Chapter 37
Thirty-Seven
Ellie
“Thanks for meeting me tonight for our anniversary dinner—it means a lot. I know things have been off between us lately—”
Jack settles in his chair across from me at The Peninsula.
“Of course, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I send a saccharine smile across the table to Jack. I’ve been having flashbacks
of the fire all day, confusion coiling in my stomach at the idea that I nearly burned my life to the ground—nearly lit the
entire building and everyone in it on fire. I’m not sure if Jack has called Dr. Kessler yet—he hasn’t said anything if he
has, which leaves me more than a little on edge just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“You’re beautiful tonight. You always look beautiful, but this dress—is it new?” His gaze sweeps slowly over me.
“It is—thanks for noticing.” I affect a look of genuine flattery. I have to act every part the sweet, doting wife if I’m going
to play my hand well. I need him to trust me. I need him to believe that in my eyes, he can do no wrong. “Do you remember
having one of our first dates here?”
“How could I forget? It was one of the best nights of my life.” He reaches across the table to place a palm on mine. “Second only to our wedding night.”
I smile sweetly, trying not to choke on the bile that’s rising in my throat. “You’re sweet.”
“You are,” he counters. “Work has been so hard lately, it feels like I’m barely keeping my head above water. You’re the only
bright spot, El—I hope you know that.”
I don’t reply because I don’t think he wants me to. This is about him; this has always been about him. I need him to continue
to believe that.
“I know I haven’t been a good husband lately. I hope this night changes things, though. I did my best to recreate our first
date—the private rooftop dinner is just the start. I have a whole weekend planned for us.”
“Oh?” I smile and thank the waiter when he arrives with a bottle of Veuve, filling our glasses with bubbles to the brim.
“To us and another five years.” He holds his flute out and we say cheers. “At first I thought about a weekend upstate to celebrate,
but that didn’t feel good enough for my girl.” I wait patiently for him to continue. “And then I thought maybe Cabo or—”
“Good evening,” the waiter interrupts Jack. “Are we ready to order starters?”
Jack announces that we’ll start with the tuna tartar. The waiter nods, then leaves. Jack starts to speak again, but as he
does I reach for my glass and—seemingly by mistake—spill it across the table. My entire flute of champagne lands in his lap.
“Shit!” he cusses, reaching for his cloth napkin and dabbing at his slacks. “I’m going to clean this up in the bathroom. I’ll
be right back.”
I apologize, but he waves me off.
As soon as he’s gone, I pull out Jack’s newly found burner phone from my bag and power it on. I open the messaging app and type in Jack’s phone number. I shoot off a quick message.
If I can’t have you, no one can.
The very same message as the last one he sent me.
A smile curves my lips as I tuck the phone back in my bag and pull out my own. I send Aubrey a quick message with a little
winky face to let her know phase one of our plan has been set in motion. After Aubrey and I found Jack’s burner phone two
nights ago, we spent the next few hours orchestrating our next steps. She confirmed with her ex at the police department that
Jack has been sending me the threatening messages from the anonymous number. That’s all it took to convince me that I had
to do something—that my husband couldn’t be trusted.
By the time Jack returns, his face is pale and drawn. He’s holding his phone in his hand—he hardly ever sets it down—so I
know he saw my message.
“Everything okay?” I look up at him. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Ugh—yeah. Just . . . a work thing came up.” He sits, setting his phone face down on the table.
“Oh, do you need to leave? We can raincheck if you need to.”
“No—no, it’s fine.” He says he’s fine, but I can see that he’s distracted. A thrill of anticipation rises in me knowing I’ve
finally turned the tables on him. Taking back my power from a marriage that almost ruined me may be a process, but it’s a
fun one and it feels so good.
“I’m sorry I spilled on you.” I offer. Jack just shakes his head, waving off my apology.
