Chapter 19
Juliette
I was a bad wife, because as soon as I saw Gordon hobble—not so slowly—towards me in the kitchen as I cut up carrots, all I could think about was how good it had been to have him stuck on that couch for so long.
The constant nagging and questions and demands had gotten a little annoying, but at least I had some freedom up on the top floor.
I was also a bad wife because two days ago, I had showed my stupid ex-con/ex-boyfriend/whatever the hell he was something he wasn’t supposed to see.
Something he didn’t deserve after quite literally taking a knife to my painting five years ago.
Months of hard work, of stress and tears, and he just ripped it apart and then had the audacity to get mad at me when he was punished for his crime.
And there I had been on the bed for him, a panting, embarrassing mess.
Nothing like rich girl pussy, huh? I could still hear his voice in my head. Those gravelly words. The same ones from that letter. That was all I had ever been to him. Some silly joke, something to use and take. Rich girl pussy and nothing but that.
“The doctor said I’m recovering quickly,” Gordon said, pulling me from my thoughts as he stopped in front of the island. He leaned on it, letting out a long breath, his crutches in his grasp. “That means very soon we can be back on schedule. You’ve missed out on over a month.”
Oh, right. The baby. And the baby making. I had forgotten about that whole thing. “What does that mean exactly?” I asked.
“It means you need to focus on giving me what I want.” His eyes narrowed. “Do you think I’ve forgotten about Switzerland? We’ll be heading off there as soon as I’m better.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier for us to just…” I kept cutting at the carrots, letting the vegetables keep my focus. “Say goodbye to each other?”
“A divorce?” he scoffed. “Don’t be stupid. I hate it when you act stupid. You know I’d never agree to that, anyway…”
There was a glint in his eyes when he said that.
He was right. That was a stupid question.
Why would he ever offer me a divorce on a silver platter?
He liked the control over me. He liked owning me.
I was a toy for him to use and abuse and terrify, and divorces weren’t something women like me were supposed to dignify with a second thought.
It would be an absolute scandal. Gordon and Juliette Cavendish admitting to a problem with their marriage?
Shock horror. So scandalous, so bad, so human.
“Of course you wouldn’t,” I whispered.
“Hurry up with my dinner,” he spat. “I should be able to sit in the dining room today, but I can’t manage the stairs just yet. I might try in a few days. And hopefully you’re keeping it nice and clean up there. God knows what you’ve done to the place…”
“I assure you the top floor is still standing.”
“Are you talking back to me?”
I pulled in a pained breath. “No, Gordon. I was just saying that I know how to take care of the house. It’s all I’ve been doing for the last few years, anyway. Shouldn’t you have a little more trust in me?”
“Do you think because I’m hurt that you can stop following rules, Juliette?”
“You and these dumb rules,” I grumbled.
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said just as quietly as before.
“What are you muttering about? If you’re going to talk to me, talk to me properly, don’t just—”
“Aren’t you bored of this? Do you even need me to give you a child when all you do is act like one?
” I finally snapped and met his gaze. His eyes were narrowed, that cold stare on his face like it always was.
It used to scare me. It still did. But that tiny bit of confidence I had mustered up was enough to keep that fear away, just for a little while.
It was nothing but his injury holding him back, and maybe the rather sharp collection of knives on the kitchen counter that I could use to defend myself.
Gordon’s grip on his crutches tightened. “I expect an apology during dinner,” he said, voice firm.
He led himself out, maneuvering slowly through the doorway. I didn’t help him. He didn’t want it. My fingers pressed to my forehead, trying to fight off the headache that I was pretty sure had been there since Bridger showed up that night.
That bag. My favorite bag in the world. I had been so close.
Five thousand dollars. Not enough for luxury, but I didn’t want that to begin with.
It would have been enough for happiness, though.
I wondered if Bridger had even looked at it when he sold it.
Probably not. I bet he just tossed it at the first pawn shop he could find.
