Chapter 3 – Adrian
ADRIAN
I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. The house is silent. I had it built shortly after I met Cora and spared no expense. The walls are built to military specifications and fortified to withstand an air strike. Sound doesn’t permeate.
When I was young, if I couldn’t sleep, I’d sneak out to the roof, stare at the stars, and listen to the city.
My brothers and I turned that roof into our playground—we’d smoke Dad’s cigars, play video games on an old TV powered by a daisy chain of extension cords, and drink pilfered whiskey.
The roof of this house isn’t accessible.
Cora has moved into the nursery. It’s probably for the best. She needs to express her displeasure with me, and it’s preferable to my mother’s way.
Thalia Lykaios-Maddox would stage elaborate tantrums when she caught Dad with his pants down, screaming and raging and beating her fists against his chest. Cora isn’t the type, but I half-expected that reaction anyway when she stepped off that elevator.
She didn’t have anything to throw within arm’s reach, though, and she’d never scream in front of Winnie and Pearl, let alone be violent.
She’s a good mother. That’s why I chose her.
The nursery school where she worked was on the way to my favorite coffee place, and every day when I walked past, I’d see her in the playground, kneeling in a cluster of children like Snow White amid the woodland creatures, completely focused on the little ones’ concerns.
I had my usual investigator check her out, and he confirmed my instincts.
She was perfect. No family still living, no criminal record, no drug use, clean bill of health.
Her digital footprint was almost charming.
Pinterest, cat videos, and full shopping carts on fast fashion retailers which she never emptied.
It was easy to run into her one day on the sidewalk and strike up a conversation.
Of course, she took one look at me and saw dollar signs. For our first date, I booked a private room at Vitale’s, and you’d have thought I’d flown her to Paris. Her eyes were huge, and when she talked, she whispered like she was in church.
“You mean we get this whole room to ourselves?”
“Why aren’t there prices on the menu?”
“I’ve never had snails before. Do they taste like fish?”
She was so na?ve, so desperate to nail me down. She told me she loved me after the first time we fucked. She thought I was asleep and murmured it in my ear.
I felt like a pervert, like I’d taken the babysitter to bed.
I’d always planned on marrying a woman closer to my age, cultured and at home in the circles to which I belong, but Cora was too perfect.
She might be a gold digger, but she has a heart of gold, and for a man in my position, that’s the best you can hope to find for a wife and mother of your children.
I think she really convinced herself that she’s in love with me. I should’ve anticipated that. It’s hard to confront an uncomfortable truth about yourself, even a truth so obvious that everyone around you can see it like the nose on your face.
We have nothing in common except the children and the house.
I don’t fault her for her lack of higher education.
She did well for herself considering she was raised in foster care.
Still, we don’t really speak the same language.
I’ve never been in love, but I assume love requires you to share the same fundamental understanding of the world.
I was right the first time I saw her. She sees the world like a fairy-tale princess.
Taking her call the other night was sloppy. I should’ve let it go to voicemail. I didn’t need to risk her hearing Delaney, which is exactly what happened. I didn’t need to pop her bubble. What did it hurt for her to pretend that she loves me?
It is for the best that everything is out on the table now, though. We can continue our life together in a more honest way. She won’t feel compelled to tell me all the time that she loves me.
I roll to my side. I took my melatonin, but it’s doing nothing.
The walk-in closet door is open, and the right side is empty except for a row of pink padded hangers.
Whatever Cora didn’t move to the nursery, she shoved into trash bags and instructed Vera to donate to charity.
I had Vera launder it all and store it in a guest suite for now.
My mother would’ve lit the clothes on fire or thrown them out a window into the street. Cora would never be so dramatic. Or wasteful. She’s a very frugal gold digger. She wants security, not luxury. Another reason she was the perfect find.
I hop out of bed, shut the closet door, and shiver. Sixty-eight degrees is perfect when you’re sharing a bed with a warm body, but it’s too cold alone.
I tug on a pair of boxers and stalk down the hall. I need a drink. There’s a bar cart in our suite, but I’m in the mood for the Whistlepig in my office desk drawer. I have half a mind to take the new Rennard out for a spin before I tie one on. Cora left the key on the dining room table.
Minh made a point of seeking me out to tell me he’d hung it on the peg with the rest. He wanted the opportunity to look at me like I’m a piece of shit for whatever I did to upset my wife.
He’d better be careful. His food is consistently five stars, but I’ve fired men for much less.
I switched landscape architects mid-project because I didn’t like the way the man said Cora’s name. Too familiar.
I’m not sure if the Rennard was the right move.
Even though it’s billed as a “shared performance vehicle,” in essence an SUV, it’s still fast. Cora doesn’t particularly enjoy driving, but she does love a fast car.
We do have that in common, if nothing else.
If she were distracted, it would be easy for her to exceed a reasonable speed without noticing.
Briefly, I’d considered buying her a dog, but it felt too much like pandering. I want to reassure her that her position as my wife isn’t in jeopardy, but I don’t want her to think that our power dynamic is going to change because I feel guilty. I don’t.
I’ve never told her I had feelings that I didn’t, and I made her no promises.
We had a courthouse wedding, and the justice of the peace kept it short and sweet as requested.
Do you take each other as spouses, to live together in marriage?
By the power vested in me by the State of New York, I now pronounce you married.
The girls should be involved in choosing a dog, anyway, to make sure it’s a good fit. Pearl, at least.
