2. Tatum
Chapter 2
Tatum
The driver pulls up to our colonial-style mansion, all perfect angles and manicured hedges. Even in the darkness, I can see how the grass alternates in precise stripes, like someone took a ruler to nature itself. The fountain's gentle splash mocks the tension hanging between us.
Thomas checks his phone again as we step inside. "Got a text. Davidson and his crew are stopping by in an hour."
My feet ache in these heels, and all I want is a hot bath. "Tonight? It's almost nine."
"Yes, tonight." He says while tossing his tie onto the marble entry table. "Change into something less..." His hand waves dismissively at my outfit. "Less uptight. And get some drinks and appetizers ready."
"We don't have any appetizers prepped." I set my clutch down next to his discarded tie. "The housekeeper's off today."
"Figure it out. That's what you're here for, isn't it?" He heads toward his study, already unbuttoning his jacket. "Oh, and make sure there's scotch. The good stuff, not that blend Davidson brought last time."
"Anything else?" The words slip out before I can catch them.
He pauses at the study door. "Yeah. Try not to look so fucking miserable when they get here. These people write checks that keep us in this house."
The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone in the foyer. The house is always so quiet, so empty. Like a museum where nothing real is allowed to happen.
I climb the curved staircase, my hand sliding along the polished banister. My walk-in closet beckons—a prison of designer labels and perfect appearances. For a moment, I eye my yoga pants folded neatly in a drawer. The soft gray cotton calls to me like an old friend.
"Wouldn't that be something?" I mutter, pulling out the drawer. "Show up looking comfortable for once."
The image of Thomas's face if I walked down in leggings and a sweatshirt almost makes it worth it. His jaw would clench, that vein in his forehead would pop, and he'd probably drag me back upstairs himself.
"What the hell do you think you're wearing?" I mimic his voice, pulling the leggings out. "Do you want to embarrass me in front of Davidson?"
But the fantasy dissolves as quickly as it forms. I shove the drawer closed and turn to the endless rack of approved attire. My fingers brush past silk and chiffon until they land on a pale blue sundress. Optimal Stepford wife material. The fabric whispers against my skin as I slip it on, the hem falling just below my knees.
In the mirror, I readjust the bodice and touch up my makeup. The dress makes me look younger, more innocent. Like the seventeen-year-old girl who signed her life away with a marriage certificate.
I rifle through our medicine cabinet, looking for mascara, while pushing aside Thomas's extensive collection of hair products. The bottle of laxatives sits innocently behind his multivitamins. A laugh escapes me as I imagine Davidson and his cronies rushing to our powder rooms in unison.
"God, wouldn't that be something?" My fingers brush the bottle before pulling back. "Whoops, so sorry gentlemen. Must've been something in the canapés."
But Thomas would do more than just yell. The thought sobers me up quick. I close the cabinet and head to the kitchen. I tie a crisp white apron around my waist. It completes the look—the perfect little housewife, ready to serve drinks and smile at his jokes. I arrange cheese and crackers on our "casual entertaining" platter—the one that only cost three months' salary for a normal person.
The prosciutto needs to be rolled just so, each piece a perfect spiral. Heaven forbid the meat isn't aesthetically pleasing enough for Thomas's business associates. I'm halfway through when I realize I should check if anyone has dietary restrictions. The world about came to an end when I almost served the old geyser with celiac disease, gluten.
My bare feet pad up the stairs. As I approach his study, Thomas's voice drifts through the door.
"No, she doesn't suspect anything." A pause. "Look, I've got it handled... Yes, I know what's at stake."
I freeze mid-step, my hand hovering over the doorknob.
"The fundraiser's in two weeks. Everything will be in place by then." His voice drops lower. "Just make sure your end is taken care of. I don't want any loose ends."
I press my ear against the study door, straining to hear more.
"No, the usual account won't work." Thomas's voice is muffled. "We need something cleaner. Something that can't be traced back to?—"
A shrill beeping cuts through the air. The smoke alarm. My heart drops into my stomach as I remember the appetizers in the oven.
"Shit, shit, shit." My feet slap against the hardwood as I race down the stairs, nearly tripping over the last step.
Smoke billows from the oven when I yank it open. The phyllo-wrapped brie has transformed into charcoal, and the acrid smell makes my eyes water. I grab an oven mitt and pull out the tray, dropping it into the sink with a clang.
"What the hell is going on down here?" Thomas's footsteps thunder down the stairs.
"I got distracted?—"
"Jesus Christ." He waves his hand in front of his face. "Can't you do anything right? One simple task. Make some goddamn appetizers. That's all I asked."
"I'll make something else." I reach for another package of cheese.
"You know what?" He grabs my wrist. "Don't bother. I'll call for catering. You should be thankful I keep you around at all. Any other man would've traded you in for a newer model by now."
My thoughts drift to the medicine cabinet. Those laxatives are looking mighty tempting.
"Are you even fucking listening to me?" His grip tightens. "This is exactly what I'm talking about. You can't focus, can't handle basic tasks. My mother warned me about marrying beneath my station."
I bite my tongue so hard I taste copper.
"For God's sake, put some shoes on. Davidson will be here any minute."
I dump the ruined appetizers into the trash, watching the blackened cheese and pastry disappear into the void. My fingers grip the edge of the marble counter, knuckles white against the stone.
"Fucking dick," I mutter.
The doorbell chimes, and Thomas's footsteps thunder down the hall.
"Get out here!" he hisses. "And don't forget to smile."
I set the pan in the sink and smooth my apron. Ten years of practice makes the smile appear instantly, muscles moving on autopilot. Tatum Cope, ready for her next performance.
My reflection in the kitchen window catches my eye. Green eyes stare back, dead and dull, nothing like the fierce girl I used to be. The one who dreamed of college, of adventure, of love. Now I'm just another trophy in Thomas's collection, gathering dust on his shelf of achievements.
"Coming, dear," I call out, my voice sweet as poison.