No Matter What (Protected #2)

1. Utterly Sick

Chapter one

Utterly Sick

My pile of post looks so overwhelming, the last thing I want to do after a full day of back-to-back meetings with clients is open it. All I want to do is go home, put my feet up, and forget about this case and all the cruel and evil things the Summers’ Organisation submitted innocent people to. I let out a sigh and pick up the first envelope, which has a sticky note attached.

I’m sorry, Jess.

Shaking my head, assuming she’s opened something personal by mistake, I slide the contents out of the envelope onto my desk, instantly seeing a picture of someone who resembles my husband fucking someone else. Actually, there are several pictures of this person with different women in all sorts of positions. Fuck . These women say hello to me every day. They're my neighbours.

My arms fold around my stomach, a small gasp leaving my lips. I can’t quite register what I’m seeing, but at the same time, I know who it is.

My husband.

Flicking through the rest of the images, I notice a typed note on a torn bit of paper.

One of them is pregnant with his baby.

Attached is a sonogram, where you can make out the shape of the innocent baby in the black and white image.

I’m shaking.

I've never wanted to hurt anyone in my life, well not intentionally anyway, but at this point I don't know what I'm capable of doing. Well, I do. I just don't want to use it on my worthless piece of shit husband, although he deserves everything he gets after this. It’s taking all my self-control to keep myself in check.

I also want to be sick.

I can’t move; like time stands still while I absorb what’s happening. I just sit here, not really believing what I’m seeing.

He’s stabbed me in the back. Not just once, but several times. That trust, the faith you have in someone, in the one you chose to spend your life with, the one you intend to grow old with. It’s been smashed into tiny fragments and I’m not sure I will ever be able to find it again.

Not only has he been unfaithful to me, his wife, but he's got another woman pregnant. Is that how little respect he has for me? I can’t resent or be angry at a baby. It was only a few years ago we talked about having children. I said I wasn't ready; I wanted other things first. He said he understood and we would wait.

Am I not enough?

I’ve thrown past boyfriends out of my flat before now, poured drinks over their heads for lesser things than this. I won't stand for it, I never have. No-one treats me like this. With all these feelings bubbling in my chest, I grab my keys and bags and march home. Well, I drive. I'll be surprised if I don't get a speeding ticket.

In my car, I can’t stop the images floating around in my mind as I try to figure out when he would have been able to do all this. His weekend away with friends. Night’s out with the boys, staying over at a friend’s house. I never thought anything of it.

If I don't kill him, my brothers will. They’ve never liked him, just tolerated him for my benefit. I guess they won't have to now.

My tires screech to a stop on our drive. Getting out of the car, I slam the door and walk into our beautiful terraced townhouse. I’m holding back the fight I have inside me. My anger, shame, and disgust want to spill out, give him everything he deserves, but I won’t let him have the satisfaction of seeing me crumble.

I find him inside, looking like the ideal husband. Loose-fitting jeans, pulled tight at the waist by his belt, a dark red V neck jumper layered over a white tee, stretched across his broad chest. His hair perfectly styled with a little too much product.

As he stirs the creamy white garlic and mushroom sauce, he’s cooking me… well, reheating with a glass of red wine ready and waiting for me, like he always does when he hears my car pull up.

I take the glass from his outstretched hand with my shaking one, hoping he doesn’t notice. I drain it and he refills it for me, smirking. He probably assumes I’ve had a bad day.

What a wanker.

As he places the bottle down in front of him, I hand him the large brown envelope I was gripping in my hand this entire time.

I'm seething inside, trying to keep my rage contained. For now anyway. I'm not sure how much longer I can lock up what feels like it’s about to detonate.

“What’s this?” I'm searching his face and demeanour for a sign of guilt or fear. But there’s nothing.

“Open it and see.” my voice is harsh, but quiet. “I’m sure you’ll find it a surprise. I most certainly did. That’s for sure.” Sarcasm drips from each word.

Frowning slightly, he carefully opens the envelope. I watch the colour drain from his face, but he masks it quickly. “What is this?” He stares at the first image.

“What do you think this is, Andy?”

“Looks like two people fucking.” there’s a notable shake to his voice.

“Looks like you fucking someone else, Andy.”

“That’s not me,” he hisses, his entire body shifting uncomfortably from side to side.

“Are you saying I’m mistaken? That it’s not you in those pictures? The man I’ve been with for nine years. Are you saying I wouldn’t recognise you? You,” I shout. “Butt fucking naked, balls deep in some other woman.”

His jaw tenses. “Yes, you have it wrong, Charlie. Why would I risk what we have? All of this?” His hand runs down his face in frustration.

“I have no idea, Andy, but you did, and you have. Don’t lie to my face. I can see the evidence as clear as day. It's right there in your hand.”

