12. Cora
Cora
Glass shatters on the asphalt, that glorious sound of my anger unleashed.
It stops Brady in his tracks, which was my intention. Tempting as it was, if I’d thrown the bottle at his head, he would’ve sidestepped it and kept following me. This way, we’re in a standoff, with a no-man’s-land of broken glass between us.
My chest heaves with righteous fury. The absolute fucking asshole. He set this whole thing up, he made the plans with Noah, he coordinated with the restaurant. Goddamnit, he even forced me to wear this noticeable dress.
A gust of pre-autumn wind through the alley plasters the thin fabric to my body, as if to emphasize how foolish I was to fall for his trick.
I despise this weakness in myself. It’s all because of my possessive, arrogant shit of a husband. The way he manipulated me like that—he thinks he can control me, and I proved that he can.
I feel hot tears of shame coating my cheeks, tears I do not want him to see.
I turn on my heel and keep storming away, headed for whatever street’s on the far side of this alley, no real plan for where I’m going.
I hear the crunch of glass beneath his shoes as he follows me, and I keep walking like I don’t care.
Of course I care, but not about Brady.
Poor Noah. I can’t believe I’d forgotten about him so easily.
Lucy mentioned him at least three times during our conversation about my wedding.
“Guess you’ll have to break things off with khaki guy.
” And, “How are you going to tell Noah?” And later, “If Noah’s as nice as you say, I bet he’ll be happy for you.
” I made a mental note to call him each time, but I still forgot.
If he’d texted me, I would’ve remembered, but we weren’t big texters.
That’s not a sign of having feelings for someone. It makes me an idiot for playing into Brady’s scheme, as well as a heartless bitch for forgetting about Noah. The innocent man was punished for my own stupidity.
As I turn back onto a main street with all its foot traffic, I pull out my phone.
The phone Brady broke into, which he then used to do so much worse than simply violate my privacy.
A mafia man through and through, treating his wife like she isn’t her own person.
I smear the tears from my face and unlock my phone with shaking fingers.
Another wave of shame hits me. I have no one to call. Not Jennifer or Lucy. They’d hold it against me for not ending things with Noah, and rightfully so. Not Connor. My brother has been so edgy about Brady that he’d probably suggest I run away.
I am not running away again.
Knowing Brady’s still following me, I shove my phone into my purse and make a frustrated noise in my throat.
It’s louder than I intended, and draws the attention of a middle-aged woman walking nearby.
She gives me a concerned frown, a stranger offering sympathy, but I shake my head at her and walk faster.
The heels I paired with this despicable dress are not meant for speedwalking.
My feet scream at me, and I finally have to concede—I have no idea where I’m going.
I want to storm home, back to my apartment.
But Connor’s there. I’m not going to lead Brady, who just punched an innocent man out cold, back to my brother with his healing face.
I want to scream, but there are too many other pedestrians, and most of them are already looking at me because of this goddamn dress.
There’s nowhere else to go.
Fuck it. At least I can make him take the L.
The closest station is underground, and the subterranean air makes me shiver with all my exposed skin.
I bunch my skirt in my fist as I clack down the stairs, then hear the tromp of heavier footsteps behind me.
I hate him, the way he thinks he owns me.
I don’t want his protection. Not when it means that innocent people get hurt.
Not when it means that I’ll be seen as a weakling mafia wife.
The train is six minutes out, and I toy with the idea of boarding, then jumping off last-minute and leaving Brady stuck on the subway. I decide against it. He’d probably just end up doing something stupid and dangerous, possibly to himself, but more likely to someone else.
As we wait, my asshole husband gives me space. We could be strangers, hovering by different pillars, but I’m consumed by my awareness of him.
The crowd thickens and we all board the train. When an elderly man asks me if the seat beside me is taken, I tell him it’s his, then get up and walk to the other side of the car, as far from Brady as possible.
* * *
In the high-rise’s elevator, I jam my finger into the Close Door button. As they slide shut, Brady rushes forward, but he’s too late. With nothing but a seam of light between the doors, I grin in triumph.
Then, like something out of a horror movie, Brady’s fingers appear in my face.
They wiggle, taunting me, and the next second the doors are opening for him to step in.
It’s like he saw the grin slip from my face, and he took it for himself.
Now it’s in the form of that fucking smirk as the elevator bears us upward.
“Do you know what you did wrong?” His voice rumbles through me in this too-small space.
“I did nothing wrong.” I stare straight ahead at the brushed stainless doors.
I did so many things wrong. I forgot to call Noah. I agreed to Brady’s plans—I put on this dress, I got in the car, I went to the restaurant. I fucked up.
As the doors open into the penthouse, Brady steps smoothly in front of me, blocking my way out. I don’t give him the satisfaction of any protest or eye contact. I am completely still.
“Well, that’s a shame,” he drawls. “If you don’t know what you did wrong, then bending you over my knee doesn’t do any good.”
I feel my pulse quicken, and my nipples stiffen into points beneath my dress. I say nothing, concentrating on keeping my breaths steady, on not picturing myself bent over his knee, despite the sudden tension between my legs. In front of me, Brady looms closer, his masculine scent overwhelming me.
“Then again, if you enjoy it, it’s not really discipline, is it?” He lowers his face to mine, brushing his nose along my cheek as he whispers, “It could even be a reward. If you can prove you deserve it, that is.”
A shiver runs through me, my nipples now aching painfully. Brady pulls away just enough to glance down between us, to see my obvious arousal and make a soft noise of satisfaction. His face is still so close to mine. If I wanted to, I could kiss him, I could beg for it.
If I wanted to, I could spit in his eye.
But before I reach either decision, Brady’s stepping backward, out of the elevator. His hand lingers on the frame to stop the doors from closing, his long fingers curling slightly, the way they might curl around my ponytail, my wrist, my neck. He gives me his smuggest grin.
“Something to think about,” he says.
And then he’s gone. I’m alone in the elevator with my thoughts, which are too dangerous by far. It’s not until the metal doors start to close that I remember myself. I rush to the safety of my bedroom, where I can lock the door between myself and Brady.