Chapter 8
Juliette
“Well, what does it say?” was the first thing Gordon snapped at me as I exited the bathroom.
Hand still grasping the third pregnancy test I had taken in half an hour, I gave my husband a weak shrug. Despite the fact that we had been robbed at gunpoint two weeks ago, he was still adamant about me taking test after test.
Thankfully, since that night, Gordon had been much more intent on trying to track down who broke into our house rather than putting his disgusting hands on me.
That meant I had a break from his body pressed to mine, but he still couldn’t help himself when it came to those damn tests, and he had always been one to force things to go his way.
“Not pregnant. Same as the other two,” I said.
Gordon hissed, shoving a bottle of water my way. “Take another one.”
“Gordon, three in one day is enough. I’m not pregnant. I can’t drink anymore water. We’re going out to dinner with my parents, remember? I’ll be peeing all night.”
“You need to do one more test.”
“I don’t think one more will change anything.”
“Juliette,” he said, that tone in his voice telling me he was quickly getting impatient with me.
I walked past him, gasping as his hand found my wrist. All it took was one yank to pull me to him, my chest colliding painfully with his. “Gordon, stop,” I said.
“You’re not listening to me.” His eyes were narrowed, his teeth gritted. He always looked like that these days. “You need to get pregnant. You’re not trying hard enough.”
“Well, what do you want me to do?”
“Give me the baby I deserve. I’m still waiting on that paperwork from the clinic. Once it’s arrived, we’re going.” He dug his nails into my wrist before he finally let go of me, his hands straightening his tie before they lowered to smooth out his suit jacket. “I suggest you start packing.”
“Gordon, no.” That stupid clinic. I had forgotten all about it since Bridger showed up. “I’m sick of doctors. I’m sick of being poked and prodded at. No more doctors.”
“You need to do as you’re told. I’m sick of having to force you into these things, Juliette. Why can’t you just listen? Why can’t you just be obedient?”
“Because I’m not a dog,” I said sharply, but I tried to force that harshness in my voice away. My husband wasn’t a fan of harshness.
“I want you to try.”
“I’ve been trying for five years.”
“Clearly, you haven’t been, otherwise I’d have that money in my hands.”
My eyes rolled. “And you need more of that, don’t you? Just a few billion isn’t enough?”
“You don’t get to tell me what I do and don’t want. You’re going to that clinic whether you like it or not, and they’ll fix this problem that you started. That you’re the reason for.”
I shook my head at him. Gordon was so deep in denial sometimes I wondered how he managed to spit out so many lies. His ignorance is bliss mantra was genuinely impressive.
“I’ve seen so many doctors I’ve forgotten their names,” I said, voice quiet. “I don’t need another one. I don’t want to go to some clinic in another country. I just… don’t.”
A scoff escaped his lips as he eyed me closely. “Do you think you have a choice? I want that money. You’re going. You’re seeing those doctors, Juliette.”
“When are you gonna see one?” I asked the question before I could control myself.
Gordon’s hand raised in an instant. Long fingers wrapped around my throat, pulling me forward so that I was flush against him. I gasped, the sound choked and painful, my own hands reaching up to claw Gordon’s one away from mine, but that had him digging his fingers into me harder.
“I’m not the problem here.” Teeth grinding together, he didn’t even blink as he stared at me, his eyes all cold and gray.
And dark. So dark. “You are. I’m doing everything right, Juliette.
You’re the one who’s making this harder than it needs to be.
You’re the one who can’t give me a baby.
How hard is it, Juliette? I do all the work and get no pay off.
All you have to do is piss on a fucking stick and you still whine about that. Imagine how I feel.”
The words didn’t sting as much as he wanted them to. Not about the whole baby thing. I knew he was projecting. Every doctor we had seen had told us there was nothing stopping me from getting pregnant.
Gordon had enough pull to have the most prestigious fertility doctors in America flown into Chicago, only to never get the results he so desperately wanted.
He wanted to hear that it was me who was the issue, and then he wanted to throw money at that issue so he could get even more of that money he loved oh so much.
He never did the tests. The doctors knew better than to go near him. He wouldn’t pay them to give him bad news. All he wanted was a specialist to feed him the answers he wanted and needed to hear. Every single test and exam had put me in the all clear, but somehow, I was the problem.