“Charlie, this isn’t what it looks like.” Fucking hell, he can’t be serious. Does he think I’m stupid?

“You have got to be kidding me. Really, please do enlighten me. Did you trip and accidentally fall out of all your clothes and your dick land in another woman?” Pausing for breath, I add, “Multiple other women?”

“Fuck.” He knows there’s no way to talk his way out of this.

“Or were you just playing lucky dip with the neighbour’s vaginas?” I add. “How stupid do you think I am?”

“Shit, Charlie.”

That's all he says. In a second, the shock at being caught is gone, and he’s back to… indifference? He knows he’s been caught red-handed. There's no going back now.

His reaction, or lack of it, hurts. How can he not care?

“How long?” I'm asking, but I'm not sure I want to know. My heart is breaking, and there's nothing I or anyone can do about it.

“Umm… two years… give or take,” he tells me like he’s sharing that we’re having curry for dinner.

“Shitting hell!” Pain rears through me, jarring my heart. There's been no change in our sex life... I mean, it's never been out of this world, but we get the job done.

Should it be like getting the job done?

“Are there any more I should know about, or is this the full dossier of women you’ve been fucking behind my back?” I don't want to know, but the words are falling out like vomit now. I can’t help it. Anger does this to me.

I know my answer before he even says a word. I’ve always had the ability to tell when someone is lying. I don’t know how I missed the one I’m facing now. All his tells are right there. He touches his chin and ever so slightly cocks his head to the side.

“There have been a few more… but they don't mean anything to me.”

It’s like a slap to the face, waking me up after all these years. “Is that supposed to make me feel better? You have slept with women behind my back, one of them pregnant with your baby, and they mean nothing to you? That makes it worse, you fucking prick. How could you?” I’m still rooted in the same spot. If I move, I think I’ll kill him. I won’t be able to stop myself.

“Don't raise your voice,” he barks back, throwing the photos to the counter. “This is your fault. If you had paid me more attention, worked less hours, we would have been able to have a family when I wanted one.”

How can he blame me for this? What happened to it being a joint decision? I mean, I would have to have the baby, not him... it would have been our decision to have a child, not just his. It’s my goddamn body. I would have to change so much of the life I love. The life I have worked so fucking hard for, just to please him? No fucking way.

“How dare you.” Screaming in his face, from across the kitchen island, my whole body begins to shake, as utter fury takes over. “How fucking dare you blame this on me.” The laugh I air is masked with an undeniable edge of sarcasm. I can't take this. I'm so angry, I can barely breathe through the tightness in my chest. My hands fist at my sides, my knuckles white with the force. I want to punch his smug face. I want to really hurt him like he’s hurt me. No, worse.

“You cannot be serious. I did this for us.” I gesture towards our newly renovated home.

I worked so hard to get us here, and he’s throwing it back in my face. “Everything we have, I worked my arse off and bought for us. The holidays, the house, the cars, your lifestyle, everything you do, I pay for. And you go and do this…” I break down, forcing the words out, trying to conceal the wobble in my voice from all the unstable emotions whirling through me. I feel utterly sick to my stomach knowing what he has done.

While I was working to give us a great start and a pretty fucking awesome lifestyle, he was doing that with them. No wonder he never wanted to get a full-time job. Living off of me and doing exactly as he pleased was just what he wanted.

“Would you have ever told me if I hadn't found out?” Then it hits me in the chest all over again… all these women.

I thought I knew him.

“I guess I would have had to at some point,” Andy says, shrugging his shoulders like it's no big deal. He’s so relaxed, I just don’t get it. I’ve outed him. Does our life together mean nothing to him?

How could I have let this happen? It’s not your fault, Charlie … at work, I'm strong, tough. I won’t take any shit from anyone. I have to be as a criminal prosecution solicitor. I can tell when people are keeping something from me. It’s what makes me good at what I do. I guess that’s in question now too.

“What the actual fuck... you would have ignored this whole situation for as long as you possibly could, wouldn't you?”

He rolls his eyes like I'm being dramatic. His whole state oozes arrogance. A sense of self-importance I have never seen before. The way he’s leaning against the counter, one hand casually tucked away in his trouser pocket while the other now holds a glass of wine like nothing is his fault. How have I not seen this before, this ugly, lying, cheating side of him?

I'm done. I don't want to hear or look at him again. Reaching over, I pour myself another glass of wine and take a step towards him.

“Get the fuck out of my house.” The words come out calm, but he looks at me, taken aback. “Get the fuck out of my house now,” I repeat.

“Whatever Charlie. Call me when you want to talk about it.” The nerve of this man. I watch as he grabs the keys to the car—the car I bought him—and leaves, slamming the door behind him.

It’s only then I allow myself to crumble.