Page 70 of Guilty as Sin

By keeping them all far away.

Chapter 33

Cora

I wait until I hear the elevator close, then finally allow myself to scream.

I own you.

The bastard. I pull the despicable red dress off my body and throw it across the room. I feel my anger like a fire inside of me, burning through my limbs and raging hottest in my chest. Its only escape is through my vocal cords, and it screams out of me, tearing my body apart as it rips itself free.

I will die a thousand agonizing deaths before I let someone own me.

When all of my immediate rage is spent, my throat is raw, painful as I gulp air into my lungs. I storm back to my room to pull on the first clothes I find, my dark skinny jeans and a comfy shirt. With my hands still shaking, I decide that I won’t let him win. He said what he said knowing it’d piss me off, and it’s working. I take several deep breaths through my nose until my hands are steady. My anger’s still present, but back under my control.

I return to what I was doing before Brady ruined my fucking morning. I finish my breakfast. By habit or compulsion, I put his quinoa bowl in the fridge, but if he never comes back for it, I tell myself I don’t give a shit.

I imagine my life without my asshole husband, which is what I’d wanted in the first place, refusing to give up who I am.

With a start, I realize I haven’t been checking in with Lucy. I’d intended to keep up with the goings-on at the clinic, but then I let my new life distract me. Something twists in my stomach, the same guilt I felt when I realized I’d forgotten to call Noah. That’s not a sign of caring. I haven’t missed working at the clinic the way I thought I would.

Before I allow that part of me to shrink further, I call Lucy. She assures me that everything’s going well with our patients, and of course it is, because she’s amazing. After assuaging some of my guilt, she mentions that Jennifer seems less upset with me than before, another indication that the Brady-less side of my life is doing just fine.

When we hang up, I let out a long-held breath. I will not let him ruin my whole life, or even my whole day. I feel the need to move, to get out and stretch my legs. Whichever pair of O’Sullivan men are posted in the front lobby as my guards for the day will just have to come with.

I text Connor to see if he wants to go to the Field Museum, since I haven’t gotten to show him much of the city yet.

He replies:

Connor: You want me around a bunch of kids with this face?

I wince. His largest bruises have healed significantly, but they’re still a sickly yellow that would scare children. I text back:

Me: Shit, sorry. Let’s just hang out at the apartment. I’ll head over now.

He agrees, though I can picture him grumbling to himself about being cooped up. I gather my purse and press the call button for the elevator, which lights up beneath my finger.

Then the light goes out.

Weird. I press it again, but it does the same thing. When I try for a third time, I’m reminded of the definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. But this high-rise is state of the art. Brady’s the building’s manager, and he’s the type to keep everything well-maintained and under his control.

“Motherfucker,” I swear out loud, then call Connor.

“Hey, can you pick up a pizza on your way here?”

“Would that I could.” My tone oozes sarcasm. “I’m stuck in the penthouse. Brady stalled the elevator somehow.”

“Don’t you have stairs?”

“I am literally over fifty stories in the air right now.” Although I do like the idea of giving my guards the slip by using the stairwell’s back door, that’s way too many fucking stairs.

“And I’m not worth the climb?” Connor asks.

“The climb down, maybe.” I highly doubt Brady will un-stall the elevator by the time I return. I pop in my earbuds and slip my phone into my back pocket. “Let’s just hang out like this. I know you have nothing better to do.”

“You’re choosing to let your husband lock you up like that?”

“I’m not a princess in a tower,” I say, peering down from the wall of windows to the sidewalk far below. “Princesses behave themselves.”