MY HANDS SHOOK as my body trembled. Why was I even surprised he’d gone back on his word? The fucker had promised! He’d promised to always be with me!
Holding my midsection, I doubled over as revolt took hold and my lunch was purged onto the concrete of the private garage. The sound of my distress wouldn’t bring anyone’s attention. There was no one there. I knew that. I knew once the friend, as Stewart liked to call them, was done, he was gone. It was one of the ways they tried to secure their anonymity. Besides, Stewart’s voice had told me that he was gone, told me to stay where I was, not to move until he said the word. I’d disobeyed in the past. I no longer considered that on option. Stark naked on the freaking four-poster bed, I waited as the damn music came through the headphones.
Sometimes I hated the music as much as his voice. For almost nine years it had been the same eerie playlist. When I asked, Stewart refused to tell me the names of the songs, only that they reminded him of a time long ago. As the years passed, I think I found reassurance in the predictability of the order. Without my sense of sight, it gave me something to hold, something expected. Each time he restarted the music, it was always from the beginning. I’d heard the first melody so many times it haunted my dreams. One day I searched and searched the Internet until I found it: Fatal Lullaby. Knowing the title made it even more depressing—if that were even possible. Death Dance came next. All of the songs he chose were composed by Adrian von Ziegler and were only instrumental music. None contained words, only dark, tortured strains that resounded through my ears as I struggled to make sense of the world around me.
Closing my eyes, I reached for my car. Fleeing the stench of the garage, the warehouse, and my life was my only thought. Without a doubt, I needed to get away from this place.
After so many visits, somehow not having Stewart present had made it worse. But then again, he was. He was there through a new system of cameras. With this new system, he could watch from our home. Our home. In one afternoon, he’d taken away the separation of warehouse and home: one of my last refuges.
My hands trembled as I pulled my car door closed. I fought with the new reality: Stewart’s voyeurism wasn’t over, not as long as breath still entered his lungs. With this newly installed technology, his favorite sick form of entertainment would continue. The last two months of reprieve as he fought against the cancer was only that, a momentary break. The sadistic motherfucker would keep this going until the bitter end.
I turned my eyes—devoid of makeup—toward the rearview mirror. Thank God there was a shower at the warehouse. I hated the smell of the men. Again, the loss of sight heightened my other senses, including that of smell. I wasn’t supposed to know who his friends were. It used to give Stewart a rush as we’d enter a party or a function and he’d taunt me with the idea of whom I knew and who knew me. Closing my eyes, I still heard his sadistic tone as he paraded me on his arm.
Of course, the men never let on. They never came forward, but smell was a powerful sense: whether cologne or aftershave, a breath mint or body wash. When I’d least expect it, an aroma would remind me of the warehouse, the music, and Stewart’s incessant directions. Then I would know. I would know that the man smiling sweetly at his wife, or taunting me with his stare was one of Stewart’s friends.
This afternoon, his friend wore cologne similar to Stewart’s. When we first married, I loved the erotic combination of rose and sandalwood, and oud. I’d noticed the unique scent the first day we met. I remember finding the bottle in his room and reading the name: Tom Ford Oud Wood. There was even a time when I would lay my head on his pillow just to inhale the scent.
That was before, before the warehouse, and before death grabbed him by the balls. No longer did he walk in a cloud of expensive cologne. Now the scent of death and denial hung in layers around him and his makeshift hospital room.
The great Stewart Harrington wanted to die at home. He wanted to be surrounded by the luxury and opulence of his hard work. Bullshit! Stewart Harrington wanted to live. Going to the hospital and being attached to their equipment would admit defeat. I couldn’t imagine him admitting that until words were beyond his control.
That knowledge refueled my strength. The motherfucker was going to die: of that I was confident.
Turning up the radio, I tried to drown out the wordless dark tunes in my head. Slowly, I put the car into reverse. Exiting the garage, the sunlight steamed through my windshield, blinding me as I reached for my sunglasses. Damn, it was still daytime. This fucking day wouldn’t end. I looked toward the clock when the screen on the dash changed. STEWART flashed on the screen indicating an incoming call.
I choked back the bile and hit the CALL button that allowed my husband’s voice to replace the music and fill the car.
“What?” was the best greeting I could manage.
“Are you coming home?”
I turned the car right, not sure where I was headed, only that it was away from our penthouse. “No.”
“No?”
“You fucking lied!” I’d played the role so long that my unexpected outburst no doubt took Stewart by surprise. “You said you’d always be there. You weren’t there!” The road before me blurred from my tears as I fought to regain my semblance of control.
“Tori,” his voice was soft, though his pet name made the bile return to my throat. “Come home. Let’s talk about this.”
“No. We’re not supposed to talk about this at home. It’s supposed to stay separate from home. You ruined everything.”
“Come home.” Unlike his tone through the damn headphones, these words were spoken more as a plea. “The doctors want to give me more medicine. I want to see you first. I want to tell you how good you were. How proud I am of you.”
He fucking wanted to do more than that, and I knew it. I gripped the steering wheel and weaved through traffic, not even the slightest bit concerned with my destination. “I’ll be home, just not until later.”
