IT’S BEEN SIX MONTHS SINCE I slept with Gareth Harris. Since that one, shining, life-altering moment of pleasure, I have moved to a little place called Hell.
It’s hot in Hell. And cold. Hot and cold. Not warm. Not simmering. Not even room temperature. Just all hot or all cold. That is how my life has been the past several months of dealing with lawyers and Cal…and Cal’s mother.
Now I find myself staring across the boardroom table at them, finally ready to sign the documents for my new life as a part-time mom.
Callum’s mother, Margaret, sits dutifully beside him with her tiny hands in her tiny lap. The pair of them look like strangers to me. Sure I recognise Margaret’s blonde-dyed bob and her affection for beige draped fashion. And Cal sits there with the same smug look on his face, wearing a suit he probably doesn’t remember I bought for him. But other than slight facial recognition, I don’t know this family at all.
I was married to Cal for six years. We lived together in Chicago for three years, then Manchester for another three. I drove Sophia out to the Lake District to see Margaret every Sunday. I’ve never particularly cared for Margaret, though. She’s posh and prim and likes to make backhanded comments about my clothing selection every time I see her. To say she’s not a fan of mine is a huge understatement. But, miraculously, this divorce has made her impression of me even worse. Now she stares back at me like I’m a disgruntled member of her staff.
My how quickly things have changed.
Cal’s lawyer speaks first while pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher in front of him. “With Margaret Coleridge’s terminal illness, my client is requiring a fifty-fifty custody split. One week on and one week off with every Sunday being dedicated to a visit with Margaret in the Lake District regardless of whose week it is.”
I want to scoff. I want to scream. I want to cry. Cal’s mother has lung cancer. A cancer she could fight but opted not to because she doesn’t want to lose her hair. That’s why we moved to England in the first place. Because Cal’s mother is dying. Because Cal wanted to be near her for her final months. Here we sit, three years later, and the woman is still alive and still controlling all of us.
My lawyer leans over and whispers into my ear. “I know this hurts. Just remember that Sophia’s inheritance is contingent on this, and it’s all temporary.” Translation: Once the seemingly immortal Margaret finally does kick the bucket, we can attempt to renegotiate the custody agreement.
My divorce from Cal has taken six months to finalise because I refused to agree to the true fifty-fifty split. I wanted Cal to take every other weekend like most absentee fathers, but his mother was in his ear. When she threatened to take Sophia’s trust fund away, it took ten billable hours for my lawyer to get me to submit.
Money is a horrible reason to agree to these terms, but I know what it’s like to work a job that isn’t your true passion. Ultimately, the trust fund will give Sophia opportunities that I never had. It will give her control of her own life. Something I still don’t freaking have.
Cal’s lawyer takes a sip of water and continues, “Callum Coleridge will maintain residence at the Coleridge Estate on Rossmill Lane—”
My lawyer interjects, “And my client has secured a residence a few blocks over on Weygates Drive. She is renting the guest house to her business partner, who has cleared all background checks as you requested.”
When Margaret’s mouth pinches a fraction of an inch more, it takes everything I have not to jump across the table and claw her eyes out. What no one is saying is that I had to lease out the guest house because it was the only way I could afford to live in the same area as my child. Granted, Freya is a friend, not just a colleague. And the fact that my home has a guest house means it’s by no means a shack.
But this is what it takes. Back when I signed the prenup with Cal, I didn’t want or need his money. My mother yelled at me for not negotiating for something, and now I realise she was right. Our move to Manchester put us in a neighbourhood and a lifestyle very different from what we had in Chicago. Since I refuse to be more than a stone’s throw away from Sophia, I’m doing whatever it takes to make her life as unaffected as possible.
My lawyer continues, “And you still agree that Ms. Montgomery will be first on the call list for any emergencies.”
Cal’s lawyer leans in to whisper in his ear. The two nod before he replies, “That is correct.”
Margaret clears her throat and Cal puts a worried arm around her. “Do you need some water, Mother?”
She nods and he hurries to pour her a glass, sloshing some on the table nervously as he does.
Where was this person when Sophia was sick? Why wasn’t he this devoted during our times at the hospitals? Is it the inheritance he will receive when she finally dies that makes him oh-so attentive? If I had money, would he have cared more about Sophia’s well-being? Does Margaret realise how uninvolved her son was during all those dark months we spent in and out of hospitals?
I bite my tongue as the lawyer moves on even though all I want to do is cry over the thought of being apart from Sophia for seven days straight. This entire situation is inhumane. It’s indecent. This is not how a family is supposed to be. We should have access to each other whenever we want. Not only on our designated days.
“Very well then,” Cal’s lawyer states. “I believe we’re settled on all the other terms. All we need to do is sign.”
My lawyer pushes the contract over to me, the yellow tabs sticking out everywhere I need to sign right below Callum’s name. A glorified contract of my life, all laid out in black and white with me on the bottom, as usual.
My hand trembles as I sign away my rights as a full-time mother. I follow orders from the men in this room, wishing for a time machine so I could go back and make this all go away. But no. Those days are over. With money comes power. Until I have one, I can’t have the other.
Unless of course you’re Gareth Harris. He doesn’t seem to desire power the way Callum does. He seems to want to give up the power. The control. He doesn’t want to pick his own clothes and bark orders like so many other wealthy people.
He enjoys being controlled.
I’m forced to close my eyes in a vain attempt to stop the memory of the night I experienced with him. It was the last moment I had any true pleasure in my life. I have no idea what came over me. What we did was insane. It was irrational. It was unfathomable. It was perfection.
For the past six months, I’ve been avoiding Gareth and telling myself I didn’t love every second of having control over such a strong man. I didn’t love how my nails bit into his muscular flesh. I hated the tone of his voice when he followed my orders. Because if I allow myself to recall how turned on I was when he knelt in front of me and gave himself to me completely, my entire body would begin to tremble.
What’s ten times more terrifying isn’t the strange sexual experience we shared. It wasn’t just about fucking one person to forget another. It was the fact that in one of the darkest moments in my life, Gareth had the ability to reach inside of my body and prop me back up on my feet. He stabilised me at a time I wanted to simply crumble to the floor.
Having that kind of connection with a person was something I’d never experienced. And to have a man put his needs behind mine was definitely a first. I’d give anything to have that sense of strength once again.