Jenny
Lincoln was the kind of guy every girl in my high school tripped over themselves - and each other - to get a smile from. The obnoxiously good-looking guy who had a slight bad boy vibe, but also somehow managed to have a heart of gold as well. They were the unicorns of the hot guy world. And I had one in my living room, his back to me, carefully inspecting the giant Christmas tree that was sure to be taken down in a few more days.
There were rules about Christmas trees in this household.
They had to be enormous, lit with only solid white lights, and topped with silver and gold ornaments. The boxes beautifully wrapped beneath were as fake as the spirit we pretended to have - empty inside.
It always made me miss the garish tree of my childhood - full of solid and blinking colored lights, kooky ornaments that in no way matched, tinsel tossed on the ends to make the tree dance. At least that was the phrase my mother used.
Teddy likely didn't even know what tinsel was. And Bertram would likely have a conniption at hearing me say I wanted to use some.
I didn't spend much time in the living room. It felt cold to me. Living rooms were supposed to be soft, welcoming, a place to rest, put your feet up. Except the only acceptable place to put your feet up in this house was in bed.
The architecture was great - ultra high vaulted ceilings with intricate white inlays. Floor-to-ceiling windows flanked the stone fireplace and took up the entire rightmost wall. The center of the room had two long tufted sofas facing each other with a low coffee table between them.
White.
The couches were white.
I was paranoid even to sit on one.
I should have shown him to the great room. The furniture was a bit more cozy. And there was a television there that came out of a cabinet with the click of a button.
But years of hosting taught me to bring guests into the library or the formal living room. The great room was for family. Or overflow if a party was very large.
"While it takes away the fun of trimming the tree, these pre-lit ones really do make sure there isn't a single bald spot, huh?" he asked, turning back to me, wincing a bit, making me painfully aware of my face, my clothes, my general not-put-togetherness. "How's your throat feeling? Been a while since I've been choked out, but I remember that broken-glass feeling."
Drinking my tea had been painful. I hadn't even attempted the cookies that I knew to be rough and crumbly. "So long as I'm not eating, it's not so bad."
"No concussion or anything?"
"No. Just a bit of a headache. This wasn't too bad."
"Baby, this is bad. I don't know what you've been through to think otherwise, but a man doing this to you, this is bad," he told me, keeping his voice low. Like maybe Smith had warned him about the way the staff eavesdropped.
"That's... it's..."
"Not something you want to get into with some schmuck off the street," he said, but did so with a smile to ease the insult he hurled at himself. "So, you have a cook, I hear."
"She will happily cook for you. Just flash that smile at her."
"You don't want to join me?"
"I'm supposed to..."
"Ah, yes," he agreed, nodding. "Right. You want me to sneak you something, or are you holding out for your junk food haul later?"
"After years of carefully prepared, healthy, small-portioned meals, I am looking forward to eating a whole bag of potato chips."
"Totally understand. Go rest. Be a grieving widow. I'll go charm your kitchen staff."
He actually sent me a wink before swaggering off to do, I was sure, exactly as promised.
I let myself back into my bedroom, looking at the bed with distaste. The sheets still smelled like Teddy. Once the staff was gone for the day, I was going to strip the bed myself, wash everything, and put it all back on so no one suspected anything. I imagined a normal grieving woman would want her sheets to smell like her late husband.
As I sat there, flipping through endless options on TV - so many that I was having trouble zeroing in on anything, I wondered what would happen, what could happen the day I was finally free.
When Teddy's memorial was done. When the suspicion was off me. When the scrutiny was maybe gone.
Could I fire the staff?
Could I change the furniture?
The paint colors?
Could I give up the house as a whole? Claim that I couldn't stop seeing the 'worst night of my life' over and over.
People would understand that. No one would find it suspect.
