33. Cora
Cora
I wait until I hear the elevator close, then finally allow myself to scream.
I own you.
The bastard. I pull the despicable red dress off my body and throw it across the room.
I feel my anger like a fire inside of me, burning through my limbs and raging hottest in my chest. Its only escape is through my vocal cords, and it screams out of me, tearing my body apart as it rips itself free.
I will die a thousand agonizing deaths before I let someone own me.
When all of my immediate rage is spent, my throat is raw, painful as I gulp air into my lungs.
I storm back to my room to pull on the first clothes I find, my dark skinny jeans and a comfy shirt.
With my hands still shaking, I decide that I won’t let him win.
He said what he said knowing it’d piss me off, and it’s working.
I take several deep breaths through my nose until my hands are steady.
My anger’s still present, but back under my control.
I return to what I was doing before Brady ruined my fucking morning. I finish my breakfast. By habit or compulsion, I put his quinoa bowl in the fridge, but if he never comes back for it, I tell myself I don’t give a shit.
I imagine my life without my asshole husband, which is what I’d wanted in the first place, refusing to give up who I am.
With a start, I realize I haven’t been checking in with Lucy.
I’d intended to keep up with the goings-on at the clinic, but then I let my new life distract me.
Something twists in my stomach, the same guilt I felt when I realized I’d forgotten to call Noah.
That’s not a sign of caring. I haven’t missed working at the clinic the way I thought I would.
Before I allow that part of me to shrink further, I call Lucy.
She assures me that everything’s going well with our patients, and of course it is, because she’s amazing.
After assuaging some of my guilt, she mentions that Jennifer seems less upset with me than before, another indication that the Brady-less side of my life is doing just fine.
When we hang up, I let out a long-held breath. I will not let him ruin my whole life, or even my whole day. I feel the need to move, to get out and stretch my legs. Whichever pair of O’Sullivan men are posted in the front lobby as my guards for the day will just have to come with.
I text Connor to see if he wants to go to the Field Museum, since I haven’t gotten to show him much of the city yet.
He replies:
Connor: You want me around a bunch of kids with this face?
I wince. His largest bruises have healed significantly, but they’re still a sickly yellow that would scare children. I text back:
Me: Shit, sorry. Let’s just hang out at the apartment. I’ll head over now.
He agrees, though I can picture him grumbling to himself about being cooped up. I gather my purse and press the call button for the elevator, which lights up beneath my finger.
Then the light goes out.
Weird. I press it again, but it does the same thing.
When I try for a third time, I’m reminded of the definition of insanity, doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result.
But this high-rise is state of the art. Brady’s the building’s manager, and he’s the type to keep everything well-maintained and under his control.
“Motherfucker,” I swear out loud, then call Connor.
“Hey, can you pick up a pizza on your way here?”
“Would that I could.” My tone oozes sarcasm. “I’m stuck in the penthouse. Brady stalled the elevator somehow.”
“Don’t you have stairs?”
“I am literally over fifty stories in the air right now.” Although I do like the idea of giving my guards the slip by using the stairwell’s back door, that’s way too many fucking stairs.
“And I’m not worth the climb?” Connor asks.
“The climb down, maybe.” I highly doubt Brady will un-stall the elevator by the time I return. I pop in my earbuds and slip my phone into my back pocket. “Let’s just hang out like this. I know you have nothing better to do.”
“You’re choosing to let your husband lock you up like that?”
“I’m not a princess in a tower,” I say, peering down from the wall of windows to the sidewalk far below. “Princesses behave themselves.”
“Oh yeah? You planning to break all his shit or something?”
“Better. I’m going snooping.”
Connor laughs. It’s his hearty, unaffected laugh with the goofy squeak at the end. The sound makes me smile. I haven’t heard him laugh like that since he was a kid.
“Excellent,” he says. “Tell me what you find. I’ll tell you all the cool shit I find as I go snooping around here.”
“Hey!” He’s in my apartment.
“I’m joking.” He laughs again. “I have no interest in my sister’s dirty secrets. Yours or Charlotte’s,” he adds, and I grimace.
“Speaking of…” I prompt, allowing Connor to fill in the blank as I begin my search in Brady’s bathroom.
“She’s fine,” he says with a sigh. I stay quiet, because sometimes that’s the best way to get my brother to talk.
