He always buys me expensive gifts—jewelry and perfume and spa days and electronic gadgets. Most of the electronics are still in the box. Those little instruction booklets are incomprehensible, and I don’t have the patience to watch an online video about sunglasses that take pictures and search the internet when my phone works fine.
I don’t wear the perfume or the jewelry much, either, except when we go to events. I was always grateful for the gifts, and impressed, but I figured he just wasn’t good at picking out personal things, and he was doing the best he could by throwing money at it.
Except for that bouquet of irises. That was out of character.
He has roses delivered every Friday like clockwork—they have a special place on a marble side table in the foyer—but last week, out of nowhere, he brought home a littlebouquet of irises and other blue and yellow wildflowers, tied with a blue and yellow striped bow. I’m pretty sure it was meant to show support for Ukraine. Adrian said the colors reminded him of me, even though my hair is a paler yellow.
Instead of putting the flowers in the usual vase, I pressed them in the heaviest book I could find in the library—Plato’s collected works. I had planned to frame them once they’re dry and flat. Or maybe do some kind of resin craft, like coasters.
Did he bring me the flowers because he’d just fucked Delaney and felt guilty?
Probably not. He doesn’t seem to feel guilty at all. He seems frustrated that I’m not falling in line.
What did he expect? He couldn’t have thought that I’d just shrug and get over it. He’s cold, but he understands how people work. Outsmarting people is his entire job. Maybe I was supposed to break down and cry. Maybe he wanted to see me hurt.
I really had no idea he was a villain. In my experience, bad men talk sweet. They stand too close and breathe too heavily and always have a ready excuse. They never set their phones down, and they show up where you don’t expect them—in the basement, standing by the dryer when the buzzer goes off on your load of laundry. Or after you stay late at school to watch a basketball game and you’re walking home in the dark.
Adrian was never sweet, but he always kept his word and never pressured me, and that meant so much more to me than compliments. He was a gentleman. He didn’t do more than kiss me on our first date, and he didn’t try to fuck me until the third. When I only let him feel me up, he didn’t act put out. I got the sense that I’d pleased him by turning him down.
I thought that meant he was serious about me. That he felt a connection. Maybe even the same giddy excitement that made it hard for me to eat and sleep.
I was worse than stupid.
I was crazy.
He’s right. I should have known.
I was twenty-one, making minimum wage. He was thirty-three and a literal billionaire. And I let my messed-up brain hum along on the high, never questioning, never doubting the liesItoldmyself. And I brought two innocent babies into this.
I blink at the empty bottle of wine.
I want to rip the hair out of my head.
I want to shove myself into the smallest box on the planet, fold myself over and over, flatten my organs and break my bones until I’m a tiny cube in a corner on a shelf in the back of a room where no one ever goes.
I’ve made a terrible mistake, and there is no Mrs. Flowers, and no Ativan, and two little girls are sleeping upstairs, and they need me, and I’m holding on by a thread. I don’t know what to do, but I can’t lose it.
I can’t let myself float away.
I sweep my arm across the table, sending my plate flying into the wall. It doesn’t even break. It falls upside down on the teak floor, clattering as it comes to a rest. I send the wine bottle after it like I’m throwing an axe. Adrian and I did that on a date once. He was impressed by my aim, but he always got closer to the bullseye than me.
Racing footsteps pound down the hall and Minh appears in the doorway, his untied apron sailing behind him like a cape. “Mrs. Maddox! What happened?”
I wipe my palms on my pants and straighten my shoulders. “I tripped.”
Minh takes in the blast radius, the green beans and fishchunks scattered among shards of glass, and his forehead furrows.
“Cora?” His voice is low. Gentle. Minh is my favorite chef. He doesn’t mind me messing up his kitchen making baby food for Winnie or baking little treats with Pearl. The weekend chef doesn’t like us underfoot. He’d never say so, but you can tell by how hard he shuts the cabinets when I’m in his space.
“I tripped,” I say again, more firmly. The floaty feeling has quieted, and my head is clearer. My aching feet are firm on the ground.
More steps pound down the hall, and Vera and Adrian burst into the room. Vera gasps.
“What on earth happened?” Adrian thunders. I jerk. I’ve never heard him shout before.
Minh is already squatting, using the plate to scrape the glass into a pile. Before I can open my mouth, Minh says, “Mrs. Maddox tripped. No worries. I’ve got it.”
“I’ll get the broom,” Vera says and hurries away.