Maybe I could get a little place of my own, fill it with things that I loved, make some money of my own. I was pretty sure that, eventually, our fortune could be mine. It likely wasn't the sum it looked like from the outside. I didn't have access to the books, just a Platinum card that I could use for basic things like gas, lunch or drinks at the club, just life things. I wasn't given a limit, but my life didn't allow for much spending. My world was small. My clothes were chosen for me.
If I had to place a guess, I would say our account - if my name was even on it, that is - had about maybe two. Three at most. Million, of course. And the girl who grew up in a house with wheels that was third-hand by the time my parents moved into it shocked back at that, but the woman who brushed shoulders with other wives who talked in hushed voices - though really wanted to be heard - about the five million they spent on a new yacht, the eight on a vacation home, knew that two was a fair sum, but not exorbitantly rich. If I lived a modest lifestyle of fifty-thousand - or less - a year, I could go forty years without even needing to work at all on that.
But that was assuming I got the money.
That wasn't factoring in things like paying for a new home - since I was pretty sure Bertram would never let me sell this place.
I would have to do something.
Hell, I would want to do something.
What, I had no idea.
I hadn't been given much time to think about my future before Teddy came in and steered it how he wanted.
I didn't get to think of college majors or even trade school types.
I just went from high school girl to socialite wife in a matter of months.
There was a knock at my door, snapping me out of my swirling thoughts, making my gaze move to the clock on the cable box.
How did it get to be evening already?
"Missus?" Maritza called, peeking her head in, taking in me in the bed. "Just wanted to let you know we were leaving. Lydia left some dinner on the stove in case you are hungry. I think Smith is relieving that pretty boy right now as well."
"Thank you, Maritza."
"Of course, missus. Get your rest. We hope you'll be feeling better in the morning."
Feeling better.
What an odd thing to say.
But she was gone.
And I wasn't really the type to question her anyway. Too many years. Too much training. My tongue didn't know how to find accusatory words.
I took a moment to check my face and hair in the bathroom, choosing not to think about why I was doing so, then made my way down the stairs to find Smith already standing in the kitchen, lifting the lid off whatever was on the stove.
"What is it?" I asked, watching as he half-turned his head toward me.
"Inedible," he decided, making an unexpected laugh/snort escape me.
"That sounds about right."
"How do people get paid to steam three sprigs of asparagus and boil a pathetic piece of chicken, drizzle it with some yellow crap on it, and call it a meal?"
"It was Teddy's instructions. To, ah, keep me thin," I admitted, not knowing why I was unloading on him when I had kept it all to myself for so many years.
"You're shitting me." He almost seemed, I don't know, outraged. For me.
"there were... many rules about our marriage."
"For you," he specified.
"Yes, for me."
"Did he force you onto a scale every week or some shit?"
"Not every week. Only when he suspected I was getting bigger."
"Jesus Christ. And if you did. Get bigger," he clarified. "What then? Did he force you to go on a hunger strike?"
"He gave me a week to get back to where I was."
"Or?"
"I never failed," I admitted, feeling almost ashamed of myself. For never having a spine enough to say no. Enough guts to form a rebellion.
"Jenny..." he started, then trailed off, shaking his head. "You deserve every bit of this," he said instead of whatever he was going to originally, waving a hand to the counter behind him where half a dozen reusable bags were situated.
Reusable bags.
Smith was the kind of man who kept reusable bags in his car for impromptu shopping trips. That was... an interesting little fact to learn.
I found it charming.
"I got everything you requested. And more."
"I want to toss this, but it would probably be good for the staff to think you're simply not eating. You can stash some of the junk in the guest room with me."
"Sounds like a plan," I agreed, moving over toward the bags, slowly taking the contents out, spreading them over the counter.
Chips - plain, sour cream & onion, Fritos, Doritos. More candy bars. Sweets - Devil Dogs, Yodels, Twinkies.
"I haven't had a Twinkie since... I was maybe fifteen."
"You're overdue then," he said with a genuine smile as he took the box, ripping the end open, and handing me a spongy yellow cake in a crinkly wrapper.
"Do you eat like this?"
