1930's starlet, Anna Rose, expects to marry hotel mogul, Norman Gates, after her residence at the Winter Garden Theatre in a malignant entrapment that leaves her deeply wishing and searching for a sense of freedom. Little did she know, she would fin...
WC: 3K+ || Warning(s): tones of toxic relationship(s)
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Anna lies comfortably still in bed, ruminating on the events of that morning. She faces the nineteenth-century mahogany clock on their nightstand; she's been in this position since waking up this morning.
Her slumber had been interrupted by her fiancé's voice resonating from the other room. Blinking away her sleepiness, the time on the clock read only an hour before she planned to bound, but she knew when Norman stepped into the room, shutting the door loudly behind him, that he wasn't in the mood to listen to her complain, and frankly she didn't feel up to arguing with him again over the etiquette of allowing people resting to rest. Without so much as a 'good morning,' Norman approached her with a pinched expression, his hair already sticking out every which way from pulling at the ends, and the shirt she'd ironed for him the night before looked like a wrinkled mess hanging over his undone pants. Before she could question his appearance and why he'd disturbed her sleep, he crawled over her body, still wrapped in their bedsheets, and pulled the bundle loose enough so her backside was exposed to him. Anna recognized the low hum coming from behind her, and the familiar feeling pressing into her center now exposed as Norman hiked her nightdress over her waist.
"Norman," she mumbled, voice slick with the fact she'd just woken up.
Norman silenced her with a kiss, immediately digging his tongue into her mouth with a satisfied moan. He pulled away to nip at her nose as he chuckled lowly, "C'mon Anna dear."
"I'm tired Norman," she sighed, but Norman wasn't having it. He knew how to get her.
"Suppose I'll see if Ginger is available then," Norman baited her with the name of his personal assistant, knowing it'd upset her. When Anna turned to him she slapped his chest hard, but Norman didn't flinch and was rather amused seeing the jealousy stirring in his lover's pretty eyes as they glared at him.
"You promised you'd fire her and never see her again," she heeds the way he reacts and how he speaks, waiting for something to seep through the cracks of his practiced grin.
"I did, and I won't," Norman murmured, "now, let me show you how much I love you, and how sorry I am– show you how no one, not even Ginger, can fuck me as good as you do."
From there Anna fell under Norman's curse again.
...
Anna did not realize she had fallen asleep until she suddenly jolted awake naturally. She checks for the hour and sighs deeply as she rises. Her body is still sore. She stretches as she makes her way to the bathroom to get ready for the day.
Anna runs herself a bath, discarding the silky nightdress into the hamper before soaking herself in the warm rose water. She makes the effort to relax, knowing her schedule for the day (a mix of recording at the studio and rehearsals for her performance) would be hectic. With it being her first Broadway stint Anna knows she's guilty of prioritizing her career over her future husband, but it's 1937 and Anna can't help but feel drawn to the changes that are stirring the pot of normal she's become tired of. She's incredibly lucky to have survived this far. She recalls her explosive argument with Norman over her job, how his fragile masculinity bore through his angry tirade like the new diamond on her finger; a shiny promise that came after his infidelity, which serves as an incessant reminder of how her shortage of attention for Norman led to him cheating.
