Chapter 26
Chapter Twenty-Six
W ho would have thought sex as newlyweds is even better? After another marathon run, my entire body feels like it’s had an entire year’s worth of exercise and then some. I’m glad for the breather when Patrick jumps out of bed, butt-naked and beautiful in all his glory, and heads for the shower while I get a chance to check my phone. At least twenty text messages from Mia are waiting to be dealt with, all demanding an explanation to various degrees, ranging from threatening to begging. The woman has the determination of a sniffer dog, I have to give her that. I can’t blame her curiosity. Three days have passed. Three days of wonderful bedroom bliss.
I type up another vague response.
Lori: Can’t get back to you right now. I’ll call you later with details.
Not that I’m much wiser than before, but that should buy me some time. Wrapping a sheet around my naked body, I get out of bed and start picking up our clothes. They’re scattered all over the floor, which says a lot about our last steamy session. We started making out as soon as we reached the door and barely made it into bed before the first throes of an orgasm threw me over the edge. Holding up my shirt, I consider putting it on, then decide, as his wife, it’s pretty much my duty to start wearing something of his.
Wife.
The word sounds so alien, it makes me smile.
I still can’t wrap my head around the circumstances surrounding our strange wedding.
So, what now?
I still have to figure that out. At some point, I know I’ll have to deal with it one way or another. Get to know my husband and just make it work.
Or…
The other possibility is too painful to even consider. I can’t let him go, not when he’s been adamant that once he gets married it’s going to be for life.
The water’s still running in the shower as I head for Patrick’s walk-in closet and push the door open. Just as I expected, there are rows of racks filled with clothes for every occasion, from suits to jeans and leather jackets. There’s a floor-to-ceiling shelf with shoes. Everything is tidy and organized. I reach for a white shirt and hold it up to inhale the clean fragrance of fresh laundry, then put it back because it won’t do. I want it to be something personal. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I’ll know it when I see it.
I flick through the racks, discarding one piece of clothing after another. That’s when I catch a glimpse of a white box hidden behind a neatly folded stack of T-shirts. Even though it’s different in size, the embossed surface is unmistakable; it’s a carbon copy of the gift boxes left on my doorstep. My curiosity gets the better of me so I push the T-shirts aside to retrieve it and peer inside.
It contains a jewelry box with the most stunning bracelet I’ve ever seen. It’s delicate but studded with small diamonds that sparkle in the daylight. A blank card accompanies it. My fingertips trail over the expensive paper that looks and feels just like the handwritten notes left with my gifts.
I stare at it, confused. I don’t know what to make of it. Why would Patrick hide women’s jewelry in his closet? And why is the box an exact replica of the ones left for me? What are the odds that both Patrick and Duncan purchased gifts from the same store?
The reasonable thing to do would be to ask him about it. Yet something holds me back.
Call it a gut feeling.
Or maybe it’s simple mistrust.
As I stand to my feet, I glimpse a receipt from an expensive department store charging a few hundred bucks for a toiletry gift basket. There’s another receipt for a pair of high heels, the amount so exorbitant it makes me question the sanity of anyone who would spend so much money on a pair of shoes.
And in that instant I know.
I got it all wrong. It was never Duncan. Patrick was the one who sent the gifts. I should feel relief it was him all along, but something is bothering me.
Why would he gift me expensive stuff so early in our relationship, particularly with us being constantly at each other's throat?
Why would he leave me gifts when he showed his dislike of me from the moment we met?
It doesn’t make any sense.
My heart starts to race.
Instead of giving him a chance to explain I reach to check behind every stack of clothes. It takes me less than a minute to find what I’m looking for. There are three more boxes in total. The first two are empty; the last one isn’t. I open it and retrieve a thick Manila folder, then begin flicking through its contents while my heart drops.
All my strength pours out of me. I force myself to sit down before my legs give way beneath me.
There are photos of me walking out of shops and buildings, blissfully unaware of the person invading my privacy.
There are bank account statements highlighting my disastrous financial situation. There are even snippets of correspondence with my last employer—emails that were private, sent through the company’s secure Intranet, and couldn’t possibly be accessible to anyone other than the recipient.