"On a day-to-day basis?" he asked, reaching for a Twinkie himself. Not, I didn't think, because he actually had a sudden craving, but because he wanted me to feel more comfortable eating one. "No. Many nights, we order in at the office. Otherwise, I will throw something together."
"Like... cook? Or make a sandwich?"
"Either."
"I never learned."
"To cook?" he clarified.
"Yeah. My parents' idea of cooking was to take something from a can and throw it into a microwave. And I went right from them to," I stopped, waving a hand out.
"It's a good skill to have. It's nice to be able to depend on yourself. You can learn eventually."
"Did you hear anything today?"
"I watched the senator's press conference. Did you catch it?"
"No. Should I have?"
"I think it's best you avoid the news as a whole right now. But the Cliffs-notes is - he is using this to push a more strict sentencing for violent criminals, more use of capital punishment, stronger rights to use Castle Law."
"He's using his son's death as a political angle." It was half a question, half a declaration.
"Yeah. He's a prince among men. The other news cycles are just saying it's a tragedy, the man is still on the run, nothing to worry about. I think they are going to take away the rent-a-cop tomorrow. You might want to prepare yourself for visitors now. Your social circle will want to get inside here."
"The curiosity is morbid."
"Yes. And predictable," he agreed. "Your best bet is to just... get teary-eyed if they press. The less you repeat things, the better. You want to make sure nothing ever changes. You remember that game in elementary school where one person repeats a phrase to another, then the other to the next, so on and so forth until the end where the sentence didn't even resemble the original one. You don't need it getting around that Sandy Silverspoon said she has it on good, personal information that you said that the man had blue eyes or some shit, and some innocent guy gets locked up."
"Right," I agreed, nodding as the Twinkie in my mouth started to melt without any actual chewing on my part. "Keep things vague."
"Except with the cops, yes. Vague is best. And if anyone is particularly pushy, go ahead and be dramatic. Go to stand and get faint. Start getting upset. Any excuse for the staff to step in and shoo the guests out. Which they will be happy to do because they want to seem important right now."
"I wish we could keep them out a while longer. I mean, not to sound whiny. Poor little rich girl, right?"
"I think we both know that you don't fit that trope. That this lifestyle has cost you dearly. I don't envy you having to deal with these people. But one visit where they get nothing will be enough to discourage them from coming back again. They will just walk away with a 'Poor Jenny' story and move on to the next scandal. I can't imagine they are hard to find from the amount of business we get from this town. What?"
"You don't think any of these women will be contacts you've worked with before, do you? People who might know what Quinton Baird & Associates really does?"
His uncertain face didn't exactly inspire confidence.
"To be safe, when the bell rings, I will make myself scarce, but keep an eye. If no faces are familiar, if you want, I can show myself. Or if you want to handle this all yourself, that is fine too. I will just stay within earshot in case anyone won't take a hint. I can always invent some kind of emergency. Just don't drop our name. Say you hired a Mr. Smith and be done with it. I doubt they'd press beyond that."
That was true.
As a whole, the women in my circle would never be called the brightest bulbs. They were sly, gossipy, and vapid, pretending their charitable works were anything other than social gatherings to promote themselves as such good people.
There were maybe two women in the whole of Navesink Bank's upper crust that I thought were genuine. One was somewhat shunned by everyone else because while she was very successful, she married a tattoo artist. The other was single. And, for some reason, that was a problem for the rest of the women.
Maybe they thought she'd steal their husbands. Of all the ridiculous notions. If she had a fortune of her own, why on Earth would she try to steal someone else's husband? That was what destitute, desperate women did. Hell, there were rumors going around that at least two of the ladies got their husbands that very way.
Young and pretty was a commodity.
Young, pretty, and independent, that didn't compute.
I wondered if I would be viewed differently because of my singleness. Or were widows different? Was I not young enough to be a threat anymore?
Ugh, why did it even matter?
I had no plans on ever marrying again, ever giving even a small chunk of my life over to anyone else ever again.
I just wanted a nice, quiet life of my own.
