Chapter 75 Willow Morrow
Willow Morrow
Willow stayed by the tree, giving Katie time to flee, like a little bird into the brush.
She leaned against the oak and waited until the blonde drove by, her tires squeaking a little from the acceleration.
Katie pulled into their driveway and Willow watched as her bumper disappeared through the gates.
Run along home, little bird. Run into his arms. She gave one last look at the house, at her old life. Then she walked slowly to her car and opened the door.
It was such a shit car. Katie had been in a Porsche SUV, and Willow thought of the Maserati.
How it had felt driving it to Sara’s. The feel of the heated leather, the smell of the interior.
The luxurious cushion of it. Willow had loved driving that car.
She’d used it on the weekends, putting down the top to go to Miguel’s for lunch or Fillmore Street to shop.
She’d driven her G-Wagon during the week, using the luxury German SUV to pick up her groceries and Mark’s dry cleaning, to hold her tennis racket and gym bag.
God, she missed this life. The ease of it. The stupid focus on things that didn’t matter. The faux stress over dinner party menus and HOA notices.
She could get it back. Pull into the driveway and walk up to Mark and tell him that she would stay. Tell him to get rid of Katie and remarry her.
He’d do it. He’d do it so quickly that poor little Katie’s head would spin. And maybe later . . . in her new apartment, reading over the fine print on the divorce settlement . . . maybe then Katie would believe what Willow had just told her.
Willow held the fantasy on her tongue, savoring the taste of it as she turned the key and cranked the Jeep’s engine.
It chugged and then stopped. She sighed and tried again.
This time it caught, and she turned on the defrost and stared through the frosted windshield at the giant gates of her old house.
It had felt good, last night. Standing above Mark, his face tilted up in adoration and longing.
She had missed the feeling of power and control.
And the worship from him . . . the pure permission to do whatever she wanted, the more horrible, the better .
. . that level of trust and freedom was a drug, one that she had proved she couldn’t handle.
Yes, she could take him back, make him sacrifice everything for her—but it would end the same way it had five years ago, except that instead of David Batcher dying, it would be Mark, or some other pure thing that their debauchery ruined or killed.
Willow Morrow had been selfish for the majority of her life, but this was one moment that she had to do the right thing. Again.
She shifted the car into gear and, for the second time, drove out of Mark’s life and disappeared.