My flat stomach was a reminder that he couldn’t do the job, that he wasn’t man enough, that he was indeed the problem. It was something I had never judged him for, but it was an insecurity I knew that he held on to. I made that insecurity worse. I was proof he couldn’t do it.
“I’m sorry,” I let out, voice sounding strained and dry. My hand clawed at his, nails scratching at his skin before I stopped myself. I knew better than to fight him off. That just made it worse. “Gordon, I’m sorry, please just let—”
He shoved me away from him, forcing me to hit the carpeted floor. My hands flew up to my neck, keeping them there against me protectively. There was that fear again. He could kill me in minutes if he wanted to—and he’d get away with it too.
Forcing out quick, sharp breaths, I let my eyes close, planning out what I’d have to do when me and Gordon went out for dinner later tonight: heavy concealer, heavier foundation, even heavier powder.
Very soon, my neck would be covered in purple marks all in the perfect shape of his fingers, just like all the other ones he had given to me since our marriage started.
“Sometimes I wonder why I fucking married you, Juliette,” he spat as he stood above me.
“You can’t give me the one thing I want.
You’re going. You’re seeing those doctors.
And then you’re gonna give me the only thing you’re good for: a baby.
Do you think you can manage to help your husband out, or is that too hard? ”
Hand still on my throat, I just nodded, weak and small. One bruise was already enough to cover up.
“Say yes,” he said.
I winced, nodding again.
“Say it. Say yes. Speak, Juliette.”
“Yes,” I finally let out, hating how small my voice sounded there in that room. In our bedroom, on the floor, my hands clinging to my neck like that would force the fear away.
“See?” he said, voice condescending. “Was that so hard? You always want to fight, Juliette. Stop doing that. For your own good, stop. Come downstairs and make a snack for me. I’m feeling a little hungry after that.”
On the floor was where he left me, my hand still on my neck with gentle fingers.
Gentle fingers I’d never get from my husband.
How tragic was it that I had to comfort myself?
How tragic was it that I had become so used to doing it?
How tragic was it that when Bridger had broken into my bedroom that night, he had used his long fingers to rub slow, soft circles at my skin that in the strangest way had made me feel a tiny bit of ease?
I pushed myself off the floor, trying to flood my brain with the task ahead: making my husband a snack, because he couldn’t do that himself.
Shame was rising up in my chest fast and hard. It was a sensation I hadn’t felt in a long time. The abuse had made me so complacent, so willing to take Gordon’s heavy fists so I could just get through the days until I had enough to leave.
Bridger’s sudden reappearance had me questioning myself. Who had I become? Who was I anymore? Maybe I deserved that spot on the carpet.
It was with shaky legs that I made my way downstairs, moving through the wide hallways with too much caution. I came to a stop outside the living room doorway, hearing the perfectly tailored words of the anchorman on TV.
“Montclair has been hit with its second home invasion in a two-week span,” the man said, his concerned face familiar, but it was the first time I had ever been so truly invested in what he’d say next.
“Last weekend’s invasion resulted in the death of Montclair’s Nathaniel Woodcroft, while his wife still recovers in Montclair Hospital.
Authorities were informed that three masked men broke into and entered their home on Friday night.
Mr. Woodcroft was shot and killed before the trio fled the area.
This is the second Montclair break in in just weeks, and authorities believe both were committed by the same group. ”
Shot and killed. The words replayed over and over in my head, my hand reaching out to grasp at the doorway to keep my balance.
I knew Nate. I knew Sasha. I used to know Nate.
He was big in the tech world and had made a name for himself over the years, scraping in those billions with ease, but none of that meant anything when someone put a gun in your face.
It must have been Bridger.
Bridger being a criminal was old news, but it was my first time hearing a secondhand account of what he had become.
Me and Gordon had come out unscathed that night, and I was sure he was happy to give up a few of his expensive watches so he could live to tell the tale, but that just meant that we had been the lucky ones.
Bridger had killed a man, or had at least been standing there watching while one of his other two friends did it.
I could envision it perfectly: Bridger in that balaclava, those blue eyes all deep and dark with warning, one finger pulling the trigger like he had done it a million times before. And maybe he had.