Page 67

God, how could I have been so stupid?

How could I believe that a man like Vance Ashford was capable of even caring?

My body shakes with each breath, and somewhere beneath all the grief, humiliation, and the unbearable ache of having loved someone who could do this to me, one thought rises above everything else.

I can’t do this.

I won’t be that woman, smiling through the embarrassment while my husband parades his affairs in public as though they’re nothing more than an accessory to the life he’s built. I won’t stand beside him at charity galas and business dinners, dressed in something expensive he chose for me, while I pretend not to notice the women who hold his attention for too long. I won’t make excuses for him, or convince myself that his infidelity is something I can survive if I love him enough. I won’t keep lowering the bar, letting betrayal become something I expect, and indifference become something I’m grateful for.

I refuse to be one of those women who loses herself, piece by piece, concession by concession, until there is nothing left but the shell of someone who used to have a modicum of dignity.

I’ve already given him enough.

I drag myself up, my legs so unsteady that I have to hold onto the edge of the sofa to keep from falling again. My vision is blurred with tears that keep falling relentlessly. Every inch of me feels numb and painfully alive at the same time, every nerve screaming beneath my skin.

Stumbling back toward the bedroom, each step feels strangely detached from my body, as though I’m watching someone else move through the darkened penthouse.

When I reach the bedroom, I open the closet door with trembling hands. For a moment, I stand there, staring at the rows of clothes arranged inside. Silk. Cashmere. Designer labels. Garments he bought to spoil me with the finest money could buy. I reach into the closet and haphazardly pull them from the hangers. Not bothering to fold anything, I shove it into the Louis Vuitton weekender Vance bought me for a trip he was planning.

The bag catches on the doorframe, and I yank it free so hard I nearly fall out of the closet. After stuffing a few handfuls of clothes from the dresser into the bag, I zip it closed.

I catch my reflection in the mirror and hate the face of the woman staring back at me. I look wrecked, like someone who has just watched her entire life burn down. My eyes are red and swollen, my lips trembling despite the effort I make to keep them still. I swipe at my face with the back of my hand, smearing mascara over my cheek like war paint.

Reaching for my purse, it dawns on me that while I may have packed, I have no means to leave this apartment. Every credit card is connected to him, able to be traced, tracked, and cut off with a phone call. I can’t use them. The moment I do, Vance will know exactly where I am. And while he might not care about me, he’ll use every resource available to him to bring his property home.

I need some cash.

Carrying the weekender, I head to Vance’s office to retrieve the emergency stash he showed me when he was explaining that a man in his position needed enough liquid assets to disappear if something went wrong. At the time, I thought it was unnecessary. Now, I understand.

I move the frame and key in the code, almost laughing at the irony of the numbers. Our wedding date. Of all the combinations he could have chosen, he chose the day he married me. The safe door swings open, revealing stacks of cash, neatly arranged and bound together. I reach inside, grabbing bundles without counting them and shoving them into my oversized purse.

Twenty thousand. Maybe more. I don’t know, and I don’t care. It’s enough to get me out of here tonight.

Using the fountain pen on his desk, I grab the heavy cream notepad embossed with his initials. My hand hovers over the page. There are a thousand things I want to say, but when I press the pen to the paper, only a handful of words come out.

I hope your night with Melanie

was worth it.

I drop the pen, and it rolls across the surface of his desk before stopping beside the note.

This is the end, the period at the end of the sentence I never should have let him write.

I sling my heavy purse over my shoulder and heft the weekender into my other hand before heading for the elevator. Without looking back, I step into the cab and push the button for the lobby.

The doors slide shut. As the elevator descends, my hand slides to my stomach, and I close my eyes. My fingers curl protectively against our child growing inside of me. “I will protect you. I will keep you safe.” A tear slips down my cheek. “I will never let him hurt you like he’s hurt me.”

Dr. Morris pulls the needle through Beckett’s skin one final time, the thread tightening when he draws the edges of the wound together before tying off the knot. He snips the excess and leans back to inspect his work. Twelve precise stitches hold Beckett’s flesh.

He lies motionless on the surgical table, the harsh overhead lights illuminating the pale skin of his face and the bloodstained edge of the sheet covering his lower body. His chest rises and falls in a slow, steady rhythm, each motion stronger than the last as Morris makes one final inspection of the stitches.

“Looks good,” he murmurs. He cleans the area once more before placing a sterile dressing over the freshly sutured wound, pressing the edges carefully to keep it secure. After picking up the syringe from the nearby tray, he checks the medication before administering the dose and removing his gloves. “That should keep him comfortable.”

Once I’ve scrubbed Beckett’s blood from my hands and watched the pink-tinged suds swirl down the drain, I shut off the faucet. I shake the water from my fingers, still feeling his phantom blood on my palms, before reaching for the towel hanging beside the sink to dry my hands. Dropping it on the counter, I glance at my watch.

It’s later than I promised. A lot later. I was supposed to be home to Sophia hours ago. My hand dives into my pocket on autopilot before I remember my phone is in my office. “Fuck…” I exhale, dragging a hand over my face.

Not bothering to ask permission, I head into Morris’s office to use the phone. I dial Sophia’s number and my fingers rap against the desk as I listen to it ring until the call clicks over to voicemail. I try again.