
I had once agreed.
Years ago.
I disabled continuous sharing and switched to emergency-only location.
My finger hovered over confirm.
Then pressed.
Nothing happened.
No alarm.
No black SUV appeared.
At Greyhaven, the security dashboard simply showed:
LOCATION ACCESS DISABLED BY USER.
Damian saw it.
His first instinct was to call.
He did not.
He emailed security counsel instead:
Confirm Emma retains emergency functionality without continuous tracking.
The answer:
yes.
He left it disabled.
Good.
That might sound ridiculously small.
It was not.
For five years, both of us had treated access as care.
May you like
Sometimes it was.
Sometimes care required closing the door.
