“You know the effects Ambien can have on someone who doesn’t need Ambien? Or someone who drinks while on it?” I seethe. He just shakes his head. “It can cause hallucinations, Jack. It can cause sleepwalking and lapses in memory and God knows what else!”
“It’s fine, I was watching.”
“Really? And just how were you watching from across town?” I dare him to tell me the truth—that he’s been monitoring me via security cameras, but he remains silent. Coward.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were this worried?” I let the smallest quiver of emotion lace my words.
“Because I... I didn’t know...howto.”
“So you drugged me instead, huh?” I watch him closely, looking for what, I’m not sure. Remorse? Regret? Resolve? “Oh my god—I just realized what this is really about.”
“What? That I was trying to take care of you even when I couldn’t be there?”
“Hardly.” I flash him a sinister grin. “You were trying to control me. Trying to manufacture my instability, make me believe I was really having a psychotic break.” I can’t help the rage rising in my tone. “You did this! You made me crazy! You made me believe I couldn’t even trust my own memories!” I stand from the table, shoving his flute of Ambien-laced Veuve Clicquot into his lap and throwing my napkin at him. “I hate you. I’m moving out. And if you get hit by a city bus on your way back downtown, don’t think for a second that I’ll be at the funeral. You deserve it.”
And with that I walk out of the restaurant, my spine straight and my power regained. Kat was right—taking back my power is a process. I’ve spent all of my life tied to men who only know power and privilege. I have to be smart; I have to maneuver carefully or Jack will ruin me.
“Is everything okay, ma’am?” Our server asks just as I reach the exit.
“Everything is fucking perfect.” I give him a wicked smile. “Send another bottle of Veuve to the table, please. My husband needs it.”
Thirty-Eight
Ellie
The hotel room smells like fresh linen and lemon polish. The kind of cleanliness you can’t get at home, no matter how hard you scrub. I sit cross-legged on the king-size bed, the duvet bunched up around me, Jack’s laptop balanced on my thighs.
It’s been two nights since I left Jack with champagne in his lap on the rooftop of The Peninsula during our anniversary dinner. I’ve been using my dad’s credit card to pay for the most absurdly expensive hotel room at The Peninsula. Outside the window, Manhattan hums with horns, sirens, and life moving forward without me.
I should feel safe here. High up. Anonymous. Alone.
Instead, I feel flayed open. Raw. Betrayed.
The cursor blinks in the email I sent myself two nights ago. The attached files—hundreds of them, labeled by date and time—contain security footage pulled from the hidden system Jack tucked in vents and perched discreetly atop cupboards. The system he thought I’d never find.
I press play on the first clip.
It’s me.
Sleeping.
For hours, nothing happens. I shift, murmur something in my sleep. The footage is grainy, cold, almost forensic. It feels like I’m watching a stranger.
Next clip: me getting ready for work. Pulling a dress over my head, towel-twisting my hair. Private moments stolen and archived without my knowledge.
Another clip: me in the kitchen, fumbling with a broken wine glass. A bright slash of blood blooms across my palm. I flinch as I remember that night—the phantom ache still present.
I click through hours of my life, feeling smaller with each file. Nothing unusual. Nothing criminal. Just the slow erosion of trust, dignity, self.
Maybe this was pointless. Maybe there’s nothing here but a graveyard of my own humiliation. I’m about to close the window when a clip catches my eye—timestamped just over a week ago. 2:14 a.m.
I frown. I was asleep then.
I click play.
At first, I see the familiar layout of the living room: cream sofa, coffee table littered with Jack’s whiskey tumblers, the soft halo of the lamp by the window.
And then—movement.