“You know, you don’t have the right to be mad. I checked the contract. There was nothing in there saying I would always be present.”
“Well, Stewart, I haven’t read the fucking contract since before we were married. But I have heard you tell me that you’re there, with me. I hate it! I’ve always hated it. But at least… Shit!” I slammed on my brakes and threw my weight onto the horn. Stupid fucking tourists, walking in the damn street.
“What happened?”
“Nothing. Take your damn medicine. I’ll be home when I’m home.”
“I want you to come home now. You’re my wife.”
“I am your wife. I’m Mrs. Stewart Harrington and I’m going out. I’m calling my sister or something. I’ve followed your rules. I played your whore. Now I’m doing something for me. I may not have read the contract recently, but I do remember there’s nothing in it restricting my activities.” Before he could refute my comment, I went on, gaining strength with each word. “I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do this afternoon. I’m not going to sit in a chair and watch you die.” Because if I did, I’d grab a pillow and accelerate the process. The words were right there. Thankfully, I had enough self-control to bite them back. “Goodbye, Stewart. Get some rest. You’ve had a busy afternoon.”
I hit the disconnect icon.
As my car filled with the music from the radio, my surroundings came into view. I was near the offices of Craven and Knowles. My mind started turning, playing Stewart’s words over in my head. He said he’d recently reviewed the contract. That was the opening I needed. If he’d reviewed it, I could review it.
Jumping two lanes of traffic and ignoring the horns, I pulled into the parking garage and found a space. It was nearing 5:00 PM. No doubt the secretary wouldn’t be pleased to see me so close to closing time. Too damn bad. I’m Mrs. Stewart Harrington.
I took off my sunglasses and looked in the rearview mirror. I never went out without makeup. My eyes looked red, as did my lips; yet, my cheeks were pale. Reaching for my purse, I found some mascara, eyeliner, and lipstick. My damp hair was tied in a knot at the back of my neck. Pulling a few loose strands from the sides, I let them dangle beside my cheeks. Sliding my sunglasses back into place, I decided it would have to do. I’d driven to the law firm for a reason, even without thinking about it. For the first time in over ten years, I wanted to see the damn contract.
“Mrs. Harrington? I-I’m sorry. Did you have an appointment?”
“No, Trish. I did not.”
She shifted uncomfortably. I knew she didn’t want to spend her precious nail-polishing time on me. Honestly, I didn’t know how this woman had kept her job as long as she had. She was probably giving blow jobs under desks. It was the only possible answer. Her skills as a receptionist certainly lacked: maybe she excelled at fellatio?
“D-Did you want to see someone?”
“Trish, I want to see something. I need to speak to Mr. Craven’s assistant. I believe she’ll be able to help me.”
She looked toward her computer. “I’ll be happy to schedule—”
I put my hand on her desk. “I’m here now. Now would be a marvelous time to schedule. Don’t you agree?”
“Y-Yes. Let me call her. I know Mr. Craven has been out. If she’s available—”
My skin crawled. “Trish, I suspect that even if Mr. Craven’s assistant is busy, she can find time for me. I’m not leaving until I see what I came to see.”
Trish stood. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll get Maggie.”
“Thank you.” I nodded as I followed her to the center conference room: the fishbowl with the blinds. It was the same one I’d been in many times. Within seconds she’d hit the switch, changing the windows to opaque.
“Mrs. Harrington, may I get you something? A coffee perhaps? One with cream and two sugars.”
“Thank you.”
I wasn’t a coffee drinker, but her request made me smile. It was one of my first lessons in being Mrs. Harrington. At that time, I’d seen so much potential. Funny, I shouldn’t have. Perhaps there was a time I’d been as positive as my sister. Leaning back against the plush leather chair I huffed. No, that had never been the case.
My purse buzzed and I pulled out my phone. There were three text messages. The first was from Brody:
“I’M WORRIED ABOUT YOU. WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU OK?”
I grinned as I replied:
“IN YOUR OFFICE. IN THE FISHBOWL.”
The second was from Stewart.
“NOT ANSWERING YOUR PHONE? VERY MATURE. COME HOME NOW!”
My grin quickly disappeared. He may have the power to make me participate in his sick-assed fantasies, but never during our marriage had he had the ability to control my comings and goings.
“I DIDN’T TURN OFF MY RINGER. I MUST NOT HAVE HEARD IT. I WILL BE HOME… LATER.”
The final message was from my sister Valerie.
“I JUST GOT A CALL FROM STEWART. WERE YOU PLANNING ON COMING TO SEE ME? I’D LOVE TO HANG OUT, BUT I’M ON CALL TONIGHT. TOMORROW?”
I sighed. I’d find something else to do. All I knew was that I didn’t plan to be home until Stewart was amply medicated and sound asleep.
“LET ME CHECK. TOMORROW MIGHT WORK.”
As I finished my last text the door opened. The young paralegal, probably about my age, in her late twenties, entered. I didn’t recognize her, but then again, young women working for Parker Craven came and went with some regularity.
“Mrs. Harrington,” she said with a tight smile. “What can I do for you?”
