Chapter Twenty-One

Rose

 

Her name is Lesley, and she was perched on the front stoop of Finlay’s home when we arrived a bit before 6:00 p.m. Who is she? And why was Finlay excited to see her in the way he was? I saw the way his eyes lit up and his toothy smile beamed for all to see. Maybe an ex-girlfriend returned.

As my mother fastens the clasp of the forty-thousand-dollar diamond necklace she’s loaned me around my neck, I can’t seem to shake thoughts of who this Lesley might be. Maybe I should have stayed a bit longer to find out.

Turned by my mother’s hand, I take comfort in the brush of her long, manicured nails down my cheek. “You look stunning, Roselette.”

“Thank you, Mumma.”

“Sweetheart, you need to concentrate tonight, okay?”

“I will.”

“I know things are a little off-balance between you and Slade, but Daddy is really hoping you’ll be kindly to the Banters this evening. You don’t need me to tell you how important they are in this community and how important they are for us in our current predicament.”

“I know,” I whisper.

Her lips skim my forehead. “Good girl.”

“Mumma?”

“Yes.”

I pause. I know what I want to ask, but I’m not sure my mother will want to discuss it, so I don’t. “Nothing.”

“Turn around and let me have a good look at you.”

I do.

“There is nobody more beautiful than you, Roselette.”

“Mumma—”

“There’s not. You’re special. I knew it long before we came to be here.”

I’m disappointed by my mother’s declaration, mainly because I’m not an only child like Slade, and my mother has two other daughters. Parents shouldn’t play favourites, even though mine quite clearly do.

“Is Slade collecting you or are you meeting him at the venue?”

“He’s collecting me.”

“Well, it’s almost time. You better come downstairs.”

“In a moment, Mumma.”

Staring out the wide window in my bedroom, I search the pointed tips of the high fence separating our property from Finlay’s, and I can’t help being drawn into thoughts of the afternoon we shared together. It was enjoyable, soothing, and liberating. I wish every day was like it.

Removing a diamond pin from my dresser, I slide its metal prongs into the side of the up-do Franklin, our hairstylist, set into place upon my arrival home. He was crossed by the fact my hair was damp and knotted. I told him I’d been doing laps in the pool, even though it was untruthful.

Shifting a few steps, I lift the lid of the mahogany blanket box placed at the end of the bed where I hid the inappropriate clothing and shoes from today. My family do not need to find these items—what would they think? This isn’t clothing me or my sisters wear. It’s always dresses and skirts. Well, unless we are doing yoga or things of that nature. It dawns on me the clothing I wore over to Finlay’s is still where I discarded it, in his games room. Crap.

Slipping my phone out from inside the emerald-encrusted clutch on my comforter, I expose the Messenger screen and send a text to Finlay.

Me – Finlay, it’s Roselette. I’ve left my clothes at your house. Please don’t bring them over. I’ll collect them from you.

He replies immediately.

Finlay – Rose, I know this is your number. You don’t have to tell me who you are when messaging. I won’t bring them over. I wasn’t even aware they were here. Come around anytime.

Me – Thank you.

Finlay – If you like, you could come over now.

Me – I can’t, I have an event to attend. I’ll get them when I can.

Finlay – Come over after you get back. We’ll be drinking for a while.

Me – Drinking?

Finlay – It’s not a party.

Me – Okay. I’ll try and come over when I get home.

Finlay – Or we could go for another hike tomorrow and I’ll give them to you then.

Sitting on the edge of my bed with extra caution so as not to crease the satin of the dress Slade insisted I wear, I take a moment to think about what Finlay is proposing. I can’t, can I?

Me – I would enjoy another trip to the waterfall. Would 3 p.m. suit?

I reply without even realising I was doing such a thing.

Finlay – What about a morning walk, say around 8 a.m.?

Me – Okay.

Finlay – Good. I’ll see you then.

Me – Thank you. Have a good night.

Finlay – I am.

Lesley.

“Roselette, Mumma wants you to come down, please.” Maranda stands in my doorway with an emery board to her fingernails.

“Thank you. I’m coming now.”

“You look good.” She smiles.

“Thank you, Maranda.”

Slade stands in the living area when I make the top of the staircase. He’s in his usual fitted black suit—the only difference to his everyday attire is the emerald green tie he’s wearing. Slade always co-ordinates our outfits for important events.

“You are a beauty, Roselette,” he whispers in my ear when he wraps his arms around my waist.

The aroma of heavy cologne and expensive bath wash wafts from Slade’s skin. This is how he always smells, and the combination once made me swoon. Not now.

“Son, take care of my bubula, and have a lovely evening. I need to stay in tonight. I have other business to take care of. Please give my apologises for me, will you?”

