That’s the first time that title has curled into my ears. I look down the length of my body. I’m still not sure it's me they're addressing. That name should belong to someone older, someone with long-French-tipped nails—is that still fashionable?—and a confidence that glides rather than shuffles, someone who laughs at the notion of foster homes and thrift store clearance bins. Who enjoys the time her husband is at work so she can live a life of luxury and play golf or backgammon. I don’t know what that last game is, but I’m sure the wife of the Don would know.
Mrs Butcher
It’ll be my name.
I taste it on my tongue, tart and grown-up, as if just having the title makes my hair healthier, my posture more commanding, my use of language more eloquent, and my smile smoother.
"Mrs Butcher?" the store manager repeats politely. “This way. Follow me.”
The henchmen, in their tailored suits and meticulous grooming, don't so much as blink at the extravagance of it all. Jasmine, meanwhile, is eating up the performance, walking a step behind me in five-inch heels.
The words echo in my mind as we glide past walls lined with handbags more expensive than my foster mother’s house.Fuck.Guilt curls in my lower stomach. That woman fed me andclothed me, even while she was poor. Here I am, about to spend money she could use.
Gah.Why am I thinking this way?
She was a terrible mother!
But she was a mother…
Shut up, Fawn.
As I stroll through the glitz of the space, my reflection greets me in the mirrored displays—blonde hair a little wild, skin flushed, but I don't feel like an impostor. Not entirely.
Another outing without Clay, another moment that feels incomplete without him.
I get it—he's busy and important. And everything he does is for me and the boys. I know I can be clingy.
At home, I’m perfectly content with raising his babies and being the woman he comes home to, the one he crawls over at night, thrusts into, who handles his evil in private.
But just like on Saturday, even as I havefun,something feels like it’s missing. I want the thrill of shopping, the excitement of choosing something for myself, but not without his heavy gaze or subtle smiles.
Even if his phone is attached to his ear, his eyes are still always on me. I want that. Why can’t I have that?
It feels hollow without him here to share it—as if every experience needs his presence to feel complete. It’s frustrating, this tug-of-war between wanting to impress him with my independence, to be Mrs Butcher, and needing him by my side because he is my everything.
My period makes me sulk.
I trail behind the manager to the private room—a suite draped in creamy suede and crystal accents, where a glass bowl of macarons and an uncorked bottle of champagne await. Trying not to let the pout show, my eyes widen on the alcohol.
Ooh.
"Can I have a whiskey?" I toss out playfully. Clay would say no… But he isn’t here, is he?
Nope, he’s not.
“Miss Harlow?” HJ interjects, his voice a mix of concern and formality, with just a hint of disapproval.
He is such a dobber.
Such a rat.
I park the twins beside an ottoman. “Oh,come on, you dobber rat! Just one little whiskey!” I stick my tongue out at him as the manager pours a whiskey and hands it to me. “The doctor says it’s perfectly fine for me to have a few drinks, especially since I just breastfed them.”
Jasmine swoops in, snatching up the champagne. “I’ll start with the bubbles. You know, to protect you from yourself.”
“Right, that is very considerate of you,” I quip, sipping the whiskey with enthusiasm, still daring my dobber rat henchman to retort. I guess I want to bicker. Look at him in his dapper suit, wearing that serious expression. Heisadorable. “What do you think? Should I finish this whiskey, try on some lingerie, parade around a little?”
HJ raises an eyebrow. “I always thought you wanted to get me killed. Keep it up, Miss Harlow. The next whiskey you have will be at my wake.”
