He smiled and sat on the desk, before grabbing her by the hips and pulling her to him until she was standing between his legs. Moving his hands to her behind, he pressed her body into his groin until she could feel how hard he was. He smelled good, of soap and expensive aftershave. The heat from his hands penetrated the thin fabric of her skirt. She used to love those hands, the feel of them on her skin, in her hair, on the small of her back. Hands that once knew her so intimately.

Looking into his eyes, she saw they were glassy from the whisky he’d been drinking, and who knew what else. But it seemed like they could still bore right into the deepest part of her. There was a time she truly believed that he could read her mind. So much so, it made her unable to look him in the eye towards the end of their marriage, for fear he would discover some truth she didn’t want him to know. But not anymore. She stared at him, confident in the knowledge that he would never know, not unless she wanted him to at least. He would never believe his naive little Grace could be capable of such things. What if she told him though? The look on his face. That would be something worth seeing.

What would have happened if things had been different? Could she have saved him? Would they have had a home full of children? Retired to the country and lived in a big old house, and kept chickens and horses? She smiled fleetingly at that thought before she was pulled sharply back to reality as Nathan tried to kiss her, the smell of whisky on his breath invoking so many contrasting memories. Pushing him away, she managed to wriggle from his grip.

‘This is not the welcome I was expecting from you, Grace. I’m disappointed in you. And you know I don’t like to be disappointed,’ he said, the cold edge creeping into his voice.

It was a threat and she knew it; but maybe she’d forgotten what it felt like to be hurt by him. After all, there was nothing he could do to her that he hadn’t already done. So, rather than giving in to him like the old Grace would, she replied with a threat of her own.

‘Aren’t you on licence now, Nathan? Doesn’t that mean you have to behave yourself or you can be carted back off to prison to serve the rest of your sentence? I’m sure a phone call to your probation officer about you beating up your ex-wife would justify hauling you back there pretty quickly, wouldn’t it?’