Chapter 9 Witness X
Witness X
Become Someone’s Addiction
Nothing quite hits a man like the first woman he has an affair with.
You want to make him crave you in a way he’ll remember, even when you’re long gone.
Be elusive. Be enigmatic. Be whatever you need to be. Just ensure you intoxicate him. It’s easier than you think. Men are basic creatures.
Be who they want you to be. Don’t be yourself. Men want a fantasy. Something they can reach out and almost touch but never have. Look available but never be available.
Don’t give too much away about yourself.
Allow him to fill in the gaps. It doesn’t matter if he’s wrong.
After a conversation, make sure you know a lot about him, but he knows barely anything about you.
Wrap yourself up in mystery, one he will want to solve.
He never will, of course, because the plot twist is that it’s all fake.
The version of you he knows doesn’t exist, and that’s why it’s so alluring. He will never figure you out.
If you can get a man to fall in love with this version of you, he’ll be in your pocket forever, or however long you need him for.
“Men are fucking pigs,” Dad used to tell me, not sensing the irony in what he was saying. “You’re nothing but a piece of meat to them. They’ll never want you. If you want to survive around them, you need to learn how to manipulate them. Play them at their own game.”
I didn’t even know what that word meant back then. Manipulate. Dad explained it was “having control,” which sounded good to me. But I was only a kid—how could I have control over adults?
“I’m going to show you something you’ll never forget,” he said, one overcast Sunday in October.
He drove me to some kind of club that only had men in it, and by the time we got there, I had started to feel weird because of the drinks he’d given me before we left the house.
As the doors swung open, clouds of cigarette smoke hit me in the face.
Men turned to look at me, a girl young enough to be their daughter.
And he was right. I looked older because of the dress and lipstick I was wearing.
I felt older. I sensed their eyes all over my body and I used it, toyed with it after that until I became an expert.
I learned that men love the thrill of pursuit.
If an attractive female bulldozes into their boring life and reignites that youthful sensation of lust—and makes them feel desired in the process—they will do anything for you.
I reveled in the attention they lavished upon me and, as I got older, I weaponized it.
Every woman should have a man completely wrapped around her finger. You never know when you might need him.
“Remember,” Dad whispered into my ear, each time he saw their eyes land on my adolescent flesh, “always make sure you have control. Never, ever beg. Use them, but don’t fall for them. I’m the only man you can trust. Don’t forget that.”
It never occurred to me he was the one man I shouldn’t be trusting.
I quickly realized that my sense of worth and lovability was tied to how manipulative I could prove I was around men. So, I got very good at it.
It was the only time I ever saw him proud of me.
The first man I had complete control over was Declan, when I was nineteen. He was a rugby type, ripped and unbelievably handsome. Kind and affectionate. Funny.
It was blissful in the beginning, when I showed him a fake version of myself because—as Dad said—he’d never want the real me.
Instead, I showed him the kind of girl I so desperately wanted to be.
But as time wore on, I began to push boundaries.
I was constantly testing his dedication to the relationship, creating drama where there was none because this lovely, normal relationship was more than I deserved.
It felt abnormal and unfamiliar. It scared me at times, seeing how dreadfully I treated him, but I didn’t care.
The anger and self-loathing I felt for myself was overwhelming, but I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t know where it came from.
That relationship turned me into a monster.
I became obsessed with having power over him, ensuring he was continually idolizing me, prepared to drop his plans to be with me.
On the afternoon he went through my phone and found I’d been cheating on him, I sat and watched him—a fourteen-stone rugby player—sob into a pillow because I had broken his heart.
I despised myself for it.
But at the same time, I felt incredible because I’d caused that destruction, and finally had proof of my ability to control someone—just as Dad had always wanted.
And now, all these years later, I’ve done exactly the same thing. Only this time, the stakes are higher. Because if my husband finds out I’ve had an affair, he won’t just cry about it.
He’ll kill me.