8. The Broken Toy
Chapter eight
The Broken Toy
Ipulled my knees tighter to my chest, gripping the smooth metal edges of the iPad. Downstairs, Simon set his scotch glass on the mahogany coffee table, the crystal glinting under the recessed lighting. He grabbed Nina’s waist, pulling her flush against him for an eager, open-mouthed kiss.
The tiny speakers hissed with static, followed instantly by the amplified, wet sound of their mouths sliding together.
“Are you sure she can’t hear us up there?” Nina asked, her voice tinny and breathless through the tablet.
“She can’t hear anything,” Simon replied, his tone smooth and utterly devoid of guilt. “The inhibitor knocks her completely out. We have the whole house to ourselves.”
He shoved her backward. Nina stumbled, letting out a sharp, winded gasp as she hit the thick Persian rug. She squirmed onto her back, tangling her fingers in his perfectly coiffed hair. Simon reached for the hem of his own shirt, pulling it over his head and tossing the expensive fabric aside.
Knowing about the affair in theory was one thing, but watching him strip off his shirt on my living room rug made the bile rise in my throat. A cold sweat broke out across my palms, making the aluminum casing slick under my fingertips.
On the screen, those were the exact same hands that methodically crushed poison into my breakfast every morning. Now, they were tearing at the zipper of my ‘best friend’s’ emerald dress, yanking the material down to expose her black lace lingerie.
Every muscle in my body clenched. A bitter taste coated the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow hard against a rising wave of nausea.
I wanted to physically recoil, to throw the tablet across the room.
Instead, I forced my eyes to stay locked on the screen until the last trace of the man I married vanished.
Nina arched her back off the rug. “Good,” she muttered, kicking off her designer heels. “She smells like a hospital. Get this off me.”
My thumb shifted off the bottom bezel. I tapped the screen once, ensuring the recording icon pulsed a persistent red in the corner. Rapidly, my finger found the side volume and power buttons.
Click. Click. Click.
The screen flashed white with every screenshot, capturing their faces and my living room directly behind them.
I pushed the sickness down, ignoring the phantom sting of the torn IV tape on my hand.
They thought I was a comatose victim rotting upstairs, completely unaware that every arrogant whisper on that screen was giving me exactly what I needed to destroy them.
I stared at the digital feed, my grip tightening on the casing. Just keep talking so I have the audio.
The live feed streamed without a single glitch.
On the screen, Simon shoved Nina’s black lace aside and drove himself into her on the Persian rug.
The movement was raw and fast. He didn’t bother with the slow, rehearsed gentility he had always used in my bed.
His hands clamped down hard on her hips, his knuckles turning white under the harsh recessed lighting.
“You like that?” Simon’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker, breathy and arrogant. “You like taking her place?”
Nina arched her back, her painted fingernails clawing at his shoulders. “Yes. God, yes. Fuck, Simon, don’t stop.”
I refused to blink. The bright blue glare burned my eyes, but I forced myself to track every thrust. Through the static hiss, the tablet’s microphone picked up the rhythmic, wet slap of skin against skin. That crude sound echoed through the sterile silence of my bedroom.
I stared at his flushed face on the screen. He wasn’t the sophisticated husband I thought I knew; he was just a vicious man taking whatever he wanted.
“I’m so sick of looking at her,” Simon grunted, his face buried in Nina’s neck. “I can’t wait until she’s gone.”
The cruelty of his words barely registered as an insult. Instead, a cold stiffness crept into my shoulders. Watching them defile my living room made the hairs on my arms stand up. I lay there, bristling at the sheer arrogance of it.
I studied the stark, glistening sweat gathering on his bare back. He loomed over her like a conqueror, completely oblivious to the fact that every arrogant word was sealing his fate. I squeezed the aluminum edges of the tablet, letting the cold metal bite into my palms.
You don’t own a single thing in this house.
The frantic movement on the screen finally ceased.
Simon collapsed beside Nina, both of them sprawling across the thick wool rug.
Their chests heaved in tandem, their skin slicked with sweat in the harsh living room glare.
He pulled her flush against his side, lazily tracing a circle on her bare shoulder.
The sickening display of post-coital affection sent a dull ache pulsing behind my eyes. I had been staring unblinking at the bright glare for nearly an hour. My thumbs cramped from gripping the chilled casing, but I didn’t dare shift my weight on the mattress.
Nina rolled her head on his chest, her voice carrying clearly through the iPad’s small speaker. “When is the facility coming to get her?”
“I arranged the transport for Monday morning,” Simon murmured. His tone was utterly casual, as if they were discussing a grocery delivery rather than my permanent confinement. “Once Lawrence signs the proxy on Friday, I have full authority.”
Hearing the total lack of remorse in his voice finally broke the tension holding my posture rigid. They were discussing locking me away as if it were a minor household chore.
I dragged my thumb across the glass and hit the red square. The recording timer vanished. I navigated directly to the cloud application, watching the digital progress bar jump across the screen as the massive video file transferred to my secure drive.
