Chapter 5
Delaney
Warner Landers has a life. A prestigious CEO job and thriving career, from what I dug up online.
He has too many friends to consider them all close, and his family is always present at the events he attends.
All according to Page Six in the New York Times.
He’s surrounded by people who appear to care about him, yet not a single person showed up at the hospital.
No one worried about him.
No one missed him in his absence.
Even the friend he was with before the accident wasn’t there to check on him.
After talking to the nurses, no one even called for Warner.
I shouldn’t care, but I might be the only one. Unfortunately, that doesn’t help with my predicament. I can’t afford to walk through the prime real estate of Tribeca, much less dream of ever standing in the “foyer,” as he called it, of his penthouse apartment.
He stops at the end of the short hall ahead and looks back at me. “Is everything okay?”
“Fine.” Nodding, I force my feet forward to continue playing this charade until I come up with another plan.
I slipped into being his wife a little too seamlessly at the hospital.
Without even really trying, which should worry me.
But the pieces fell into place so easily.
When I was given his wallet, his home address was on his driver’s license, so I entered it into the app before I returned it.
I expected more questions, but he didn’t ask one. The silence on the drive over became anxiety-inducing. I thought for sure he was going to call me out, but he never did. Is he playing with me, or does he really not remember if I’m his wife?
I shouldn’t feel insulted that I’m so easily forgotten, though ounces of injury to my pride seep through my veins.
Pride is the last thing worth saving. So I used the ride to figure out my next move but came up empty.
Except for one idea, an absolutely terrible one at that. No. I can’t. I shouldn’t.
Could I?
As I reach the end of the hall, perfect lighting greets me, highlighting the best features in this large room. Before I can stop it, my jaw drops. “My entire apartment could fit inside this one sp—” I stop, clamping my mouth closed, realizing I’m exposing myself as the fraud I am.
With a glass of water in his hand, he lowers it to the stone counter, where soft beige and creams swirl together, with flecks that gently sparkle when the light hits it just right. And I thought white countertops were fancy. Now I know this stunner exists.
Standing in a hospital gown hanging over his pants, he should look more foolish than he does.
Instead, the lines of his biceps peek out from under the teal fabric, and the shape of his ass pushes through the slit in the back where he didn’t bother tying up the loose strings.
Don't, Delaney. This is nothing more than a job I need to get done, like a thief in a heist movie.
"This is your apartment, dear wife,” he says, interrupting my wandering thoughts.
There’s a spit to the end of his comment that echoes the hiss of a snake.
It’s a good reminder that I’m in enemy territory.
“I meant my first apartment. I’ve moved on up.
” I tried for cheerful, but I’m not sure I’m selling it, judging by how he’s staring at me like he can see the lies oozing from my pores.
Shit.
“You sure have.” Lifting the glass again, he takes a sip, but his gaze stays firmly on me.
The large open space is modern yet filled with warmth, encompassing his kitchen and living room, as well as an expansive dining table perfect for large dinner parties.
The area aligns with a balcony, divided by glass doors that I bet open wide, seamlessly bringing the outside in or vice versa.
Those dinner parties must be pretty spectacular.
I'm afraid to move or speak until I know what I should say.
Do I fess up and get the heck out of here?
I should. Then I remember the legal paperwork I signed to get him discharged and the ramifications of my gut reactions.
My gaze swings to the tired expression on my husband's face, and my resolve crumbles.
It's an omission. He wouldn't have been hit by that car if I hadn't tried to get in the last word, and I could have been scot-free if his friends or family had shown up for him. But they didn't.
Not to mention my family's restaurant. God, I'm so screwed if he catches on.
I can do this. How hard can it be to play the role of the doting wife until the deadline passes next month?
Convincing myself is the easy part. Convincing him is a whole other story.
I'm a terrible liar, but if he hasn't figured it out yet, this ludicrous plan is still possible.
There are only two ways to find out—try to pull this off or run now.
I walk toward the back doors, needing out from under the interrogation of his gaze to think more clearly.
