Better than selling myself to a man I could never love, the way Barclay insists every other week. According to him, it doesn’t matter that no one in town speaks to us anymore. Some wealthy sucker would marry me if I’d just stop being such a stuck-up bitch.
Anyway. As much as I love what I do for a living, the hours I stay on my feet are grueling. Some days, the fatigue makes me fantasize about a desk job.
The thought of sitting for longer than a few minutes feels holy. Sadly, it’s entirely out of reach. Working in a corporate office isn’t an option; with only a high school diploma, nothing pays as much as cleaning.
As if on cue, exhaustion pricks behind my eyes. My arms ache, my shoulders burn. The last minutes of my twelve-hour shifts always hit the hardest.
Just the last minutes?
Ugh. That inner voice of mine, I hate it.
There’s no room for self-pity in my life when Barclay needs me to take care of him. His severe shoulder injury has left him with nerve damage so extensive that he struggles to get out of bed.
Most of the time, I feel bad for him. But in my darkest hours, like now, I also remember he’s the one who’s brought it on himself.
According to police reports, Barclay lost it one afternoon on the golf course he frequents and went after fellow golfer Patrick Trainor. His excuse? He didn’t like the guy’s face.
Barclay’s irrational dislike turned into a nightmare when he lifted his arm to throw one last punch at Patrick, brass knuckles glinting.
A man on a nearby hole panicked and warned my brother three times. When Barclay wouldn’t listen, he fired his weapon.
One bullet was all it took. It tore through Barclay’s shoulder, nicking nerves and vessels that haven’t fully recovered.
Thankfully, the criminal case never made it to court. The lawyer Barclay hired cost us a fortune, but at least he made everything go away.
Well, almost everything.
Since Patrick didn’t feel like justice was served, he took Barclay to civil court and won. Five million in damages, plus an avalanche of legal fees and Barclay’s hospital bills, and…poof.
We have nothing. Can’t even afford his pain meds or physical therapy.
Our family business could’ve been our lifeline, but like our savings, it’s gone too.
Turns out, gambling and paying off bar fights aren’t just reckless, they’re destructive.
I’d been trying to get Barclay to stop. Truly. He just wouldn’t listen. Years before his last fight, he—slowly but surely—had drained almost every asset, every cent, every safety net we had.
All this time, I didn’t lose faith. As long as he could stand upright and talk numbers, there was still hope for us.
That hope, and later the fact that I owed him my life, were the only reasons I signed off on selling one property after another.
I trusted Barclay to make the right decisions. Or maybe I wanted to believe he would.
Even when all that was left was roughly six million dollars between the two of us, I hoped for the best. It wasn’t a lot in terms of real estate in New York. Just enough for the bank to consider giving us a loan to revive our business.
Then his last, brutal fight happened. From there, well…
I sigh, knowing darn well that the blame for my current situation isn’t Barclay’s alone. I’m exhausted, cornered, stretched thin because of the choices I made.
Years ago, back when we could afford it, I mentioned college. Barclay laughed. Said all I’d ever be good for was being a rich man’s wife.
Volunteering at the dog shelter? Fine. College? Not a chance.
Our parents were dying, and he was my big brother. Again, I trusted him. Sure, he was mean. Misogynistic. Wrong. Yet I was foolish enough to listen.
So while Barclay went off to business school, I let myself believe my place was here, at home, learning to be the polished society woman he deemed me to be.
A single woman, much to Barclay’s irritation.
