"I started it," I rush in, feeling like shit for dragging Lu into it. "It started as my idea. Childish prank."
"Agreed. Childish." He snaps a cold nod. "I left the office early—early!—while working on a deal that could bankroll our lives, and this is what I walk into?" His hand slices toward the bedroom like a gavel.
I flinch. That's where I left the box, with all the evidence of my morning identity crisis.
Before he can say anything else, I run there. "Sorry. I found the dress in the closet and was trying things on. I wanted to feel like myself again."
Richard walks over, arms crossed, eyes drilling me from above as I perch on the bed, stuffing everything back.
"This is you? A woman who leaves the house with no self-respect?" he says with disdain.
My hand halts above the box and I blink, shame creeping up so fast it snatches my breath.
Then blink again because there's no way he knows where I've been. He's talking about my dress.
That's all, Emma. He's talking about your dress.
"Did you just say I have no self-respect?" I ask, frowning.
"Yes?" He says it like a question, but it's clearly a statement.
"So I'm a hooker now?" I ask, honestly more baffled than anything else. "For wearing a summer dress?"
"I'm surprised you would wear something like that when I'm not around."
Okay, now I'm pissed. I stand up straight against him, hands on my hips. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means," he drawls out like I'm stupid, "that's not who I married. Not this version."
"Version?" I scoff. "What am I? Software you can update when I glitch?"
His jaw grinds, eyes going cold. "Stop being petulant."
"Petulant? For fuck's sake, you just called me a hooker!" I yell because it lands way harder than it normally would and push past him, pacing back to the closet to fling the box in the corner. "Over a dress!"
When I turn around, Richard's there—in the doorway again—staring me down. The wordfuckhangs heavy between us.
He hates it when women swear, when I swear. Says it's vulgar and low-class.
I save it for when he's not around, like some dirty little pleasure I'm supposed to overgrow.
But what's the point now? I'm tainted. Might as well speak in my own tongue.
"It'snotjust a dress," he says in that executive tone—cool, definitive, used to being obeyed. "You are my wife, and with that comes responsibility. Presentation. Decorum."
"Don't you think I know that?" I strip the dress, fling it overmy head for the second time today, indignant. "It was one day. People change hairstyles, clothes, makeup.People change,Richard."
"I don't." He gestures at the dark blue suit like it's proof of virtue—same cut, same shade as the ten others lined up in his closet.
"Congratulations," I bite out. "Some of us are still finding ourselves."
Slam. The wardrobe door rattles in its frame.
"Finding yourself?" He snorts, derisive. "Sure. Keep at it. Just let me know which version of you I'm supporting today."
There it is again.Version.
You know what? He might be right. There are two Emmas now. The one that says I'm a hypocrite, I crossed a line, and should apologize, and the other that knows this has nothing to do with me and Ben.
