I’m sure Farhadi would insist on immediate intervention at this point, but Cora’s “no” was emphatic when I suggested talking to a professional, and there was fear—horror, really—in her eyes.
I’m not inclined to push her, even now. That leaves persuasion, but persuasion takes time and trust, and I’m short on both. Whatever’s happening with her is getting worse quickly.
I have no idea what I’m dealing with, and that makes me deeply uneasy. I’ve meticulously arranged my life so that I’m always in the know and always in control. This is not a familiar headspace for me. Not as a grown man.
The rational move is to get her treatment. There are excellent places. Discreet. Five star. I’ve heard they’re virtually indistinguishable from a spa or resort.
The girls and I could go with her, stay nearby. She could see them as much as she wants.
I’m one hundred percent sure, though, that the moment I leave her somewhere and take the children, even for the night, she’ll never forgive me.
I misread her so completely before that I blew up our life. I would never have misread a competitor so badly, not even if I had bad information. I have killer instincts. It’s the thing everyone knows about me.
The thing I know about myself.
So why couldn’t I see her clearly? What if I’m making the wrong call now?
What if I’m talking myself out of making her get treatment because I’m afraid any competent shrink would tell her to leave me? Am I that much of a bastard?
I bury my nose in her hair, inhaling her uniquely Cora scent. She smells like her yellow melon shampoo with faint notes of evaporated sex sweat and breast milk. I’ve missed it.
When I married her, I appreciated her natural blonde hair, her blue eyes and delicate bone structure. She’s a perfectly rendered woman—dewy skin, Pilates body, curvy and toned in the right places.
Now, I don’t really see any of that when I look at her.Like in this moment, her sleep shirt is worked up past her waist—Pearl does the same when she sleeps, and I have no idea how they manage it—and my eyes are drawn to the white streaks on her hips.
I love the streaks. She’d hate it if she knew. When we’re at the pool, she thinks I’m checking out her ass, but I’m admiring the streaks. They show even better when she has a tan.
She’d hate it even more if she knewwhyI’m obsessed with her stretch marks. I put them there when I fucked a baby into her belly. I marked her perfect body. In a way, that makes it mine. Like biting an apple.
It’s fucked up, but so am I.
So is she.
Is that why I didn’t read her right?
I run my fingertip along her stripes, lightly, listening to her breathing so I can stop if I disturb her.
For the hundredth time, why the hell did I fuck Delaney Pierson? Women come on to me all the time. I’m never tempted. I’m not led by my dick.
I was on edge that night.
Because of Cora?
Yes. Because of Cora.
Why?
She asked if I was angry at her because she married me for money, but I’m not. That’s one of the reasonsImarriedher. I wanted a wife who was dependent on me. It was never a negative.
At first.
Because if I’m going to be honest with myself, if I’m going to stare this shit in the face, if it’s worth it to me to fix this,reallyfix it, I can’t cover my eyes and say I don’t know what was wrong with me that night.
I do know.
I wrap my arms around her, and she snuggles closer in her sleep.
When I married her, I wanted her locked down, and I got it. She signed the prenup. I knocked her up, and she moved into the house I built for her. She relied on me for everything.