My blood freezes as I realize someone not only followed me around New York; they also hacked into my accounts. Whoever gathered all this information is a professional and probably comes with a hefty price tag.
A price tag Patrick can afford.
Judging from the timestamp on some of the copies, he knew everything about me long before my arrival.
He knew everything yet he said nothing.
I lift a photo of the house I grew up in—a drab two-story building in dire need of repairs—and feel the first sting of unshed tears gathering in my eyes.
I haven’t seen this house in ages.
I’m not ashamed of the place of my childhood, the poverty, the struggles, the pain that came with cutting back on necessities like clothes and heating to get by. I would have happily told him every story if he had asked. But he didn’t. He simply went behind my back and drew his own picture of me before we had even met.
My childhood growing up with a mother who couldn’t make ends meet.
The job that should have been a lifeline but turned into my worst nightmare and branded me for life.
No wonder he thought I had conned the late Ms. Walsh out of his inheritance. The bits and pieces he’s gathered from my life couldn’t possibly lead to a different impression of me.
I know I should stop flicking through the loose sheets, both for my sanity’s sake and to spare myself the heartbreak. But I can’t help myself. I need to know all there is to know. I need to see the magnitude of his betrayal with my own eyes.
There’s even information gathered about the investigation back in NYC. He must have been planning to take me to court. I have no doubt he meant to use the investigation to build a case against me, to give his claim that I had somehow conned his mother out of his inheritance more credibility.
A case he could actually have won. He has the means and the right reputation. I don’t.
Who would believe me--a nobody with no money, no career, and a reputation in tatters?
Who’s to say that the marriage part wasn’t part of his scheme? Maybe his manager or record company advised against any court proceedings so he had to come up with a different strategy.
Suddenly I can see his cruel backup plan.
Get what he wanted by marrying me.
I can’t breathe.
I can’t freaking breathe.
His betrayal has forced all the air out of my lungs and the room starts to spin around me. Something shatters inside me, like someone’s just reached into my chest and pulled out a huge chunk of me, leaving a hole so deep no amount of tears could fill it. I need to get out of here before I collapse into a crying heap and give him the satisfaction of having won the battle.
He wanted me out of his house. So be it. I want nothing to do with it. I want nothing to do with him.
There never was a secret admirer, just one man trying to mess with my head. He almost ensured that I embarrassed myself in front of my lawyer, maybe even got me to lose my legal representation in the process. Whatever game he was playing, it was cruel to play with my life the way he did.
Sudden clarity of mind descends on me and I know exactly what I have to do. All that fighting my corner my whole life got me nowhere. The time to go and leave everything behind has come.
At the periphery of my mind, I hear the water being switched off. He could be out any minute. With shaky fingers, I rush to rearrange the boxes back in their place as best as I can and return to the bedroom.
Patrick steps out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his hips, his muscular torso on full display. My heart skips a beat and breaks into a million pieces at the same time. His beautiful exterior is already devastating, but it’s what he’s hiding inside that makes him more dangerous than any other man I’ve ever met.
Ruthlessness.
And I never even saw it coming.
But that’s not the worst part of it. The worst part is that I should have known better than to trust a man like Patrick Walsh with my body and heart.
“I was hoping you’d join me.” He smiles and inches closer to place a kiss on my head.
I turn away quickly before he can come too close. I can’t endure his proximity without turning into a bawling heap.
“Mia’s announced her surprise visit. I need to pick her up from the airport. I’m in a hurry.” I clear my throat in the hope my shaky voice won’t betray my lie, and squeeze into my clothes, not caring that my not-so-perfect body is on full display. He’s already familiar with every little failure in my life; a few dimples here and there won’t make a difference.
“That’s a two-hour drive. I’m coming with you,” Patrick offers.
I shake my head and hurry out the door before he can insist, calling over my shoulder, “No need. Sinead’s already agreed to take me, called it a girls’ day out. You do whatever you need to do. I’ll see you when I’m back.”
I can feel his sudden tension, as though he senses my lie, but I give him no time to respond. Taking two steps at a time, I run down the stairs to my bedroom to gather my belongings—just bare necessities like my passport, my cell phone, and the bit of cash I have left. I don’t bother packing my suitcase.
And then I’m out the front door, leaving behind the only man I ever loved.