In Brady’s medicine cabinet, I find dozens of luxury skincare products, precisely lined up with their labels facing out. Most of them look like curated samples sent to a high-end hotel manager to court his brand partnership.
I help myself, rubbing sandalwood moisturizer into my cheeks as I wait for Connor.
“Charlotte’s fine and Mom’s fine and Dad’s fine,” he finally says.
“Wait.” I return the bottle to its shelf, label out. “You still talk with Aileen and Cormac?” I knew Connor still had some form of contact with them, though I’d assumed it was cursory. But it sounds like it’s more than that.
“I mean, yeah. They’re our parents, regardless of what you call them.”
“Aren’t you pissed at them for blaming everything on you? They shouldn’t have made you take the fall like that.” I’m pissed at them for it. Even if they hadn’t known about his plan like he claims, it’s still their duty to protect their son.
“You took the fall,” he says, morose. “And it was my fuckup.”
“You made a bad choice. People make bad choices sometimes.” I slide open the vanity drawers, each with its own wooden organizer.
“You sound like the frickin’ priest,” Connor grumbles. I freeze with my hand on the top drawer.
“You talked to a priest about this?”
“I mean, yeah. It’s called confession.”
“And you’ve been going to confession here? I thought you never left the apartment.”
“I keep my hat low to hide my face,” Connor says, as if that’s supposed to reassure me. “And it’s not like the priest can see me when I’m in the booth.”
“Yes, but he’s a stranger. You can’t trust him with secrets like that. You shouldn’t trust anyone, really,” I add, resuming my snooping.
From the final drawer, I pull out a low-dose inhaler, my first interesting discovery. Turns out physically fit Brady has an Achilles heel.
“I trust you,” my brother points out.
“I know. I trust you too.” I put Brady’s inhaler back in its compartment. “But I still don’t like the idea of you going to confession.”
“Of course you don’t like it. It was Dad’s idea, so you must hate it on principle.”
“Why the hell are you still doing whatever Cormac tells you?” I flick off the bathroom light and head into Brady’s enormous closet.
“Because I’m his heir,” Connor says.
We both pause. My brother was Cormac’s heir, but that’s been thrown into considerable doubt now.
“I still am,” he says, as if reading my thoughts. But he doesn’t sound confident about it.
“You don’t have to be,” I remind him.
“I can’t run away like you did.”
I know my place, Brady had said when I’d stitched him up. Unlike some.
“Connor—”
“I should go,” he says. “Did you find anything interesting?”
“Just a box full of old wrestling trophies.” Nothing else remotely sentimental. I put the lid back on the box and return it to its corner by Brady’s shoe rack.
Connor says his goodbye like it’s an apology, and I hang up with an ache in my chest. I don’t like the idea of my brother still beholden to Cormac, but there’s not much I can do about it. I return to what I can do, which is to rifle through all of Brady’s clothes pockets.
I own you.
Cormac thought he owned me too, but that’s only because he didn’t realize who I really am, what I’m capable of.
Brady’s seen for himself what I’m capable of. Skilled knifework and bottle wielding and throwing men out of bars. More importantly, he knows who I am, and to an unsettling degree. He knew that saying I own you would piss me off, and that my immediate response would be fury toward him.
It’s like he baited my hatred, and all because I didn’t return his I love you.
I find nothing in his suit pockets, and move on to digging through his jeans, careful to neatly refold each pair.
I love you, Cora.
I snort to myself. For a supposed power play, it was painfully false. People like Brady don’t waste time on love. The only thing he respects is power, that’s why I asked to be his partner.
I drop the pants I’m holding.
I asked to be Brady’s partner, and he told me that he loved me.
“Fuck.” I say it out loud.
Snatching the jeans off the floor, I fold them back into place.
Once they’re correctly arranged back on their stack, I take a moment to appreciate Brady’s meticulousness.
Not just his clothes, but his whole penthouse, his entire life with its careful planning, his work.
Everything about him is precise and well-ordered.
But with me, he’s wild.
We lose control in each other, and it’s pure exhilaration.
I love you, Cora.
And now he’s gone, stormed off to who knows where.
I swallow down whatever fucking emotion is trying to climb up my throat and return to what I was doing.
When I slide open Brady’s nightstand, I find a loaded Glock 45, a dogeared copy of The Art of War, and a dozen Trojan Magnums. I take note of where everything’s located in the drawer, then I empty it.