Slade nods.

Dad is smiling like the cat who robbed the cream from another. I hate him for this. I hate him for making me feel responsible for our family’s future.

My father kisses me on the cheek, and then I’m led through the door by Slade’s hand gripping mine.

It’s going to be a long evening.

The banquet room at the country club is almost filled to full capacity when we enter. I look at the many faces I’ve grown up with or have known throughout my childhood, yet I feel as if I’m compacted in a room with a bunch of complete strangers.

“Roselette. You are exquisite.” George brushes his hand the length of my arm, and it takes every amount of strength I can conjure not to cringe in response. “Son.”

Slade promptly accepts his father’s free hand in a handshake. “Where’s Mother?” He looks for her, and so do I.

“Still in New York,” he frowns, taking a step back from me.

“Still in New York. I see.” Slade’s tone is sharp and harsh.

“Yes, Son. The ladies are working on some fundraising event. I shouldn’t indulge her extracurricular activities. Her place is in the home, but I felt she deserved this opportunity.”

“Roselette, you will never part from me to organise these events.” Slade’s almost domineering in his deliverance.

I smile. What else is there to do?

“Hopefully you’ll have better luck keeping your wife under your thumb, where she belongs.” George laughs.

I offer a forced giggle.

My arm is hooked by Slade’s as he leads me through the ballroom like a prized show pony, masterfully decorated in ribbons. My jaw aches from the constant smile I keep stretched across my face, and as I slyly let my pose slip momentarily to bring a second of relief, I realise I’ve spoken barely more than three words over the last couple of hours. My duty is to listen, not to indulge in speech. My duty is to be admired and tight-lipped—very rarely should I be heard. My duty is to support all ventures of my future husband. My life is dedicated to him. When did I let this become my life? And why did Slade change so much after I accepted his proposal to be his wife? He wasn’t always like this. When did things change?

“Can I please be excused? I need to use the ladies’ room.”

“Of course.” Slade skims his lips to my cheek before I slip away, ensuring I disappear with as little fuss as possible.

Standing with my hand perched over the faucet in the washrooms, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I don’t look like me.

The attendant’s reflection now joins mine.

“Leave me be.” I’m breathless.

“Are you okay?” She’s so youthful—much too young to be manning these facilities.

“Please. Just leave me be.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Closing my eyes, I will myself to return to the banquet room and to the side of my fiancé … I just can’t.

There are gasps as I rush through the kitchen before slipping out the exit. I couldn’t risk being seen. It seemed the only way for my escape, and I hope nobody says a word that they saw me.

Walking the long, lush grounds of the country club has me standing barefoot on one of the many well-manicured golf courses. It’s dark, apart from the small lights fixed into the turf. I want to go home—I need to get away from here.

I’m crying when I put my phone to my ear. It rings for what seems like an eternity before the line connects.

“Rose.”

There’s so much background noise, it’s difficult to hear. I cry harder.

“Shut up. I can’t hear.” There’s desperation in Finlay’s tone. “Hey. Why are you crying?”

“Can I ask a favour of you?” I’m trying to calm myself for fear he won’t understand what I’m saying.

“Yes.”

“Would you be able to come collect me?”

“Where are you?”

“The country club,” I sob.

“Okay. I’ll find a way.”

“Fin, I’m on one of the golfing greens, but I’m not sure which one.”

“Are you in danger?” His tone is filled with concern.

“No.”

“Stay where you are. I’ll find you.”

“Okay, I will.”

“What are you doing out here, Roselette?” Slade barks, causing me to jump.

“I can’t talk,” I quickly rush, lowering the phone from my ear before cupping it in my palm and sliding it behind my back as I turn. “Getting some fresh air.” The way Slade glares when I walk in his direction has my heart bucking in my chest. His gaze is malevolent, piercing my soul like a slither of sharp ice. It scares me. “I was overheated—that’s all.”

He approaches me slowly.

“I’m awfully sorry. I should have told you I was stepping out.”

“Have you been crying?” Slade’s jaw is tensed, and his body stiff.

“No,” I lie.

“What were you thinking, being out here in such a way? Where are your shoes?”

“I’m not feeling very well.”

“Where are your shoes?”

“I took them off. They are on the ground somewhere.”

“Roselette, you need to stop acting like a child and gather yourself. Headaches, tiredness, feeling under the weather … these excuses I’ve quite frankly had enough of hearing.”

“I know.” I try to discreetly slip my phone into the clutch I’m gripping onto, but misjudge the distance and gasp as it thuds to the ground between our feet.

“Were you talking to someone?”

“No,” I’m quick to refute.

Slade lowers to his knees, keeping his eyes turned upwards to mine.

