I take a step away from the mess.
“Watch yourself,” Adrian growls at me. “It’s everywhere.” He grabs me by the waist, hoists me into the air like I’m Pearl, walks me into the hallway, and places me back down on my feet.
“Are you hurt?” he demands, scowling as he crouches to smooth his hands down my legs, checking for glass. Like he cares.
“No,” I say. He’s on his knees in front of me, and all I can see is the thick, dark hair on top of his head and his broad shoulders. He smells like his fancy body wash that comes in an ordinary plastic bottle with a label that’s just a long list of ingredients and costs sixty bucks for thirty-two ounces.
When he’s away for a night or two, I unscrew the lid andsniff it when I’m in the shower. Even after five years together, I still longed for him when he was gone.
Was he fucking someone else whenever he was away?
The hate I feel for him is incandescent. How is it not lighting the hallway like an A-bomb?
I reach out and let a strand of his silky hair run through my fingers. “Stop pretending. You don’t care if I’m hurt,” I tell him. “You’re my enemy. I know that now.”
He looks up at me. His dark eyes blaze. His jaw locks. He’s so beautiful. Even now, something inside me urges me to soothe him, stroke his cheek, sink to my knees and wrap my arms around him.
Something inside me is a traitor.
I turn around and walk away, spine straight, careful not to betray the pain I feel each time my soles meet the floor.
3
ADRIAN
I liein bed and stare at the ceiling. The house is silent. I had it built shortly after I met Cora and spared no expense. The walls are built to military specifications and fortified to withstand an air strike. Sound doesn’t permeate.
When I was young, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d sneak out to the roof, stare at the stars, and listen to the city. My brothers and I turned that roof into our playground—we’d smoke Dad’s cigars, play video games on an old TV powered by a daisy chain of extension cords, and drink pilfered whiskey. The roof of this house isn’t accessible.
Cora has moved into the nursery. It’s probably for the best. She needs to express her displeasure with me, and it’s preferable to my mother’s way.
Thalia Lykaios-Maddox would stage elaborate tantrums when she caught Dad with his pants down, screaming and raging and beating her fists against his chest. Cora isn’t the type, but I half-expected that reaction anyway when she stepped off that elevator. She didn’t have anything to throw within arm’s reach, though, and she’d never scream in front of Winnie and Pearl, let alone be violent.
She’s a good mother. That’s why I chose her. The nurseryschool where she worked was on the way to my favorite coffee place, and every day when I walked past, I’d see her in the playground, kneeling in a cluster of children like Snow White amid the woodland creatures, completely focused on the little ones’ concerns.
I had my usual investigator check her out, and he confirmed my instincts. She was perfect. No family still living, no criminal record, no drug use, clean bill of health. Her digital footprint was almost charming. Pinterest, cat videos, and full shopping carts on fast fashion retailers which she never emptied. It was easy to run into her one day on the sidewalk and strike up a conversation.
Of course, she took one look at me and saw dollar signs. For our first date, I booked a private room at Vitale’s, and you’d have thought I’d flown her to Paris. Her eyes were huge, and when she talked, she whispered like she was in church.
“You mean we get this whole room to ourselves?”
“Why aren’t there prices on the menu?”
“I’ve never had snails before. Do they taste like fish?”
She was so naïve, so desperate to nail me down. She told me she loved me after the first time we fucked. She thought I was asleep and murmured it in my ear.
I felt like a pervert, like I’d taken the babysitter to bed. I’d always planned on marrying a woman closer to my age, cultured and at home in the circles to which I belong, but Cora was too perfect. She might be a gold digger, but she has a heart of gold, and for a man in my position, that’s the best you can hope to find for a wife and mother of your children.
I think she really convinced herself that she’s in love with me. I should’ve anticipated that. It’s hard to confront an uncomfortable truth about yourself, even a truth so obviousthat everyone around you can see it like the nose on your face.
We have nothing in common except the children and the house. I don’t fault her for her lack of higher education. She did well for herself considering she was raised in foster care. Still, we don’t really speak the same language. I’ve never been in love, but I assume love requires you to share the same fundamental understanding of the world.
I was right the first time I saw her. She sees the world like a fairy-tale princess.
Taking her call the other night was sloppy. I should’ve let it go to voicemail. I didn’t need to risk her hearing Delaney, which is exactly what happened. I didn’t need to pop her bubble. What did it hurt for her to pretend that she loves me?
Itisfor the best that everything is out on the table now, though. We can continue our life together in a more honest way. She won’t feel compelled to tell me all the time that she loves me.