The waiter returns then with our tuna tartar and we place our order for entrees. After enjoying a few bites of the tartar,
I stand from the table and tell him I’m going to use the restroom. I leave the rooftop and move into the noisy main dining
room. Just as I reach the restrooms, I pause, realizing I left my bag at the table with Jack. If he suspects that I’m the
one who sent the anonymous text message, he may dig through my bag and find the burner phone I used to send it. I turn, heading
back in the direction of the table, but then I pause at the doors that lead out to the rooftop, watching as Jack shakes out
a capsule from a small pill bottle and then cracks it open and shakes a fine powder into my drink.
I blink once, twice, because I can’t believe my eyes. Did he really just try to drug me? Without thinking, I push the heavy
door open and stomp back to the table, crossing my arms when I reach it. “What the fuck was that?”
“Hey, baby—” he glances up at me.
“Don’t hey baby me—what did you just put in my drink?”
“What are you talking about?” He looks up at me with kind, puppy dog eyes. I want to slap the unassuming look off his face.
“I saw you put something in my drink—”
His gaze turns dark and stormy. “You must be seeing things.”
“Bullshit.” I push his shoulder, then yank the cloth napkin off his lap. A small prescription bottle of pills falls to the
floor at his feet. He moves to grab them but I beat him to it. “Ambien?” I read aloud. “Really?”
“I was worried.” He spits it out. “If you’d just take care of yourself—”
I clamp my lips closed, not believing what’s right in front of me. What’s always been right in front of me. “How can I trust anything you say?”
He growls, gripping my wrist and pulling me closer to him. “Please don’t make a scene.”
“Easy for you to say—you’re not the one being drugged.”
“It’s not like that. I was worried you weren’t sleeping,” he insists.
“Then you should have come home. You should have been there for me!”
He shakes his head. “You’re right? I’m sorry.” He feigns contrition. “Your dad’s just been breathing down my neck lately, and
I wanted to make sure you were getting a good night’s sleep when I wasn’t there.”
“Where did you even get this prescription?” I ask, angrily shaking a handful of pills into my palm and then dumping them all
into his flute of champagne.
“Your dad’s personal physician.”
“Fucking perfect. I should have figured he was in on it.”
“He wasn’t in on anything, El—”
“I don’t believe you. I don’t believe either one of you.”
“What makes you say that?” He tips his head to the side.
“Nothing. Drink up, Jack. Go on, finish your glass.”
“Stop it.” He rolls his eyes.
“You know the effects Ambien can have on someone who doesn’t need Ambien? Or someone who drinks while on it?” I seethe. He
just shakes his head. “It can cause hallucinations, Jack. It can cause sleepwalking and lapses in memory and God knows what
else!”
“It’s fine, I was watching.”
“Really? And just how were you watching from across town?” I dare him to tell me the truth—that he’s been monitoring me via security cameras, but he remains silent. Coward.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were this worried?” I let the smallest quiver of emotion lace my words.
“Because I . . . I didn’t know . . . how to.”
“So you drugged me instead, huh?” I watch him closely, looking for what, I’m not sure. Remorse? Regret? Resolve? “Oh my god—I
just realized what this is really about.”
“What? That I was trying to take care of you even when I couldn’t be there?”
“Hardly.” I flash him a sinister grin. “You were trying to control me. Trying to manufacture my instability, make me believe
I was really having a psychotic break.” I can’t help the rage rising in my tone. “You did this! You made me crazy! You made
me believe I couldn’t even trust my own memories!” I stand from the table, shoving his flute of Ambien-laced Veuve Clicquot
into his lap and throwing my napkin at him. “I hate you. I’m moving out. And if you get hit by a city bus on your way back
downtown, don’t think for a second that I’ll be at the funeral. You deserve it.”
And with that I walk out of the restaurant, my spine straight and my power regained. Kat was right—taking back my power is
a process. I’ve spent all of my life tied to men who only know power and privilege. I have to be smart; I have to maneuver
carefully or Jack will ruin me.
“Is everything okay, ma’am?” Our server asks just as I reach the exit.
“Everything is fucking perfect.” I give him a wicked smile. “Send another bottle of Veuve to the table, please. My husband
needs it.”