"So, are you going to show me?"
"To your room? I'm a terrible host," I said, knee-jerk, ingrained.
"Jenny, no," he said, shaking his head almost sadly. "I know where the guest room is. And you don't need to act like a host around me. I can find my way around, make my own coffee. I'm staff, for all intents and purposes. I meant are you going to show me the clay jewelry?"
"You don't have to pretend to be interested. I really appreciate you doing it, but..."
"I wouldn't bring it up if I wasn't interested, sweetheart. I'm curious."
"Okay. Then, yeah," I said, smiling because it meant more than maybe it should have that he was interested at all. In this tiny little thing that was mine and mine alone. "Let's go then."
"Bring it," he said when I went to put down the bag of chips and Coke I had just reached for.
I didn't, tea aside, eat in the other rooms of the house. I had this former-poor-girl-guilt about making anyone do any extra clean up because of me.
But just this once, I guess I could make an exception. I grabbed the sour cream & onion and coke and led him upstairs, down the hall opposite the one that would lead to the master suite, and into the little, girly guest room with a full-size bed covered in all white, a delicate, gently curved white nightstand, and a coral pink armchair where I would often sit in the room with walls that were barely, just barely pink. If you pulled back the comforter, you'd find that the white sheets had a sweet little pink peony pattern on it.
"How do you do crafts in here?" he asked, looking at the plush off-white carpet, the lack of empty surfaces.
I walked over to the closet, sliding the doors open, revealing a mostly empty space save for the two plastic containers in one corner, a small row of decorative pink boxes on a top shelf, and an oversized fold-up table meant for doing puzzles.
"So, every time you want to work on something, you have to drag everything out? In a house this big, you couldn't just have one room all to yourself to have a few worktables and organization?"
"It sounds reasonable to ask that, but I wasn't even allowed to keep an African Violet I picked up at a store. How would he explain to his friends that his wife enjoyed making silly little clay earrings?" I asked, taking out one of the decorative boxes. All of them were almost full of finished products. The plastic containers were for supplies.
I reached for the table, but Smith was there before I was, pulling it out, opening it up for me to place the box down.
I did, then opened the lid, then took a step back, trying desperately to gauge his reaction to the contents.
Everything was carefully organized - each set of earrings stuck through holes in little pieces of cardboard squares that closely resembled the kind that I used to see in department stores back when it was acceptable for me to shop in them.
"Are these pig noses?" he asked, reaching for a set of studs with pink sideways ovals with nostrils.
"Ah, yeah," I said, feeling my cheeks heat, my pulse quicken, suddenly feeling very foolish to have ever found a sense of pride in my silly tinkering.
"Can I buy these off of you?" he asked, and I was pretty sure I blacked out from utter shock for a second. "Jenny?" he asked when I didn't answer.
"You want to buy the pig studs?"
"Miller... she works at the office. She likes pigs. Has a little collection of statues of them. She'd dig these. I can sock them away for her birthday."
My heart, beaten down for years into a shape unrecognizable, deflated from being pricked so many times, swelled, found its true form again.
Did he really think they were good enough to actually pay for? Could other people maybe feel the same?
"Take them," I told him, giving him a grateful smile. "I have so many boxes of them."
"These are great," he said, reaching for a different pair of studs - a set of succulents that took hours to get just right the first time I tried to make a set. "They almost look real. Have you ever thought of selling them? Stupid question," he said, shaking his head at himself. "If you couldn't have a plant or gain a pound, I doubt you'd have been allowed to open a shop on that website. With all the craft shit..."
"Etsy," I clarified.
"Yeah, that one. You could do something with these instead of hoarding them in boxes. Get a good camera, take some pictures, upload them. What the fuck, y'know? You never know."
He made it sound so possible.
And, well, maybe it was.
I mean, not right now. Not this soon. That wouldn't look right - the widow who suddenly opened a business a day or two after her husband was killed.
