“No,” he answers, like the question is silly.
“Is she the only one?” Blood is rushing to my head. I’m talking and sitting here, very politely, while the room around me cracks and floats into the stratosphere, and Adrian doesn’t know it. He doesn’t know me at all.
He takes a second to reply. “I’ll satisfy your curiosity this once, but I’ll remind you—you signed the prenup. You know what happens if our arrangement doesn’t work out. I suggest that once we clear the air, you take whatever time you need, and you find it within yourself to move past this.” He pauses as if he’s calling something to mind. “If you like, we can arrange for a few weeks at that holistic wellness retreat Kendra went to in Switzerland.”
Kendra is my sister-in-law. She’s always stressed out, and she says it’s because she’s so busy, but I see how she tenses up around her husband Gideon. I always thought I got the better brother. I felt bad for her.
Adrian clears his throat. I guess he wants me to answer him.
I did sign the prenup, but I didn’t read it. My lawyer summed it up for me, and to be honest, except for a few details that stuck with me because I thought they were funny—like me keeping my security detail if we divorce like I’m a former president of the United States—it went in one ear and out the other. I was twenty-one. I was worried about not looking stupid in front of my fancy lawyer.
“Okay,” I say to put an end to the silence. I feel like I’ve been caught by loss prevention, like I’ve been made to turn out my pockets in a back storeroom, and the universe is about to confiscate everything that protects me—my new name, my wedding ring, that black credit card.
“There’s no one else.” He pauses and then plunges on, his voice never wavering and without a hint of guilt or regret. “I used protection, obviously. This isn’t a threat to you. You’re my wife and the mother of my children. You’ve read the prenup. You’re well-protected.”
I’m not. I’m all alone and floating into outer space. My hands are cold as ice. I shove them under my thighs like I’m a little kid. My vision is getting weird now. I can see the weave of the fabric of my pants. This is going to be bad.
“Cora, please look at me.”
I can’t. My head weighs a thousand pounds. It’s about to slide off my neck like the clock in that Salvador Dali painting.
“Cora.” His voice is firm. He fully expects me to obey. Everyone does what Adrian Maddox says. He doesn’t even have to raise his voice.
If this was an hour ago—if this was five minutes ago—I would’ve followed his directions, but it’s too late. The tether that attaches my mind to the rest of me has snapped.
I’m in deep trouble now.
“Cora.” This time, he says it sharply, and when I still don’t oblige, he sighs. “I’ll leave you to collect yourself. Sleep here since the children are already in bed. I’ll see you at home in the morning.”
He waits a little while longer for me to reply, but when I don’t, he stands. “This doesn’t have to change anything. I think when you’ve had the chance to reflect on the situation, you’ll agree.”
And then he’s gone. In short order, he and his peoplecollect their things and file out of the apartment. Schmidt must still be in the bedroom. I hear Tiller moving around the kitchen.
I rise slowly from the sofa and float down the hallway. I feel like an old-timey aquanaut with one of those fishbowls on my head. I can’t see right, and the pressure in my head is growing. I’m going to lose it.
I haven’t lost it in years. Not since Mrs. Flowers picked me up from Villa Theresa and put me on a bus to New York.
I thought I was better. Fixed.
I can’t lose it now. My babies are sleeping down the hall. They need me. They’re so little. So defenseless.
I wander into the kitchen.
“You all right, Mrs. Maddox?” Tiller asks.
I nod. I just need a glass of water, and I’ll feel better. I’ll pull myself together. Come up with a plan.
My brain buzzes. Tiller says something else, but the words are mush.
I take a glass down from the cabinet. I’m sure the fridge is stocked with all types of water. When you’re rich, they ask you what kind of water you want—still or sparkling. Still means flat, but not out of a tap. These people would never drink from the faucet.
I fill the glass at the sink and guzzle the water down. Everything looks wrong. The black and white checked backsplash is bulging like an optical illusion. The air is too thick, and my ears are ringing.
The kitchen is fully stocked. Fancy knives hang from a magnetic holder made of fine wood. The switch for the garbage disposal is off to the side of the sink, but not far enough away that a person couldn’t flip it with their other hand shoved down the drain.
I refill my glass and chug. My little girls are asleep in the next room. While I was sitting in a wheelchair in the roomwhere I gave birth, waiting to be rolled to the mother and baby floor, and Adrian had stepped into the hallway to take a call, I swore to Pearl that life would be different for her. It would be safe. Good.
Was it Delaney on the phone?
