Chasing Wildflowers (Lost & Found Duet #1)

Prologue

Lane

I stare at my reflection in the mirror, make-up flawless and not a hair out of place, but I barely recognize the eyes looking back at me.

They are hollow and empty. The eyes of someone who isn’t really living, only surviving.

The dress I’m wearing is fit for a princess with its sweetheart neckline, silk bodice that spills into a flowy skirt, and delicate lace sleeves, all done in a deep burgundy.

Too bad I feel like a prisoner rather than a princess.

My fingers tremble as they brush over the bruises hidden beneath the soft lace. Small reminders in ugly shades of yellow and purple, proof of who’s in charge.

At least these will be easily hidden beneath the sleeves of my dress. Unlike last month, when Byron choked me so hard he left finger-shaped bruises across my neck, two days before a charity event for a women’s shelter. Ironic, I know.

And a bitch to cover.

Gripping the edge of the vanity, I exhale slowly, grounding myself. I close my eyes and the image of the creepy basement flashes behind my lids. Concrete walls. The stench of mildew and weed. The quick exchange of money as my heartbeat thundered in my ears.

My entire future now rests in the hands of a stranger.

It’s taken me years to find someone with his skills. Years of scouring every domestic violence forum I could find while Byron was at work. Years of planning and hiding money away. But finally I can taste freedom. Soon, I’ll never have to attend another gala, fundraiser, or dinner.

“Ceciley!”

Byron’s voice slices through the air, sharp, cold, and commanding. Any warmth he once felt toward me is long gone.

My breath catches, that familiar tang of fear clogging my throat.

I wasn’t always afraid of my husband. At first he was wonderful, everything a girl dreams of. Little by little his mask started to slip. It wasn’t until after the ink had dried that I saw the monster beneath.

I close my eyes and force a steadying breath, letting my own mask slip back into place. Giving myself one last glance in the mirror, I steel my shoulders and turn to face my husband.

Just as I reach for the knob, the door flies open, barely missing me, and bangs against the wall with a sharp thud. I stumble back, my heels digging into the backs of my ankles.

Byron fills the doorway, irritation carving lines into his perfect face. “Do you try to embarrass me on purpose, Ceciley?”

There’s no denying he’s an attractive man with his typical high society looks; bright blue eyes and perfectly styled brown hair.

Twenty-one year old me thought I was the luckiest girl in the world, landing an older man from a prominent family.

Twenty-seven year old me wants to go back and smack the na?veté out of that girl.

“I just wanted to make sure I looked perfect for you. Judge Matthews will be there tonight. You said how important it is to impress him.”

His shoulders drop, tension bleeding from his posture. The switch, too fast and too familiar.

He takes a step closer, and my stomach recoils when the scent of overapplied oakmoss hits me.

“You look beautiful, babe,” he says, brushing his knuckles against my cheek, his practiced smile in place.

My skin crawls, but I stand perfectly still, fighting against the urge to flinch away from his touch. I know the kind of pain those hands are capable of. I wear the bruises as proof.

I return his smile with one of my own. One so perfect no one ever questions it. “Thank you.”

Twenty minutes later we’re driving through the city, the bright lights strobing through the interior of Byron’s prized Rolls-Royce.

I let the hum of the V12 relax me as I sink back into the soft leather seat and mentally prepare myself for another night of pretending that Byron is the perfect doting husband, instead of the monster who haunts not only my nightmares but my waking hours too.

“How was lunch with my mother yesterday?” he asks, his tone casual. As if he hadn’t slammed my head against the wall the second I walked through the door for being fifteen minutes late from that same lunch.

That’s his pattern. Violence followed by denial.

“It was lovely,” I say smoothly, barely hearing myself over the thunder of my heart.

His mother is the very definition of a monster-in-law. She’s a cold, status-obsessed snob who measures worth in bloodlines.

She never thought I was good enough for her son, even though my family is just as wealthy and influential as theirs. To be fair, I don’t think any woman would be good enough for her ‘precious baby boy’.

She insists we have lunch once a week, and by insists she means they are mandatory. The one and only time I cancelled, Byron was furious and locked me in the house for a month. I learned my lesson and haven’t missed one since, no matter how fucking miserable they are.

She uses them as an opportunity to criticize me. This time it was the dress I wore. A dress she bought me for Christmas.

In the beginning I craved her approval, even switching to her hair salon and only wearing clothing she bought for me. It didn’t take me long to figure out that it didn’t matter what I did or how hard I tried, Bethany Knox would never like me.

“She said you had a noon reservation,” he says, his voice low and controlled even as his hands tighten on the wheel. “So tell me, Ceciley, why did you leave the house at ten-thirty?”

I fold my hands on my lap, to keep them from shaking. I knew this was coming. I’ve learned to anticipate his questions before they even come. The exact reason there is a time stamped receipt sitting in the bottom of my clutch.

“I wanted to stop by a new boutique that just opened near the restaurant. I thought I might find something for your mother’s birthday,” I say, keeping my tone even and smooth as his favorite scotch.

If he knew where I went after my brief stop, he would kill me.

His jaw ticks. “You expect me to believe you spent an hour looking for a gift for a woman you don’t even like?”

“I know your mother and I have had our issues. That’s why I wanted to get her the perfect gift,” I lie, knowing his mother is his soft spot.

Fucking Mama’s boy.

“I should have asked first. I’m sorry,” I add quietly, lowering my head obediently, while on the inside, I’m flipping him the finger and calling him a dickless asshole.

He exhales sharply through his nose but says nothing. The silence between us hangs heavy in the air like smoke as he glides the car to a stop under the awning, while flashes from photographers go off around us. The bright lights bouncing off the windows.

Byron swings his door open, not waiting for the valet who has to jump back to miss being assaulted by the door. He slams it shut harder than necessary, and my spine stiffens. My eyes track him as he rounds the hood wearing a practiced smile that has my skin crawling.

When he pulls my door open I take his outstretched hand, because I have to, and let him help me from the car. He squeezes, just a little too hard, before letting go. A silent reminder.

His hand comes up, cupping my face. “You are a beautiful woman, Ceciley.”

Something about his words makes my skin crawl, but I manage a small smile. “Thank you.”

He trails his fingers down my arm, ghosting over bruises only I can feel, before slipping his arm around my waist, and steering me toward the flashing lights.

We stop to pose for a picture, and he leans in close, his hot breath fanning against my cheek. “We will talk about this when we get home, Ceciley,” he whispers, his grip tightening with each flash.

Pain shoots through my side where his fingers dig in, but I keep my face composed and my smile in place.

Inside, I whisper to myself: soon.

I picture the gun tucked beneath the mattress and the documents that are taped beneath my dresser drawer; my escape plan, my salvation.

Tonight, I’m his wife.

Soon, I’ll be a ghost.