Whoever bought that bag would get a nice extra surprise. Good for them.
And I was forced to start all over again.
Every penny, every cent. Coins I found on the ground or around the house.
There was always someone at the house doing something.
Delivering packages, maintaining the garden, cleaning the pools.
On those days Gordon wasn’t at home, he’d leave enough around for me to tip them. He expected change. He got it.
Just not as much as he should have been getting. It had taken me five years to collect all that money and five minutes to lose it. Thank you, Bridger Underwood.
It was weak of me to give in to him the other night, the same way I had been giving in to Gordon for so long too. To my parents. I was sick and tired of giving and never taking.
That went for Bridger as well. He was the boy I had given everything to.
First time. First kiss. First love. He had all my firsts and threw them all away.
It was the pain that I needed to cling on to.
He had hurt me once. He would do it again.
God, he had already done it. He had come back into my life and destroyed everything the way he did the first time, except now, I had a hell of a lot more to lose.
There was one big thing I was banking on nobody messing with: my freedom.
To have freedom, though, I needed money.
I had money. I could have cried at the thought.
All those years of saving just to have that bag ripped away from me, and then what did I do?
I let him see me. Touch me. He had me begging for him despite all the pain he caused.
I forced myself to focus. I finished up with dinner, served it to Gordon in the dining room, ate in complete silence—except for that apology—and then cleaned and put the dishes away.
He fell asleep on the couch after scarfing down some pain medicine and I bid him a silent farewell and moved upstairs.
I had never tasted freedom. Not really. Not as a little girl, not as a woman.
And just when it had been so close I could just barely brush the tips of my fingers against it, it was snatched away from me.
My heart started thudding in my chest as I got to the top of the stairs, tears hot as they sat there in my eyes.
There would be so much to pay for. Motel.
Food. Gas. My eyes were getting wetter and wetter, feet moving against the carpet like I was in a rush, as if I had some place to be.
I slammed the bedroom door shut, eyes falling to the bed where I had made that stupid mistake the other night.
How utterly pathetic. Escape wasn’t cheap, and Bridger had made sure it was even more expensive for me.
I stormed into the walk-in closet. Past the shoes, past the coats, past the dresses, until I got to the bags.
I yanked one out. Shoved a hand in it. Felt around for smooth metal or rumpled notes.
Nothing. Not a cent. I threw it to the ground and found the next bag.
A Birkin. No cash. Another Chanel bag—not my precious pink one.
No cash. Dolce & Gabbana. Valentino. Saint Laurent.
Empty, empty, empty. Not a single sign of money despite the designer trash that surrounded me.
I hauled them all onto the floor. Kicked one. Stepped on another. Kicked one more, harder this time, right up against the shelves, and then something hit the floor.
That stupid box. The lid sliding off just barely. Like I was meant to see it and feel that pain only Bridger could be responsible for.
My fingers itched a little as I reached down and grabbed the box, holding it to me with one hand while the other moved things around.
Then that anger hit me again, and I realized I was being too careful with it all.
My hand snatched everything out. Notes. Photos.
I yanked it all out, bending things that used to be so precious and priceless until Bridger tainted them.
I turned the box upside down, letting the last remains fall, until that letter slowly, slowly, slowly touched the floor.
It was a dumb move. I knew that. But I needed a reminder as to why I had to avoid him forever. The next time he showed up, I wouldn’t let him see that part of me. The part he hadn’t earned.
Picking the letter up, my eyes scanned the lines I was painfully familiar with.
I should have left the letter alone. Should have ripped it to shreds and burnt and buried whatever bits remained.
Shame and humiliation hit me at the same time.
I had fallen into Bridger’s trap just like I had the first time.
He had never cared. Why would he? He never had a reason to.
Dumb rich girl pussy. That was all I was.
I left the closet and didn’t bother putting the bags back or cleaning up. A sweet, dutiful wife only had so much patience.