3. Calculated Frailty
Chapter three
Calculated Frailty
“Welcome home, darling!” Nina’s voice echoed off the cold marble foyer, her heavy jasmine perfume suffocating the air before my wheelchair even crossed the threshold.
The metal frame rattled slightly against the polished stone as Simon pushed me inside. Behind us, the solid oak front door shut with a dull, final thud.
Nina hovered instantly. She dropped into a crouch in front of the metal footrests, throwing her arms around my neck and dragging me forward into a frantic, restrictive hug.
I didn’t have the strength to resist her pull.
My face mashed directly into her silk shoulder.
The thick, floral taste of her perfume coated the back of my tongue.
I forced myself to swallow it down, fighting the sudden urge to gag as my throat began to close.
“Oh, I was so worried about you, Audrey!” Nina scraped her nails through my unwashed hair, aggressively smoothing the limp waves flat against my skull. “Simon and I were absolute wrecks waiting for the doctors to call.”
She pulled back just enough to frame my cheeks with her palms.
That was when the light caught it. A brand-new diamond tennis bracelet encircled her wrist, the platinum clasp resting right against my jawline.
The stones glittered sharply under the foyer chandelier, flashing inches from my left eye.
A sick, biting heat flushed up the back of my neck.
Nina was notoriously broke. She hadn’t managed to hold down a steady job in over three years.
Those diamonds were paid for directly out of my marketing agency’s quarterly dividends.
Simon stepped around the side of the chair. He reached down, peeling the lapel of my cashmere coat back to slide the garment off my shoulders.
“We really were,” he murmured. He didn’t grab the coat immediately. Instead, he let his fingers brush along the bare skin of Nina’s forearm. “But she’s back now, and we’re going to make sure she rests.”
He didn’t step away. Simon remained standing entirely too close to my best friend, his leather loafers practically touching the hem of her flashy designer dress. Nina kept her hands firmly clamped down on my collarbones, pinning me to the backrest of the chair. She tilted her chin up.
I kept my gaze fixed straight ahead on the blank entryway wall, staring mindlessly at a brass light switch.
But in my peripheral vision, I saw it. A slow, intimate glance passed directly over the crown of my head.
The two of them operated without a shred of shame.
They assumed I was a vacant, fading ghost trapped in an oversized sweater, too far gone to realize what was happening right in front of me.
The utter arrogance of their deception made my fingers twitch. I dug my short nails into the wool fabric resting in my lap.
“You’re both so incredibly good to me,” I whispered, making sure I sounded weak and pathetic. I tipped my head to the side, leaning into Nina’s palm like a starving, dependent pet. “I don’t know what I’d do without my two absolute favorite people looking out for me.”
Nina stroked my cheekbone. She smiled down at me, her emerald-green eyes flat and devoid of warmth.
“We’re going to take such good care of you. You won’t have to lift a finger.”
The rubber squeal of the tires faded into a muted glide as Simon pushed me off the foyer marble and onto the thick wool rug of the living room.
He parked the wheelchair near the unlit hearth.
Reaching over the back of the leather sofa, he grabbed a heavy-knit throw blanket.
He shook it out, the fabric snapping in the air, and draped it carefully over my numb legs.
Nina didn’t follow us to the fireplace. She bypassed the seating area entirely, her designer heels clicking across the hardwood perimeter as she walked straight to the wet bar. She claimed the space like she owned the house.
“I cleared my schedule for the rest of the week, Audrey,” Nina called over her shoulder, opening the glass cabinet. “I can sit here with you during the day while Simon runs the agency.”
She didn’t ask Simon what he wanted to drink, simply reaching for the crystal decanter.
The sharp clink of ice cubes dropping against glass rang through the quiet room.
She poured two fingers of scotch, the rich, woody scent of the alcohol drifting instantly across the open floor plan. It wasn’t even noon.
Nina walked back over to the fireplace, holding both glasses. She handed one to my husband. As the crystal changed hands, she deliberately let her index finger brush slowly across his bare knuckles.
Simon ducked his chin, his lips twitching into a private smile as he let out a quiet, low laugh. Nina smiled back, a secret shared right in front of my face.
The stifling warmth of the blanket trapped the heat against my legs, while a sick, crawling wave of humiliation washed over me.
