Lucian and I look over the information Don faxed earlier that morning. It’s the name and address of the attorney who handled Wilton Madden’s will, as well as the contract Rose supposedly signed bequeathing her inheritance. In the brief time before she turned into a Stepford wife, she claimed to have no knowledge of having ever signed anything like that.

“How’s she doing?” Lucian asks, looking grave. I’d told him that evening about Rose’s strange reaction to my revelation, and as the days have passed, we’ve all grown more concerned.

“It’s bizarre and a little unsettling,” I admit. “On the surface, it’s almost as if nothing has happened. The difference is any affection between us is very impersonal. She hugs me when I get home and asks how my day was, but that’s it as far as contact goes. She chatters on about her day and the fucking weather, then goes to bed early—in the spare room. I spend the night walking the floor, wondering if she’s okay. Then tiptoeing into her room and checking on her a dozen times. It’s been a week, and when I look at her, there’s nothing there but blank space. Her walls are up, and they are taller than ever. What about at work? Has Lia gotten any reaction at all from her?”

Lucian shakes his head. “None. She says that she’s cheerful and upbeat there, but also distant at the same time. Apparently, she’s not even discussing our dick sizes, which Lia says is very alarming.”

I rub a hand down my face and grin for the first time in what feels like months. Then, just as quickly, I’m overwhelmed again. “You know, I’ve gone back and forth as to how to deal with this. A part of me feels I’m being selfish to want to force some reaction out of her. I mean, if this is how she can handle it without cutting, shouldn’t I leave it be? But then, I can’t stand the thought of the beautiful woman I know her to be hiding away from the world. Especially when in a state of distress. I want her to have the mother she always needed and to know that the people who raised, but never appreciated her are not her biological parents.”

“I don’t know, Max,” Lucian admits. “You’ve spoken to Joanna. What was her take on it?”

“She thinks I should gently confront her in a controlled environment like our home and see where it goes. She’s afraid that otherwise, one day Rose will crack and there may be no one around to deal with the potential fallout.”

“Then you talk to her tonight,” Lucian says, looking as nervous about the prospect as I feel. “After you do, though, Max, you need to watch her carefully. She won’t like it, and she may rage at you, but this is bigger than anything she’s ever dealt with before and we have no idea how she will react.”

“I know that,” I snap, then give him an apologetic look. I get to my feet, and as I have for the last week, I drive home with a heavy heart and a feeling of hopelessness. I feel her slipping away from me, and I don’t know how to stop it. Tonight, I fear I’ll poke a hornet’s nest that has been waiting for just such a moment to attack. I can only hope there’ll be survivors when it’s over.

---

The creepy smiling version of Rose with the empty eyes is putting dinner on the table when I arrive home. I take a moment to get my game face on, then ask pleasantly, “How was your day, dear?” Shit, I want to cringe. Dear? When have I ever called her that? It’s always baby, sweetheart, honey, or something along those lines. I’m turning into a Stepford husband as well.

“Very good,” she answers as if on autopilot. “And yours?”

“It fucking sucked just as the entire last week has,” I blurt out before I even know what’s happened.

She blinks at me like an owl trying to process my words. “I … what?” she stutters out.

I’m probably completely screwing this up, but she’s actually showing some reaction other than that hollow façade. So I press on. Moving close enough to where I’m invading her personal space, I add, “Yeah, having to watch you check out and act like a bad imitation of Martha Stewart hasn’t exactly been a picnic for me, cupcake. I know you’re all fucked up inside and are trying to hide from it, but that shit’s not gonna fly around here any longer. Starting tonight, we’re going to air things out. I’ll tell you exactly how I’m feeling, and I’d love nothing more than for you to return the favor.” When she opens her mouth, I quickly add, “And the word fine better not be a part of your vocabulary.” Her jaws snap shut so fast that I swear, I hear her teeth grinding together.

“But … dinner’s ready.” She points toward the pans on the stove. When I see mashed potatoes in one of them, I begin laughing. Of course, she would fix the blandest dish she could think of. No taste or color allowed in her world right now.

Continuing to push the envelope, I walk over and take the handle of the first pot and toss it in the trash. She gasps audibly behind me as I follow suit with the pot roast. Shit, that pan was hot, I think as I try not to wince. I lean against the counter and cross my ankles as I await her reaction. When she moves to the cabinet and begins surveying the contents, I fear I’ll have a stroke on the spot. Her walls are still holding, despite the shock value of the last few minutes. So I go with verbal communication next in hopes of jarring her a little more. “I’ll tell you what I’d really like for dinner. How about some communication followed by a side of emotion? Now, that’s something I could really sink my teeth into. Or do you plan to continue the Prozac Barbie imitation you’re so good at because I gotta tell you—”

“FUCK YOU!” she yells so suddenly that I jump. And then she begins throwing stuff in my direction. I duck as cans, boxes, and everything in between sails past my head or bounces off my arms. “Is this what you wanted, asshole?” she shrieks. Profanity spills from her lips in a non-stop torrent, and I hate to admit it, but I’m equal parts impressed, relieved, and a bit turned on. I block her air attack as best I can but make no move to stop her. She’s finally showing some emotion, and I’ll gladly take the black eye or whatever I end up with if it’ll help her process what’s happened.

She continues on longer than I would have imagined her capable of before sliding down the cabinet and collapsing limply to the floor. Then heartbreaking, wrenching sobs shake her small frame as she cries like she’ll never stop. It’s then that I throw caution to the wind and approach her. She fights me weakly as I attempt to pull her into my arms, but finally relents and allows me to cradle her against my chest like a child. I go straight to our bed where we’ve had some of our most important talks and simply let her purge the anguish from her soul. She weeps until I fear she’ll make herself sick. Then thankfully, the storm tapers into sniffles and then silence.

I have no idea what to expect now, so I continue to rub her back soothingly before finally asking, “What can I do to help you, baby?”

I’m afraid I’ll feel a knee to my balls at any moment, so I’m pleasantly surprised when she turns her head to my ear and whimpers, “Don’t let me go tonight, Max. I can’t be strong right now.”

Joanna had suggested non-confronting and gentle. Well, we all know how that panned out. But it worked. Literally smashing into her walls broke them down. Despite what she says, she is strong and resilient. But together … together we’re stronger. We can do this. I curl my body protectively around hers and begin rocking her. “I’ve got you, sweetheart—always.” She doesn’t say another word; she falls asleep, no doubt exhausted. I doze a few times, but jerk awake to make certain she’s still with me. My eyes are burning and my throat is dry as the first light of early morning begins filling the bedroom. Against all odds, we’ve made it through the night and she’s back in my arms. Today, I’ll begin the challenging task of making sure she stays there, no matter what battles I have to undertake.