Chapter 10 – Cut the Ties
No one greeted me when Hal dropped me at the front door. If I’d expected Sloan to be waiting with a snarl, I’d forgotten his style. He preferred to play it cool, aloof, much too busy for the childish behavior of his trophy wife. Then he’d strike for revenge once I’d forgotten I’d even done anything.
I hated him.
I slowly climbed the marble staircase to my room. Yes, we had separate rooms. This enormous house with a conservatory, a ballroom, and two formal dining areas—it was like something out of the fucking Sound of Music—had plenty of bedrooms, and my husband and I had only shared one for about two months when we moved here a year ago.
He’d complained it was too hot. He didn’t have enough room. He suggested we get a California king-sized bed, but it was too late. The damage had been done, and I just wanted my own space. He snored anyway.
Today my luggage would be delivered to my private suite on the east wing of the mansion. The staff would wait for me to unload it and sort my clothes between the dirty and clean. Laundry was sent to an outside service then returned pressed and folded. The housekeeper, Mrs. Widlow met me at the top of the stairs. Her sleek grey hair hung in a straight bob that never moved, and as always, she wore a pantsuit and matching scarf. Today the suit was puce, the scarf lavender.
“Did you have a nice trip, Mrs. Reynolds?” she said.
“It was very relaxing,” I answered. “And I’ve asked not to be called by that name any more.”
“Of course, ma’am,” she said.
Just like Hal.
They were Sloan’s staff, and like the rest, she didn’t give a shit what I said. Whatever Mr. Reynolds told them was law.
I continued making my way to my suite. The first time Sloan brought me here five years ago, when I was only twenty-six, everything about his huge mansion knocked my small-town socks off, from the grounds to the stables to the garage filled with all sorts of antique cars. Of course, at that time, it was still his father’s mansion.
Back then, the only thing more impressive to me than this house was that Sloan Reynolds, Princeton graduate, mogul, inheritor of his father’s export business, had taken an interest in me. I still hadn’t figured that puzzler out.
I was simply an ambitious marketing major based on the Carolina coast but participating in workshops at big-wig universities hoping to make bank by snagging some major clients. I was freelance, but in this digital age, I had dreams of managing the world from my hammock on the beach.
My future husband had been on campus that day delivering a check or having his butt kissed by some needy department chair. He’d spotted me making my pitch and invited me to lunch. He was older, but at the time, he was still sexy to me. He was experienced and worldly—rich, smooth, and in control. He took me to the best restaurants, ordered the best wines. The rest was history.
Five years as Mrs. Sloan Reynolds had left me very cynical. About everything.
The first months of our marriage were good—he was kind to me, and we enjoyed being together. Then slowly his interest faded. He seemed to enjoy my company less and less, and he started taking more and longer trips back to Baltimore.
When we relocated, his traveling increased. He said he had to take over his father’s schedule, meeting with investors and potential customers in far-off locations. I was never invited to join him, and I later found out why.
He’d asked me to put my marketing career on hold and take his mother’s place on her many local charity boards, auxiliaries, and civic associations. Of course, I agreed—anything to help with the transition. His father’s death changed everything.
So my marketing business dwindled, and I made few client contacts in the city. Instead, I did what the wives of the super-wealthy did. I attended meetings, had teas, cut ribbons. The only problem was, I didn’t want to give up my career. I didn’t want to be a lady who lunched. I didn’t even know how to play tennis.
I confess—I blamed myself a little for our marriage’s “failure to thrive,” as the counseling booklets called it. Sloan had swept me off my feet, and he had style. And drivers. And cache into all the best places. But apart from that, we had little in common. I told myself it didn’t matter. We would grow into those things.
The opposite happened.
And as if to hasten the decline, our sex life never got off the ground. When we did have intercourse, he at least seemed satisfied. He gasped and groaned and got off, and I sort of followed along. But his hands never drifted below my waist, he didn’t like blow jobs, didn’t give me head. We would have one disappointing moment, and then months would go by before we’d try again.
Eventually, I quit trying.
I was depressed as hell when I found the receipt in his pants pocket. He’d spent two thousand dollars on a Jessica Black. It only took a few Google searches for me to discover Ms. Black was a high-end call-girl.
He told me it meant nothing. He was having a crisis. He needed to “feel” something again. And after all, she was just a “faceless whore.” None of that mattered. I just wanted to be done with it. I wanted to go back to Wilmington and resume my career in marketing. I wanted to restart my freelance business, forget the whole marriage charade, and get back to what made me happy.
Six months had passed, and we’d tried counseling, therapy. I’d even talked to my mom, although I knew her advice before she offered it: All marriages hit rough patches, give it time. It had all been well and good until the night he decided he was tired of waiting for me to “get over it.”
Until the night he changed everything.
After that I never wanted to see him again. I filed for divorce two weeks ago—the week before Elaine had taken me to Scottsdale for our spa retreat. I hadn’t had a chance to tell anyone but her before we left. I hadn’t even had a chance to plan my exit strategy.
As it was, I still had to collect enough money for a deposit on my own place. I still had to decide how I would live—that is, unless I decided to come clean and move in with my mother until I got on my feet again. I wanted to save that option as the very last resort. I still had a few small marketing jobs in the works, and once those clients paid, I’d pack up and leave Baltimore.
Those were the details I was working out when I left for Scottsdale and met Derek.
Derek opened my eyes. He turned my body inside out, and then he set everything on fire. But at the same time, nothing had changed. Derek might’ve shown me I wasn’t to blame, that I could fall in love, that my life could get better. But before any of it could be realized, I had to finish here. I had to get back on my own two feet.
I was still unpacking my suitcase and pondering closure when my soon-to-be ex-husband found me. As I expected, he was not in an understanding mood.
He was ready to get to the bottom of my unannounced trip.