Trish came in the open door and set my cup of coffee on the table. After she left us alone, I replied, “Maggie, I presume?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I would like to see a contract that Mr. Craven prepared for my husband and me before our marriage. I know it’s available: my husband told me he’d recently reviewed it—yesterday, I believe. He recommended that I also review it.” The mention of Stewart seemed to dispel some tension. I remembered my recently washed face and removed my sunglasses. Obviously feigning a smile I went on, “I’m sorry I didn’t call first. As you can see, I’m not truly prepared to be out. It’s just that with his health… well, Stewart wanted me to do this right away. So here I am.”
Her shoulders relaxed. “Yes, I’m so sorry about your husband. I was worried because Mr. Craven is currently with a client, but if Mr. Harrington sent you here…”
“He did. I’d recommend that you call, but with the medication, he’s probably asleep right now. That was why I wanted to do as he asked before he woke again.”
Her light brown eyes glowed. “Of course. Let me get it for you. I haven’t sent the contract back to the filing room yet. It’s on my desk.”
I dramatically massaged my forehead. “Thank you again. I hope this doesn’t put you out.”
She shook her head. “Not at all. You stay and review as long as you need. Anything to help Mr. Harrington in his hour of need.”
I managed a smile, with my jaws clenched tightly together. It was the best I could do.
A few minutes later, I was alone with my coffee and the document. Why was he truly reviewing this? Was there something I missed ten years ago? Hell, undoubtedly I missed something. At eighteen I had no idea what all the clauses and addendums meant. It wasn’t until he later explained that I realized I’d signed a legal document with the devil himself.
I began to read:
This agreement is hereby entered into willingly and without coercion between Stewart Allen Harrington, hereinafter referred to as Mr. Harrington, and Victoria Ann Conway, hereinafter referred to as Ms. Conway. Mr. Harrington and Ms. Conway hereby agree on May…
The terms of this binding agreement between Mr. Harrington and Ms. Conway are as follows:
1. Mr. Harrington and Ms. Conway agree that all that occurs under the terms of this contract are confidential and consensual.
The door opened. Expecting Maggie or even Trish, I turned impatiently. Parker Craven’s dark glare bore into mine as he entered, a cloud of heavy cologne hanging around him. The realization of his afternoon whereabouts paralyzed my movement until I straightened my neck and returned his stare.
“Victoria, what are you doing?”
The tips of my lips moved slowly upward. There was no way it reached my eyes. Loathing was all I could feel. The rush of blood that filled my ears and eyes narrowed the scene to a tunnel. No one else existed. I felt his sweaty hands on my skin. I couldn’t allow him to see my hatred. It was my fuel, my energy to carry on.
Refusing to show him my reaction, I opened my eyes wide, and said, “Parker, nice of you to tend to me personally. Your assistant said that you were with a client.”
He looked down at the document. “I asked you a question.”
“Yes, you did. I’m reviewing the contract that Stewart and I signed.”
“Why?”
I lifted my brows innocently. “Because he told me to. After all, he said he’d reviewed it with you and I should do the same. Didn’t he tell you?”
“He told you that? When?”
My teeth ached from clenching. “Why, it was this afternoon.”
He inhaled deeply. “This afternoon. He told you that this afternoon?”
“Am I stuttering?”
He glared in my direction. Before he could respond, I softened my tone. “Oh, Parker, sometimes he doesn’t know exactly what he’s saying. I’m very concerned about the decisions he’s making. Why, just this afternoon, I was with him at home and he told me that you’d been to the apartment. I’m sorry I missed you.”
Parker Craven reached for the document. “I don’t know what you think you’re—”
I slapped my palm on the pages. The clap echoed throughout the small room as my eyes bore into him. “Mr. Craven, I believe that you and your firm have been hired by my husband and me. If you want that arrangement to continue in the foreseeable future, you will not attempt to stop me from seeing documents that pertain to me: this or any other.”
“I can’t allow this without Stewart’s permission.”
My grin widened. “Do you not believe that he sent me?”
“That he sent you this afternoon? No.”
I leaned back, still holding the document. “Why? Why would you doubt me?”
“Mrs. Harrington? Oh, Parker.” Brody said, opening the door and interrupting the palpable confrontation. Looking from Parker, to me, and back, Brody continued, “Maggie mentioned that Mrs. Harrington came by and needed assistance. I thought you were with another client.” Brody motioned toward the door. “If you need to get back to your other client, I’d be happy to help Mrs. Harrington.”
Parker narrowed his gaze. “Brody, this is a delicate matter between Mr. and Mrs. Harrington. I believe it would be better if—”
“Thank you, Mr. Phillips. I believe my husband has put his trust in you and I will too. Now, run along, Parker. I’m sure you have catching up to do. I hear you’ve been out of the office.”
I’m not sure if the senior partner had ever been told to run along. But by the crimson seeping from his cheeks to his ears, he wasn’t happy about it at this moment. Without a word, he left the room and Brody gently closed the door.
In a hushed tone, he asked, “What are you doing? What did I walk in on?”
“Brody, can you make a copy of this for me?”
“I suppose.”
“Do that. Then you and I can go through it with a fine-tooth comb.”