How had I missed this? For months, I had watched her navigate my house, pour his drinks, and anticipate his moods. I had blindly written it off as friendship. I bit down so hard a sharp sting flared through my jawline.
I had to take a slow, silent breath to stop myself from glaring. I dropped my gaze, mimicking the vacant ignorance they expected. They were so blinded by their own arrogance. I could use that.
I let my head loll slightly against the backrest of the wheelchair, using the frailty they expected as a weapon to break their little moment.
“That’s so sweet of you, Nina, but you really don’t have to do that,” I murmured, staring blankly at the unlit logs in the hearth. “I think I just want to sleep for a few days to get my strength back. Could I get some water?”
The low murmur of their shared joke cut off abruptly. I had just reduced the lady of the house to an errand girl. Simon took a sip of his scotch, the ice shifting against his teeth.
“Sleep is exactly what you need right now, sweetheart,” Simon said, his voice dripping with rehearsed sympathy. “I’ll make sure you get plenty of it.”
Nina’s jaw tightened for a fraction of a second before she plastered the tragic smile back on. “Of course, honey. Let me get you that water.”
The stiff fabric of her dress rustled loudly as she turned her back and disappeared into the kitchen.
The next morning, the abrasive, high-speed grind of the blender blades shattered the quiet of the kitchen. I sat parked at the center island, my elbows locked rigidly against the padded armrests of my wheelchair to suppress the violent tremor in my fingers.
Morning sunlight streamed through the sheer Roman shades, illuminating Simon’s impeccably tailored suit jacket as he stood with his back to me.
“Almost done,” he muttered over his shoulder.
He switched the machine off. The sudden silence felt deafening. He unfastened the plastic pitcher and poured a thick, pale-green purée into a heavy glass. Dropping a stainless steel straw into the sludge, he turned and placed the drink directly onto the cold marble in front of me.
The sharp, metallic clink of the straw hitting the rim sent a sudden spike of tension through my face.
Condensation immediately began to weep down the outside of the glass, pooling on the stone.
The fresh, organic scent of raw kale and green apple drifted up toward me, completely hiding whatever drugs he had crushed into the sludge.
My throat tightened, the sharp restriction making it hard to even swallow. I was staring right at the poison that was stripping my life away.
“Drink up, Audrey,” Simon instructed, adjusting his silk tie. He leaned his hip against the counter, watching me expectantly. “You need all your strength for the proxy meeting with Lawrence next week.”
I stared at the green surface of the liquid. I needed a twenty-second window to secure a physical sample for Owen. But Simon wasn’t moving. He intended to stand there and supervise my consumption like a warden. I had to figure out a way to get him out of the room.
“I’ll try,” I said, making sure my voice sounded frail and hesitant. I let my hands rest limply against the cashmere in my lap, refusing to reach for the condensation-slicked glass. “My stomach is just feeling a bit unsettled this morning.”
Simon frowned. His slate-grey eyes narrowed in faint, simmering annoyance at the tiny hint of defiance. “You have to force it down. It’s strictly for your nerve health. I didn’t spend twenty minutes making it for you to just stare at it.”
He tapped his index finger against the marble countertop. He wasn’t going to walk out the door until he got exactly what he wanted. I had to shift tactics, aiming for the only thing he cared about more than micromanaging my health.
“It looks delicious, honey, thank you,” I said, offering a slow, compliant smile. I waited for his finger to stop tapping. “Oh, did Lawrence email you about the Q3 tax filings? I thought I saw the folder sitting in your leather briefcase.”
The shift in his posture was immediate. Simon’s composed frame stiffened, his anxiety over the agency instantly eclipsing his need to micromanage my breakfast. He patted his side pockets, a flicker of genuine panic crossing his manicured features.
“Damn it, the Q3s,” he hissed, his hand dropping away from his tie. He turned, looking toward the empty mudroom archway. “I think I left the briefcase in the home office. Let me go grab it. I have to leave for the agency in ten minutes.”
He turned his back on me completely, his mind already pivoting to the executive duties he was actively stealing. He didn’t spare a second glance at the green liquid on the counter.
“I’ll just be right here enjoying my breakfast,” I called out softly to his retreating spine.
He waved a dismissive hand without looking back, rounding the corner into the main corridor. The steady thud of his leather shoes faded down the hall, leaving me entirely alone with the poison.