Spotting the lock, I move across the room like I do this every day.
I pull the latch, turn the bolt, and then slide the door just enough to fit through.
The sounds of the city are alive, and even at this height, it’s loud with horns and sirens blaring in the distance.
Peace is also found in the air up here. Night has fallen like a blanket around me, wrapping me in connection to the city that raised me.
Though it was nowhere near this fancy neighborhood, I feel calmer breathing the same air as my stomping grounds.
Under the cover of darkness, I find hope that this plan might work.
“Do you have instructions for me?”
His voice is deceptively calm, almost candid in tone like the lie of marriage to me might not be so far-fetched. I can’t let my guard down. From what little I know of him, he’s never to be trusted.
Leaning my back against the concrete railing, I throw out a question I heard almost every day of my life from my mom to my dad to test if this is even possible. Seems like a good generic thing to ask. “The dishwasher probably needs emptying.”
His brows tug together as his stare hardens. “What does that have to do with anything?”
I stand straight, abandoning the rail to stand up to him. “You asked for instructions, so I gave you some.”
Annoyance sends his eyes shooting into the air to the side of my head. He takes a deep breath, then looks at me again. “Doctor’s instructions. In case you’ve forgotten, I have a concussion and broken arm.” Pointing to his eye, he adds, “A black eye.”
“Oh.” I slide my eyes over his injuries. “Right.” I unzip my purse that I’m still carrying around like someone who doesn’t live here and pull out a folded piece of paper. “It didn’t seem complicated, except for showering.” I walk toward him with the paper held out in front of me.
“Okay, what does it say other than don’t get the cast wet and ice the eye?” He takes it, but then frustration pinches his lips together, whitening them. Glancing back at me, he asks, “Do you mind unfolding it for me?”
Although I have a feeling those words pained him to say, I help him without piling on more to make him feel worse.
As soon as I hand it back, he turns away from me to go inside.
“I’m going to shower.” My hand is still in the air like the fool he takes me for.
Lowering it, I look once more into the distance of the street lined with buildings on either side, soak in the sounds of the city, and then return inside.
I’m not surprised by the treatment. I have no doubt he would treat his wife like a bother. He’s such an asshole. I bite my tongue as I move to the kitchen to wash my hands.
Staring down at the paper on the counter before him, he doesn’t give me the courtesy of acknowledging my presence. He simply asks, “What are you doing?”
I pause my hands under the stream of water and then pump the soap and start rubbing them together. “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m washing my hands.”
Maybe his love language is bitterness because my tone captures his attention. I’m positive he thought he’d get away with that once-over. He didn’t. “You should shower.” I don’t let his assessment bother me. I am a mess and feel gross.
“A shower would feel amazing.” The moment I finish speaking, I realize I just fell into the trap he set. “I know you really want to take one. You go first.” I rinse my hands and search for a towel or paper towels to dry my hands.
“Middle drawer to your left.” He moves around me like I’m a hurdle he has to jump and gets an ice pack from the freezer. After wrapping it in a dish towel, he holds it to his eye.
I should really know that as his wife, but I’m failing miserably at this charade.
I pull out a towel and dry my hands before angling to face him while he stands at the end of the island.
He says, “I can wait a few more minutes to take a shower. I’ll ice my eye while you wash up.
I’m sure you’d like to get out of that dress and into something clean. ”
How do I answer this without giving away the truth? I have no clothes, no toiletries, nothing of me in this entire place. I’m such a fool. This is impossible to pull off when all he has to do is look around to see I’m lying about our relationship. “I . . .” My gaze drops to the wood floor.
Lowering the ice pack, he asks, “Why do I get the feeling you’re not telling me something, Delaney?”
What could I say that would excuse my nonexistence from this apartment?
One absurd plan deserves another off-the-wall idea layered on top of it.
At this point, there's nothing to lose but everything. “We’re separated, Warner.” I hold disinterest in my expression, though my heart is ready to pound out of my chest.
“We’re separated?” Disbelief shadows his eyes as he processes the admission.
“Yes. I left yesterday.”