But in a few weeks... a few months. Claim to others that it was a way to keep my mind occupied, that it felt good to be productive. It could work. Even if my so-called socialite friends would totally look down on jewelry that didn't sparkle and come in a little green-blue box.
But who cared what they thought?
"Maybe I will give that a try," I said, feeling like it was only real if it was heard by someone else. "You know, after things calm down around here."
"I think that would be really good for you. Get something of your own going. And you can totally turn this room - or any other room - into a genuine workspace if you want to," he reminded me, like he knew I needed the reminder, that I had been so trained over the years that it didn't even occur to me that I could make changes, that I could take the reins.
"If I stay here," I said, tucking the rest of the earrings away, putting them back in the closet on their shelf, promising myself it wasn't for forever, that I would find Teddy's good camera, take pictures, open an Etsy shop, at least try. Even if I failed. Failing at something I did totally for me was better, I believed, than winning at things that meant nothing.
"You'd like to leave?"
"I know. It's a beautiful house. It's just... I can't think of a single happy memory here," I admitted, looking down at my feet.
"Would you stay in the area?"
"I like Navesink Bank," I admitted. "But I think I would move, um, closer..."
"You mean out of the uber-rich neighborhood," he guessed with a twinkle in his eyes - more green in this room. Each room was different. I really shouldn't have been noticing things like that.
"Yeah. Somewhere smaller. Where I wouldn't need a staff to upkeep it. Can put up colored Christmas lights. With tinsel."
"Do they even sell tinsel anymore?" Smith asked, but his eyes were dancing, amused by my vision, the girl in her mansion wanting to move to a little house and fill it with gaudy silver strips of... I didn't even know what.
"I'm sure I could find it somewhere."
"I'm with you on the colored lights, though. Christmas should be full of color," he told me, folding up the table, slipping it away, closing the closet door. And the moment suddenly felt over.
That stab of disappointment in my belly, yeah, I was going to ignore that.
"You must be exhausted," I said as we moved back into the hallway. And, upon closer inspection, he looked it too. His eyes were small, his skin pale. He was going almost two full days without rest.
"I'm starting to feel it," he agreed as we moved down the stairs, making our way toward the kitchen where the junk food - and his luggage - was situated.
I'd missed it last time, sitting beside the back door - a giant sand-colored duffle bag under an identical - but more beaten up - green one. The telltale garment bags hanging over a chair must have been the suits Bertram told him to wear.
I generally liked a man in a suit - it was classic, gentlemanly. But there was something about Smith in his rugged clothes that appealed to me perhaps more than a suit. Though there was a part of me that definitely wanted to see how a body like his could hang a suit.
"I'm sorry about the suits," I told him when he caught me staring.
"Don't worry about it. You wouldn't believe how many clients demand it actually. Even just to be in their presence, not just for special events."
"It's ridiculous that we both have to wear a uniform just to live in my house."
"Speaking of," he said, latching onto that. "When you get dressed tomorrow, get dressed like you normally would. Do your hair. But don't put makeup on."
"Why?"
"A grieving widow might want some normalcy during her grief. Might get dressed to greet guests. But she wouldn't be ashamed of her cuts and bruises in this sort of situation."
"Right," I agreed, nodding. "Got it."
"Don't stress about it. It might be a long day, but you are in control now. Remember that."
"Thank you," I told him, giving him a nod I didn't quite feel.
Because, well, it didn't quite feel like I had control of anything yet. I was still walking on eggshells, hushing my voice in fear of being overheard by staff, worrying what my social circle - and especially Bertram - would think. Compared to all of that, washing my sheets before bed and hiding snack food wrappers deep in the garbage felt like a silly, childish illusion of freedom.
But at least my sheets smelled like fresh laundry detergent, fabric softener, and dryer sheets instead of Teddy's expensive cologne.
It was the first night in years I fell asleep quickly and easily.
It was Maritza who woke me, well after nine in the morning, knocking, then bringing in tea that she always refused to put sugar into. Even now.
