It’s not the money. I’ve never felt comfortable with that anyway. We have our own accounts—thankGod—and a joint account that’s really just a slush fund. He pays into it, I don’t, and he likes that.
“It’s all our money,” he tells me with a little smile and a passive-aggressive reminder that it is not, in fact, any of mine. “Buy what you want. Can’t have my fiancée wearing anything but the best, can I?”
I have to hand it to Alex: he’s very,verygood at making money.
But I’d trade all of it—the house, the cars, the walk-in wardrobe with designer brands, more shoes than even I could ever wear—for one night where he actually shows up.
It’s Alex I want, not what he buys.
I laugh, the bitter sound echoing through our empty house.Hisempty house.
Should’ve gone out with Carol and the girls when she’d suggested it. But no, Alex had wanted to stay in. I was enthused. A whole evening, together? I couldn’t remember the last time. Best birthday present in… forever.
I walk upstairs, feet heavy on the steps, and pause in the bedroom. The bed is made with black silk sheets. The brass clock on the mantelpiece reads eight-twenty. An hour and forty before he gets home. And even though I know he’ll only find another excuse not to be here, I still go through the motions. Read my romance story for a bit, not really taking in the words and skimming to the sex scenes, because that’s psychologically safe—this author is pretty crap at bringing emotion into the bedroom.
After a while, I get the bath running. Pour in agenerous helping of the Hermès bath salts he bought me for Christmas—that date’s a little harder to forget. Smooth the creases I made on the bed. Set aside lingerie I bought two months ago. He hasn’t seen it yet.
And I soak.
Time passes. Through the open doorway, the clock ticks inexorably on toward ten.
Do I really think he’ll arrive, as if by magic, the moment the hour strikes? Can I persuade myself this night is somehow different from any other of the last three… four…fivemonths?
No.
But what if he does? What if, this time, he delivers on what he promised?
I can’t help the way my body tilts toward the idea of him. The thought of his hands on me, his tongue, his cock. The strength of his arms as they wrap around me while I ride him, lifting me like I weigh nothing. His eyes, that particular gold-rimmed hazel I’ve lost myself in, time and time again. I’m certain I fell in love with his eyes before I fell in love with him.
My fist strikes the surface of the water in frustration, splashing my face. It jolts me.
I’m dreaming. I know I am.
Why am I still here? Why am I still torturing myself?
I’m more than a trophy wife-to-be for a man who forgets I exist half the time. I have my own life, damn it. My own career, my own goals, my own fledgling PI firm. Yet even that I partly owe to Alex’s seedmoney. Leaving the safety of a corporate position and striking out alone had been tougher than I’d thought. Hard to find clients, even with my reputation.
And if I walk away from Alex now, I have to assume he’ll take his money out of my firm.
But that is fear talking. I’ve been over this. I can make it work. Iwillmake it work, with or without Alex’s support. I’m a damn good PI. I have a couple of occasional clients whose networks could really open doors for me. I just need to land something regular—a law firm, a corporate retainer. It’s there. I know it is. But will I find a client before the money runs out?
Grow a spine, Vicky.
Water splashes onto the floor as I reach for my phone, scrolling my contacts with a wet fingertip. The screen doesn’t like it; it’s slow to obey. Hit the button. It rings twice before it’s answered.
“Hey! What time are you getting here?” Carol’s voice carries that soft sympathetic tone people use at funerals and when their best friends prematurely end their engagements.
I glance at the clock. In twenty-two minutes, I’ll know one way or the other. “I’ve been a bit delayed. Is it okay if I arrive after eleven? Not too late?”
“That’s fine, girlfriend. Will you have eaten? I have a birthday cake, but if you want…?”
“No…” I grimace, grateful she can’t see. If only one person remembers my birthday, I wish to God it was someone else. And now I feel guilty for what I’m about to say. “Uh… there’s a very small chance I won’t be coming at all. So if I’m not there by eleven-thirty, don’t wait up, and we’ll do cake tomorrow?”
A pregnant pause on the line. When she speaks, it’s with forced joviality. “Absolutely. You do what you need to. I’m here either way.”
“Thanks, babe.”
“Later, then. Or not. Take care.”
