If leaving dirty dishes in the sink was punishable with a slap to the face, I’m pretty sure cheating would earn me a couple black eyes.

I place the mop against the wall and step towards him. He stands up, a defensive position in case I get any crazy ideas. I have lots of crazy ideas in the plan, but I’m not about to rush ahead. I smile at him. “May I sit on the couch?”

“Who said you could talk to me?” he snarls back. “You have not earned the privilege of speech yet.” His mood changes are still volatile, I sneer to myself. But I keep all that safely tucked away. I nod and take a deep breath and then stand silently.

After several minutes of me standing obediently and wordless, he says, “Come sit here,” and points to the space on the couch next to him.

The thought of being so near him revolts me, but if I want any chance of saving myself from a forced home abortion, I need to win him over. So I step cautiously towards him, ease my way around the coffee table, and sit down. My heart is racing so fast I’m sure he can hear it.

His hand slips to my leg and I swallow back the bile his touch stirs in my stomach. He rubs it and I wince. “I want you to have my baby, Daisy. Not his. So it will be for the best.”

Oh, God. I’m so repulsed. I nod and then chance a look up at his masked face.

“Do you like this mask?” he asks. His eyes dart back and forth, clearly nervous about the question.

I decide to be honest. “No.”

“Why?” he asks quickly.

“Because I want to see your face for once. I want to know who you are.”

“Does it matter?”

Does it matter? Jesus fucking Christ. “No,” I force myself to say. “No. I’m here, I’m yours. So it doesn’t matter.”

“Do you wonder if I’m handsome?”

No. “Yes.”

“Touch me.”

No. This time I have no fake comeback answer, either. Touch him? Please, God. Do not make me touch him.

“Touch me,” he says again, taking my hand in his. They are cold and damp. Clammy. And large enough to cover mine completely.

My breath hitches as he lifts my hand and I pull it back, but his grip is tight. He raises it to his face and places my clenched fist against his masked cheek. “Touch me.”

I swallow hard, my eyes downcast. I open my fist and flatten my palm against the ragged bandages of his mask.

“This isn’t you,” I say, trying to keep the communication open. If I lose this battle… if I can’t convince him of what I’m about to say… then I might as well be dead. Because I refuse to live if this man kills the life inside me. “This isn’t you,” I repeat. “I want to feel your… cheek. See your face. You have seen mine.” I try to reason with him. “You’ve seen mine, so let me see yours.”

His hand covers my hand again. His eyes stare into mine. “You won’t like me if you see me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m ugly.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Does this man really expect me to soothe his ego as he holds me captive and threatens to kill my unborn child? “You’re a good man who loves and cares for me.” I recite my lines perfected a decade ago. His sick, perverted fantasy with me includes this twisted ego-stroking. “And this child… this child can be ours. We could start our family right now. Today. If I had an abortion”—my throat constricts just saying that word—“then…” I let out a long breath and gulp up another one. “Then it would take months for us to start again.”

My trembling hand is still resting on his cheek, covered by his clammy one. I twist my palm and grasp his hand, and then bring it down. I close my eyes with revulsion as I place it over my belly. “This is your baby now,” I tell him. “This is our baby now.”

He sighs and I look up at his face in time to see his eyes close.

Yes, Grace. You have him now. Don’t stop, keep going.

“We could raise this child together. I imagine you coming to the doctor with me to hear the heartbeat.”

In my mind, in order to counteract the vision I’m feeding him, I picture Vaughn at my side. I picture his face when we hear the heartbeat together. And even though I don’t know what he will think of all this if I get out of here alive and my baby is unharmed, in my fantasy, Vaughn is proud and excited.

“You would take care of me. And make sure I ate right.”

I picture Vaughn and I shopping at some absurdly expensive organic food store. I see him checking labels for all-natural ingredients and vitamins.

“You would insist that I not work too hard and get enough sleep.”

I see Vaughn rubbing my swollen feet and plumping up my pillows as we lounge in bed on the weekends.

And then I have a flash from that night we got drunk in Vegas. Vaughn and me, sitting in that restaurant. Him talking about stuff with me. His fantasy life as a normal father. A shitload of kids, he’d said. Cherishing painted macaroni gifts from his three-year-old. Jumping in puddles, and letting them rebel with bad grades. Watching track meets in the rain and coaching football and school plays.

A sob escapes before I can stop it.

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” His hand jerks away from mine and grips me tightly by the upper arm.

“No!”

He shakes me hard. “Don’t lie to me, you whore! You cheated on me! You got pregnant with another man’s child and now you want me to raise this bastard as my own?”