"Missus, I think there might be some guests today," she told me, walking into my room while I was in it like she owned the place, something that she never would have done if Teddy were around, something that would have gotten her fired, in fact. But because it was me, spineless, tongue-tied me, she moved across the space, drawing open the dark blinds, letting in the harsh morning sun, made all the brighter by the fresh dusting of white snow covering everything that could be seen. "You might want to consider dressing. I know you have had a shock, but it is probably best to get back to life. Mr. Ericsson would have wanted that."
A shock.
Those didn't sound like her words. Those sounded like Bertram.
So she was in touch with him behind my back.
Lovely.
That was just lovely.
My teeth ached from how hard I had to grind them together to keep from snapping at her about how I could dress however I damn well pleased in my own house.
"Of course. If she hasn't already, could you tell Lydia to throw some baked goods in the oven? Madeleines or something."
Not that any of my guests would actually eat them. Everyone was keto now. Just like last year, everyone was gluten-free. And the year before that, it was all about paleo. Mediterranean. French. Cabbage soup.
Another year, another fad diet that would never last. It was exhausting to even think about it. Quite frankly, now that I could, I didn't care if I got as round as the goddamn sun.
"Yes, ma'am," Maritza said, moving out of the bedroom, leaving me alone to slide open my nightstand, unraveling the bag of chips I had mostly devoured the night before, taking a handful and eating it before I went about my morning routine.
Half an hour later, I was showered, hair dried, sitting at my vanity in off-white silk slacks and a fitted navy sweater, looking at my reflection, trying to tamp down the small swelling of insecurity.
The scratches had scabbed over. The one on my split lip had peeled off in my sleep, just leaving a small pink line through my lower lip. The bruising was the worst - stark blue against my skin that was paler than usual. Maybe due to worry and the diet of junk food. I had a brilliant black eye still. A purple smudge across one cheekbone. And then there were the fingerprint bruises at my throat. Luckily, the ones on my arm were covered by my sleeve.
It would take just a few swipes.
Just a couple dabs of the special makeup I kept in the drawer of my vanity meant for just this purpose. A couple dabs and swipes and no one would ever know there was a bruise there. I'd been doing it for years.
Who would have thought that that would be a hard habit to break?
Vanity had a way of making even rational people ridiculous.
I sighed, standing, slipping my feet into blue ballet flats, and making my way downstairs.
And almost fell down them.
My brain, not quite ready to accept my new reality, saw Teddy.
And my heart just about gave out.
"Whoa, you alright, sweetheart?" a male voice called.
Not Teddy.
Smith.
And, sure enough, the figure standing in the doorway to Teddy's library was not Teddy. It was Smith. In a black suit.
And, oh, yeah, it looked good on him. Better than I could have imagined. He had the perfect wide shoulders, solid center, and height for one. The tailoring was perfect too, the material good. His shirt underneath was slate. There was no tie and the topmost button was left open - a tiny rebellion I found myself liking more than I should have.
"Yeah, sorry. I just got a little light-headed," I fibbed.
"You haven't been eating anything of sustenance," he said as I got to the bottom step. "Let's get you some breakfast. I asked Lydia to make some eggs. Actually, I said I was going to, and she shooed me out of the kitchen saying it was her job. We'll have her throw some extra on for you."
So we did.
And I insisted he eat in the dining room with me which got me looks of disapproval from Maritza and Lydia who clearly thought it was inappropriate, that he was staff and should eat in the kitchen.
But, just this once, I didn't care.
So we ate over-easy eggs with toast and bowls of fruit in stony, uncomfortable silence, both of us all-too-aware of Maritza constantly moving by the room to see if she could catch any snippet of conversation.
The bell rang when I was halfway through my fruit.
"So it begins," Smith said, piling his plates for Lydia to take when she rushed out of the kitchen with Maritza who was spraying air freshener around, grumbling about the house smelling like eggs.
"So it begins," I agreed with an utter lack of enthusiasm.