Rage still smolders in my gut when I picture Schmidt turning with Pearl pressed to his chest to hide her face. The entire scene was unnecessary. Schmidt should have called ahead. He should have refused to take them out so late.
Ultimately, though, the blame lies with me. I should’ve taken it to a bedroom and locked the door. Cora had no business dragging the kids into the city in the middle of the night, but when it comes down to it, it’s my own fault that the girls were exposed to that scene.
I have no trouble confronting uncomfortable truths. It’s why I’m as successful as I am. I don’t delude myself that people are better than they are.
I pause at the nursery door before I head down the stairs. It’s closed, but not latched, so it opens silently when I push. Moonlight streams in the window, lighting the middle of the room while casting the corners in shadow.
Winnie is asleep on her back in her crib, her arms thrown straight over her head like she’s scored a touchdown. In the other room, I can just make out Pearl’s bare feet sticking out of the covers. Cora is curled in a ball on the daybed, her back to the wall.
These rooms were meant to be for guests, but Cora didn’t like how far the intended nursery was from our room. She made the right call. I have enough trouble sleeping as it is. I’d never relax enough to pass out if the girls were on the other side of the house.
I take one small step into the room, just to hear Winnie breathe. The girls are healthy as horses, but things can change in an instant.
As I listen, my eye catches on Cora’s hair.
It’s glowing almost white in the moonlight.
My stomach muscles tighten. She is objectively the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
It’s not the reason I married her, but it would be a lie to say it wasn’t a consideration.
It’s a miracle she reached adulthood relatively unscathed.
I can only imagine what she had to do to keep herself safe. Men can be monsters.
I stalk quietly across the room toward the daybed. Like Pearl, Cora’s feet are sticking out from under the covers. Something’s wrong with the bottoms of them. I squint and lean closer. There are dozens of small cuts or scrapes on both soles. What the fuck happened?
She was wearing shoes earlier in the dining room when she “tripped” with the dishes, and besides, these scratches don’t look fresh.
Schmidt and Tiller didn’t report anything. Unacceptable. If I hadn’t already decided to fire them, this would be the nail in the coffin.
Has Farhadi even been called? I would have been apprised if he were.
The cuts appear to be healing, but that’s never a given, especially if they weren’t tended properly when the injury occurred.
Did Cora take care of them herself? She’s vigilant about the girls’ bumps and bruises, but careless about her own.
I shouldn’t have stayed in the city. It’s not like I got anything productive done. I worked, drank, and went car shopping.
I hope Schmidt’s ringer is on. He’s going to tell me right now what happened to my wife’s feet and why I wasn’t told, or his severance is going to be my fist in his face. Tiller, too. He had his hands all over her that night, but he didn’t notice that she got hurt?
Didn’t notice, or didn’t tell me?
As if she senses my rising temper, Cora shifts, tucking her knees tighter to her chest and curling her toes. Still asleep, she whimpers. My stomach sours, and a burning sensation creeps up my throat.
I don’t like it.
The tight-chested, clawing feeling that’s been plaguing me recently strikes again. My hands clench in fists, my breathing so heavy that the sound fills the silent room.
I don’t understand such an excessive response to a few minor scrapes. She’s fine. I just watched her sashay away from me down the hall after dinner with no problem at all.
But the raw, red cuts bother me—unsettle me in some kind of primitive way.
Breathing through the feeling, I force my muscles to relax. I need to talk to Farhadi about something stronger than melatonin. I haven’t been sleeping well for months, maybe longer, and the effects are stacking up.
My temper has been quicker, my reactions out of proportion.
The other night, I had no plan to fuck Delaney Pierson.
I’ve been on edge for a while—a bad reaction to some preservative, mercury in retrograde, I don’t know—and it had grown unbearable that day.
I didn’t want to go to the function. I didn’t want to make polite conversation with people trying to shove their hands in my pockets.
For once, I didn’t want to go home, either.
Delaney hung around me all night, going drink for drink, getting louder and friendlier. When Cora phoned, I answered at the bar. I didn’t step out to take the call.
I stayed too late, polished off a bottle of mediocre whiskey, and when Delaney suggested we go back to Maddox Tower for a nightcap, I agreed.
I knew what she wanted. She wasn’t subtle.
When we got to the apartment, I watched her strip. I let her unzip my pants and push me to the sofa.
I was buzzed as hell, but I wasn’t wasted. I chose to get my dick wet, and the entire time I was doing it, my chest got tighter and that clawing dug deeper and deeper.
Then the elevator door opened, I saw Cora’s eyes, and the feeling stopped.
I hadn’t availed myself of other women’s offers since I met Cora—I had no desire to—and then, after ignoring several passes over the years, I randomly decide one night to let Delaney Pierson ride my cock. It isn’t like me. Maybe that’s why it’s sitting so strangely.
I didn’t break any unspoken promises. A woman doesn’t sign the kind of prenup that Cora did unless she sees the world in very utilitarian and mercenary terms. Her pride is smarting. I’m sure she’ll let me know the precise cost of smoothing things over soon enough.
There’s no reason for me to feel this unsettled. Nothing has essentially changed.
There’s just no more pretense between us. Cora doesn’t have to pretend that she loves me, and I don’t have to wait any longer for her to grow tired of the act.
This is the marriage I wanted.
Regret would be unreasonable.