The oppressive silence of the dining room pressed in on Rose, a heavy shroud woven from unspoken words and simmering fear. Across the polished mahogany table, Daniel Maxfield, her husband of mere days, ate with a quiet precision that belied the storm raging in her mind. He had just asked her for the 'table knife,' his voice dripping with an emphasis that had sent a chill down her spine.

"Why don't you just use the one you carry around?" Rose had retorted, a forced smirk plastered on her face, trying to project an defiance she didn't feel. His reply, a low murmur about his knife 'not being for cutting butter,' had cemented her terror. She was married to a man who kept a weapon hidden, a man whose casual jokes hinted at unspeakable truths.

The air thickened with unspoken questions, with the horrifying implications of his words. Rose tried to eat, but the food tasted like ash. Every rustle of his clothes, every subtle movement of his wheelchair, made her heart pound against her ribs like a trapped bird. She glanced at him, but his gaze was unreadable, a calm, unsettling pool of secrets.