The next three hours were a blur of fake condolences, prying questions, and pretend crying when I needed to steer the conversation away.
When one crowd left, another seemed to trickle in.
Until there was only a trio left, and two of them needed to get going for very important facial visits, leaving only Maren hanging behind.
Maren was the woman who none of the other women liked. Independently wealthy, unmarried, beautiful in a natural way.
She was nearly six feet with a Victoria Secret model body - long legs, thin waist, wider hips, big breasts, and a high butt. Her long chestnut hair cascaded carelessly down her back, framed her face full of sharp features and large brown eyes. She had never, in all my experience in seeing her, worn a stitch of makeup.
"I know this is wildly inappropriate of me," she said, stopping in the doorway of the living room, turning back to face me. "But good riddance."
"I'm sorry?" I asked, shocking back a bit from the harshness in her tone more so than the words themselves.
"See, Jenny. My mom used to get her ass handed to her by her ne'er do well husband. I know all about those bruises you hid so well under all that makeup. And I know how many women he hit on when your back was turned. So maybe this was a shock for you, but good fucking riddance. You can finally be free of that asshole. One little bit of advice, though, hon," she said, having turned to walk away, but spinning back, leaning closer. "Fire the staff. Change the passwords. If you really want control over your life, you need to pry the senator's grip off of the controls."
And with that, she was gone, her five-inch boots clicking all the way down the hall and entryway before the front door slammed, and I could vaguely hear her car rumbling to life.
"What's wrong?" Smith asked, appearing out of nowhere, having been mostly a ghost, just a shadow in the distance, for the past several hours.
"Maren knew that Teddy beat me," I heard myself whisper, moving further into the room in case some of the staff was around. With their rubber-soled shoes, it was almost impossible to hear them coming most of the time.
"Because of the whole Mallick thing?"
Ugh.
That name always felt like a gut punch, knocking out all my air, making guilt like I could never explain flood my system.
He'd saved me.
And he was rewarded by having his freedom taken away.
I had lied in court.
Under oath.
I'd go to hell for that whole situation, I knew it. It was my first-class ticket down into the underworld where the Devil himself would spend eternity making me suffer.
"Hey," Smith's voice called, sounding far away. It wasn't until his hand closed around my elbow that I seemed to shock back out of my own thoughts.
"Sorry. I'm just... not feeling great today," I admitted.
"Here, sit," he said, leading me by my elbow over to the couch, helping lower me down. "Is it because of Maren?" he asked.
"No. No. I was surprised she knew. But she was more... telling me I was free now. And told me to fire the staff and change the passwords because the senator still has his... hands on the controls of my life."
"I think I should look into Maren. It's not a name I recognize. What's her last name?"
"Banks. Maren Banks. She is independently wealthy. She's more on the outskirts of the social circles. Goes to the charity events because she genuinely wants to help, not to rub elbows."
"Interesting. Quin will want to know about her. Do you think she... suspects an..."
"No. No. She just was happy that I can take control of my life now."
"Aren't we all?" he said. And, what's more, he meant it. "And she is absolutely right. Soon. You just have to hold on a while longer. Then your life will be yours again."
But right then, it belonged to the wealthy upper echelon of Navesink Bank.
The next three days went almost exactly the same.
I dressed. Ate breakfast with Smith. Entertained guests until almost dinner time. Choked down some of Lydia's dinner, then said goodbye to the staff.
Them leaving was my favorite part of the day. Because Smith would order in Chinese or pizza. And we would eat out of the box or cartons right there in the family room in front of the TV, watching shows he recommended because I could never pick anything, commenting on things as we did so, occasionally just talking about life in general between episodes for long enough that bedtime came long before I wanted it to.
And he went off to his room.
And I went off to mine.
Each day became a torturously slow parade that eventually led to the perfect grand finale.
Time alone with Smith.
And the morning of New Year's Eve, I woke up, lying in bed with a new, unexpected, though not wholly unwelcome, thought.
I wonder what it would be like for him to kiss me at midnight.