“I … I ...”

“Bullshit,” he barks, standing once more, holding my phone.

“Please give me my phone.” I reach out my arm.

His laugh is filled with an air of sarcasm as his thumb brushes across the screen. “So, who were you were speaking to, Roselette?”

“Nobody.” I’m panicking.

Slade has been more possessive, even jealous of late.

“I don’t believe you. You know what, Roselette? I never thought I’d have to doubt your honesty like I am.”

“Slade, please.” I outstretch my hand and place it against his upper arm.

He jerks his body away.

“Finlay!” he spits. “Your call registry doesn’t lie, Roselette. That Crossley guy from next door, really?”

“There’s … there’s … nothing … I’ve nothing to …” I’m stuttering.

Slade shakes his head as he throws the phone against the turf. “You will never speak to him again, you understand?”

“Yes.” I’m shaking.

Clasping my wrist with a tight grip, Slade says, “You’re marrying me. You will not embarrass me any further with these silly games. You need to go back inside and act like my fucking fiancée. Smile. Pay attention to what people are saying instead of going off into some dreamland in your head.”

“I will.” I try desperately to hold in my tears.

Bringing his cheek to mine, Slade whispers, “You need to learn your place, and you need to mature into a lady who is deserving to be with a man like me. You will do as you’re told.”

“I will,” I cry out. “Please let me go. You’re hurting me.”

He launches his head backwards and yells, “And you’re not hurting me? First you run out of my condo, and now this. What has you acting so delirious? Well?”

“I’m so sorry.” It seems the only answer he could be searching for in this situation. “Please, can you let go of my wrist? It’s really hurting.”

He doesn’t. He collects my other wrist in a similar hold, and with his control, my clutch falls free from my grasp.

“Please, Slade.”

He squeezes excessively. “Get inside. Do it now!” he bellows, throwing my arms down towards my thighs.

Bobbing my head, I stumble towards the clubhouse until I stop with my back toward Slade.

“I have your shit. I found your fucking shoes too. Move.” He’s beyond mad, and the way he’s shouting tells me so.

Panic scatters like an interrupted ants’ nest through my veins. I can’t breathe. I can’t move. I’m scared.

“Roselette, I won’t tell you again. MOVE!”

He’s drawing closer. I can sense his presence, yet I stay frozen.

“No.” I barely roll this single word from my tongue.

Suddenly, I’m turned with force at his hand. “What did you just say to me?”

“I can’t go in there.”

His glare is ice-cold, and as he holds my face either side of my jaw, I pant with worry. “Get inside.” Spittle lands against my lips.

“No.” It’s barely audible.

“Let her fucking go.” It’s a loud booming instruction coming from behind us. “Slade, I swear if you don’t let her go—”

“What? You’ll do what?” Slade yanks my head as he releases his hold before twisting on his heel. “What, Finlay?”

“I’ll beat the living daylights out of you, you arsehole.” Finlay’s chest is puffed out as he marches towards Slade.

“Who? You and your four-man army? It’s laughable, really. You’re nothing short of a joke, Finlay. Go back to the trash heap you came from.”

“Let’s see you say this when I break your jaw.”

“Stop!” I shout.

“Shut up, Roselette.” Slade drops my belongings and throws his arms into the air.

“Don’t speak to her like that. Who the hell do you think you are, you rich prick?” Finlay is only a fist throw away from Slade, and my heart skips an entire beat before it tries to leap out of my mouth.

“Go on, hit me, Finlay. Prison is where you belong anyway,” Slade taunts him.

Watching Finlay lift his fists into the air, I scream, “Stop!” once more.

“There are plenty of honest witnesses who’ve come out to watch, Finlay, so go ahead and hit me, you arsehole.” Slade presses his chest forwards.

“Tank, don’t do it. He’s not worth a stint in the joint.” The voice is familiar, but I can’t place it or see which direction it is coming from.

“Son, walk away.”

George is also here. Where?

“Mr Crossley, you’ve outstayed your welcome. Take the company you’ve brought with you and remove yourself from this property, you hear me, son?”

There’s murder scripted to Finlay’s face. I’m scared he’s hearing not a word of what’s being said, so I rush forwards and latch onto his bicep. “Please,” I whisper.

“You’re not going anywhere, Roselette,” Slade commands with a forceful tone.

“Fin, please, let’s leave. Please, can we just leave?” I hope my gentle approach will make him see sense. I can’t be the reason he is jailed.

Finlay says not a word. He instead places his hand on top of mine before taking it in his hold and turning us away from Slade.

The eyes of many onlookers, people my family have called friends for years, bear shocked expressions that take my breath away.

My father is going to kill me.