Chapter 11: Domestic Abuse and Coercive Control. The Urban Romance Thriller Web Novel "The Ocean Between Us" by Abrar Nayeem Chowdhury.
“Loren,” he called, his voice already laced with a sharpness she had grown to dread. “Is this tea lukewarm again? You do this deliberately.”
She turned slowly, her voice measured. “I did not. You were late coming down. I only wished to keep it warm for your sake.”
“Do not twist this upon me,” he barked. “You think I do not notice the insolence in your tone?”
“I have no tone, sir,” Loren said, the faintest tremor in her voice. “Only the truth.”
He walked toward her, the teacup now trembling in his hand. “You grow more arrogant by the day.”
“I merely speak,” she said quietly.
He raised his hand.
And then—
The sound.
A sharp, cruel sound.
Flesh meeting flesh.
Loren staggered slightly, the shock more than the pain, as she pressed a trembling hand to her cheek. Her husband stood before her, breath heavy, expression taut.
“Let this remind you,” he said coldly, “who holds the power in this house.”
Later That Evening
She sat in silence by the window, watching the world move beyond the glass like a silent film. The streets bustled with the usual London noise, none of it able to penetrate the quiet scream inside her heart.
Later, another confrontation.
“Why did you speak to Mr. Bennett at the grocer’s?” her husband demanded.
“He asked after your mother’s health,” Loren replied, already weary.
“And you smiled,” he said. “You smiled at him.”
“Is kindness a crime now?”
He stepped closer. “It is when it belongs to me. You are mine. You will look at no man that way again.”
Her lip trembled, but she said nothing. There was nothing left to say.
That afternoon, Loren wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and slipped quietly from the house. Her feet knew the way. She did not stop until she reached St. Mary’s Church—a quiet haven tucked between brick buildings and ivy-covered walls.
She knelt at the front pew, her hands clasped, her head bowed.
“Dear Lord,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “I do not know what is left of me. I no longer recognise the woman in the mirror.”
Tears spilled freely now, unchecked.
“I was once lively,” she cried, “once filled with laughter and light. But now I walk on eggshells, terrified of my voice. Is this what a wife must become? Must I vanish, to be loved?”
The silence of the church wrapped around her.
“I ask for strength,” she murmured, “to endure, or to leave. I do not know which is the harder path.”
She looked up at the stained glass window, where sunlight poured through the image of an angel holding a lily.
“I want to live,” she said, her voice firmer now. “Not survive—but live.”
The stillness within St. Mary’s Church held Loren like a tender embrace. Her sobs had quieted, leaving her soul bare. It was then that she heard the gentle footsteps of Father Alden, the church’s long-standing shepherd of souls. His silver-rimmed glasses sat delicately upon his nose, and his face bore a quiet kindness earned through decades of listening.
He did not ask questions.
He simply sat beside her on the pew, folding his hands and gazing at the altar.
“My child,” he said softly, “the Bible speaks not only of salvation, but also of endurance. Do you recall the words of Romans 12:12?”
Loren shook her head, eyes still moist.
He looked forward and said, “Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer. That verse, Loren, has comforted many souls in distress.”
Her lips parted. “But Father, what hope is there for a woman who is bruised not by accident, but by the very hand that once vowed to cherish her?”
He turned to her then, his voice low and firm. “Hope, my dear, is not blind to pain. It is the courage to believe that your present trial is not the end of your story. Even the smallest flicker of faith is stronger than the darkest night.”
Loren closed her eyes. “And if that night is repeated every day?”
“Then you do not wait for sunrise alone,” he replied. “You reach out—ask for help, and you remember that God did not create you to suffer in silence.”
A moment passed before Loren whispered, “I thank you, Father. I believe… I can go home now. At least for now.”
He nodded gently. “May the Lord be with you, Loren. And may you find in yourself the strength He already placed there.”
The warm, golden glow of dusk bathed the front of their home as Loren stepped inside. Her husband sat in the armchair, pipe in hand, newspaper discarded beside him.
He did not glance at her when he spoke.
“You were out.”
“I went to church,” she said, her voice calm, her hands clenched beneath her shawl.
He scoffed. “Church? Seeking absolution for your laziness?”
She remained silent.
“I asked for supper half an hour ago.”
“It is warming on the stove.”
He stood up, slowly. “You will not raise your voice to me?”
“I have not spoken above a whisper.”
“And yet your silence provokes me just the same.”
She took a step back. “I beg you, let us not make this evening what so many others have been.”
He approached her now, his eyes narrowing.
“You walk differently now,” he said. “Like a woman who thinks she has secrets. Have you told someone?”
“No,” she replied, chin lifted.
He laughed, sharp and cold. “You are a liar.”
“I am many things,” she answered, “but a liar I am not. And I would thank you not to call me such again.”
His hand lifted, almost instinctively, but she did not flinch this time. She only looked into his eyes and whispered, “If you strike me now, I shall leave. And I shall not walk alone.”
His hand froze mid-air. The weight of her words hung between them like a drawn sword.
He dropped it slowly. “You think yourself brave now.”
“I do not think I know,” she said.
He turned away. “You have changed.”
She stood tall. “Then perhaps it is time you do the same.”
To Be Continued....
Chapter 10: https://webnovelbyabrar.blogspot.com/2025/04/chapter-10-dance-of-words-and-unspoken.html
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