3. Tatum
Chapter 3
Tatum
The vacuum's hum drowns out my racing thoughts as I clean the living room for what feels like the hundredth time today. Thomas called three times in the past hour with new demands.
"Make sure everything's spotless. These people are important." His voice had that edge to it, the one that means he's nervous but trying to hide it.
"Who exactly is coming?" I'd asked.
"Just some diplomats. Don't worry about it."
Now I'm dusting the same surfaces I cleaned this morning, my mind stuck on that phone conversation I overheard a few days ago. Something about accounts and things that can't be traced.
The grandfather clock chimes three. His office is the only room left. He hates when I go in there—says I'll mess up his "system." But these diplomats will probably want the grand tour, and heaven forbid they see a speck of dust.
My hand hesitates on the doorknob. The brass is cool against my palm as I turn it slowly, like a teenager sneaking out. The door creaks—I really should oil those hinges.
The office smells like leather and Thomas's cologne. Everything's perfectly arranged, almost too perfectly.
My fingers trail across his pristine desk, not a paper out of place. Everything's arranged at perfect right angles - pens parallel to the edge, sticky notes in descending size order. The man's worse than Adrian Monk.
The wedding photo catches my eye, positioned exactly centered on the corner of his desk. My white dress, his sinister smile. What a load of BS. I pick up the silver frame, remembering that day ten years ago.
"Honey, he's from old money," Dad had said, straightening my veil. "The Copes practically built this city. Think about your future."
"I'm just a kid, Dad. I don't want-"
"Sometimes we have to do things we don't want to secure our place in society." His hands had gripped my shoulders. "Thomas is a good match. His father and I have already drawn up the contracts."
Contracts. Like I was a merger and acquisition instead of a daughter.
I set the photo down, making sure it's exactly where it was. Can't have Thomas throwing another fit about his "organizational system." The memory of my father's betrayal sits heavy in my stomach as I dust the bookshelf. Law books Thomas has never read, arranged by height and color because heaven forbid anything look out of place.
Another photo catches my eye - one from an inaugural ball. Styled hair, immaculate makeup, beautiful dress. The pretty little puppet they made me into. Sometimes I wonder if that feisty seventeen-year-old is still in there somewhere, buried under all these layers of propriety and polish.
The minty taste in my mouth has gone stale. I scan the room for a trash can, spotting the silver bin beside his desk. As I bend down to spit out my gum, something catches my eye.
My hand freezes mid-air. There, partially wrapped in a tissue, is a used condom.
The room spins for a moment as reality crashes in. That secret phone call. The late nights at the "office." The way he's been extra critical lately. It's not like I haven't suspected anything. Hell, the woman would be doing me a favor if she happened to convince him to leave.
"You slimy son of a bitch." The words escape through gritted teeth.
I straighten up, my hands trembling - not from fear, but from pure rage. The poised little trophy wife act shatters like cheap glass.
It's not even the cheating that makes my blood boil. Our marriage has been a business arrangement from day one. But to be so careless, so disrespectful - to bring his affair into our home, into his office where anyone could find it?
"Oh, you want to play games?" I mutter, pacing the immaculate office. "I'm not some naive teenager anymore."
The thought of him smugly thinking he's gotten away with it, probably laughing about his stupid wife with whatever floozy he's sleeping with - it makes my skin crawl.
I snatch my phone from my pocket, carefully document the evidence with several photos, and leave everything exactly as I found it. Thomas thinks he's so clever.
Let him keep thinking that.
I head downstairs to begin preparing for our guests. But this time, there's a different energy in my step. I'm done crossing my t’s and dotting my I’s.
"Game on, asshole."
I lean against the counter, which completely goes against everything I ever learned in the debutante school I was forced to attend, as I scroll through my phone, scanning local gossip blogs while pretending to read recipes in the kitchen. The guests won't arrive for another hour. Plenty of time to do some digging.
"Poor Senator Cope," one comment reads. "Stuck with that frigid wife while he works so hard for our community."
My jaw clenches. Another comment catches my eye: "She's always hovering in the background like a ghost. Maybe if she gave him what he needed at home..."
"What he needs is to catch a venereal disease."
The phone screen cracks under my grip. Deep breath. I switch to a private browser and type in more specific search terms.
A notification pops up - Thomas's calendar sync. I normally have the notifications disabled, because I could give a shit less about golf with Owen Myers or Lunch with Ames Tallent, but after today's revelation, I thought what the hell.
Amongst my snooping, I notice that it seems he's deleted several appointments from last week. Nice try, honey. The deleted items still show up in the shared cloud backup.
"The Morton Hotel, three times last week?" I whisper to myself, jotting down dates and times. "How original."
My wedding ring catches the light as I write. The diamond's so big it's gaudy - just like everything else in this gilded cage. I twist it around my finger, thinking.
I tap my perfectly manicured nails against the granite countertop, scrolling through my phone. Every news article, every social media post - it's all Thomas, Thomas, Thomas. Our perfect little town's golden boy who can do no wrong.
"Bastard's got everyone eating out of his hand." The words taste bitter in my mouth.
My phone buzzes with another notification from his schedule sync. Dinner with the mayor tomorrow night. Of course. Another opportunity for him to parade me around while he probably eye-fucks the waitress.
Going public with his infidelity isn't an option. The evidence would mysteriously disappear, just like those "accounting irregularities" from last year's campaign. Even that journalist who tried to investigate ended up with a DUI charge and lost his job.
"Think, Tatum." I pace the kitchen, my Louboutin’s clicking against the tile. "You're smarter than this."