The perfect clothes to hide your bulk.
Pooh on that. Robert no longer had a say.
She’d make her own decisions instead of letting him rule her life. Even though it hurt, finding him in the middle of fucking her stepsister was the best thing that had ever happened to her. The betrayal had ripped away her mistaken loyalty, made her admit his verbal abuse was over the top and not normal in a loving marriage.
The young male cop who’d interviewed her at the hospital had helped her too with his earnest words. Bending her will to Robert wasn’t living. Putting herself second wasn’t living. Ignoring her unhappiness wasn’t living.
It didn’t take much to imagine her mothertsk-tskingfrom heaven, and she straightened her shoulders, thrusting out the large breasts Robert had liked to mock.
She wanted to live.
“About time you got color in your life, girl.” Fiona shut the wardrobe’s double doors with a firm click. Her phone vibrated again, and she tossed it on her king-size bed. She needed to make a plan, and she refused to let Robert intrude on her privacy for a second longer.
The next morning, Fiona hummed as she poked through her clothes to find a blouse to cover her war wounds. She dressed, the ache of her arm and her assorted bruises—now an array of yellow, black and blue—bringing a reality check. A shopping spree might have to wait until her arm healed. Three to four weeks, the doctor had told her since it was a bad sprain. But she could scope out the shops and do a mental list for her future splurge. If she paced herself, her aches and pains were manageable.
Maybe she’d have a pedicure and lunch at the trendy seafood restaurant near the mall. She picked up her phone with her left hand and scowled at the number of missed calls. In the white designer kitchen, she pulled one of the cinnamon buns she’d purchased the day before from the fridge and popped it into the red microwave.
Coffee next. She hit the start button on the pre-prepared coffee machine and patted the red behemoth in encouragement. “Work your magic, Red,”
A grin formed as she imagined Robert’s reaction. She patted Red again. Her machine made fantastic coffee.
Soon the scent of coffee and cinnamon permeated the air. She inhaled with a sigh of pleasure and plonked her butt on one of the chrome-and-red stools at the breakfast counter. No one to grouse about her “weight” and her big boobs. No one to insist on salads. No one to seize her breakfast and look askance at her dietary choices.
Freedom.
It was pure bliss.
She slid her bullet journal closer and glanced at her to-do list. Her phone bopped on the counter, signaling yet another call. The throb of her right arm intensified. It could be her lawyer.
Damn and blast. She’d have to listen to her voicemail.
Fiona broke off a large piece of cinnamon bun and popped it in her mouth. As she chewed the forbidden treat, she hit play on her messages.
“Fiona, you can’t do this. Fiona! Answer me damn it.”
Click.
“You embarrassed me in front of my friends.”
Click.
Click.
Click.
“You owe me, you dumb cow. I had to close my eyes each time I fucked you. I had to drink before I could force myself to kiss you.”
Click.
“And you blamed me for not being able to get it up,” she muttered in disgust.
The messages continued.Click. Click. Click.
“You bitch. I tried to get money and you’ve blocked my access.”Click.
“Because it’s my money,” Fiona snapped.
Click. Click. Click.