“Upload,” I muttered into the quiet room. My voice was a scratchy whisper that barely carried over the soft ticking of the wall clock.
I opened my encrypted email client and attached the video, along with the string of explicit screenshots. I typed Lawrence’s address into the destination field. My thumb hovered over the send arrow for a fraction of a second. I didn’t allow myself time to hesitate. I pressed down.
The satisfying digital swoosh of the outgoing message cut through the silence.
A bright green checkmark flashed across the display, confirming the delivery.
I let out a slow, deliberate exhale. My tight shoulders dropped an inch, sagging against the headboard.
A deep, physical exhaustion dragged at my limbs, but the sharp thrill of having them cornered kept my pulse racing.
I held all the cards.
My burner phone vibrated against the mattress beside me. A message from Lawrence lit up the screen.
File received. The injunction will be finalized tonight.
I grabbed the plastic device, opening the chat window. My fingers moved swiftly over the digital keyboard, driven by a fresh rush of adrenaline.
Make sure the DA sees that video before they arrive.
I hit send, then pressed the side button to lock the phone.
I reached across the empty space of the mattress, feeling around the edge of the wooden nightstand in the dark.
Finding the iPad’s wire with my fingertips, I pushed the charging cable into the port, listening to the soft metallic click before pressing the top button to force the tablet’s screen black.
An hour crept by in total silence, marked only by the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
I stayed pressed against the headboard, taking long breaths until my racing heart gradually slowed in the quiet room.
Then, the distinct creak of the oak staircase echoed through the floorboards.
The solid thud of his footsteps climbed higher. He was coming up.
I slid flat against the bare mattress. Grabbing my left leg, I threw it outward at a crooked, unnatural angle, perfectly mimicking the deadened weight of a paralyzed limb. I tossed my right arm over my eyes to block the nonexistent light and forced my breathing into a slow, steady rhythm.
Metal scratched at the hallway lock. I had locked it from the inside, but the sharp click of the deadbolt turning proved Simon had grabbed the spare key.
The hinges groaned. His bare feet scuffed softly as he moved across the hardwood, stopping directly beside the mattress.
Instantly, a suffocating wave of stale scotch and cloying jasmine perfume washed over me, layered over the sharp tang of his sweat.
The stench alone was enough to make me nauseous.
He was standing so close I could feel the warm, damp draft of his breath ghosting over my exposed neck.
“Audrey. Hey, Audrey, wake up,” Simon said in a harsh whisper.
I kept my features entirely slack, focusing every ounce of my willpower on keeping my breathing steady. Inhale for four seconds. Exhale for four seconds.
His hand reached down. Pulling the edge of my sweatshirt sleeve back, he clamped two fingers onto my bare wrist to dig his manicured nails into my flesh. He twisted, pinching the skin.
A sharp sting bit into my arm. I fought the overwhelming urge to lock my jaw. I had to physically restrain myself from pulling away from the sudden pain. Forcing my muscles to remain entirely limp, I let my arm rest like dead weight on the mattress. I didn’t flinch.
He released his grip, exhaling a long breath above me.
“Completely out. Good,” Simon muttered to himself, the arrogant satisfaction dripping from his voice.
His callous cruelty, pinching me just to see if I was unconscious, stoked a fresh wave of hatred.
He didn’t just want my money; he liked having me completely helpless under his hands.
But beneath the disgust, a cold, clinical satisfaction washed over me.
He thought he was the undisputed master of this house, casually testing his ‘broken toy’. He had no idea what was coming.
The mattress shifted slightly as his knees bumped the frame. He stepped away, the oppressive stench of his affair fading as he moved toward the master bathroom.
“I’m just taking a quick shower, sweetheart,” he called out, his voice returning to that perfectly crafted, patronizing tone.
He didn’t wait for a response before turning his back on me and walking into the bathroom.
The heavy click of the bathroom door shutting echoed through the silent bedroom.
A few seconds later, the plumbing groaned, followed by the loud, rushing sound of water hitting the porcelain tiles.
A bright sliver of yellow light spilled out from beneath the doorframe, cutting a sharp line across the hardwood floorboards.
I dropped the comatose act instantly. Opening my eyes, I turned my head to glare at the painted wood.
Slowly, I reached across my chest. My thumb found the raised, irritated welt on my left arm.
I pressed down hard, using the sudden spike of pain to clear my head.
The steady, rhythmic friction of my thumb rubbing the injured flesh kept my focus sharp, pushing back the lingering disgust of his breath on my neck.
Wash it off all you want. I have it all on tape.
The cascading water masked any sound I made, but I remained perfectly still on the bare mattress.
With the duvet discarded, a cold draft swept over the room, chilling my exposed ankles above my sweatpants.
I didn’t care about the temperature. I stared straight up at the dark ceiling, tracing the faint shadows cast by the streetlamps outside the window.
For the first time in six months, the knot of tension I had been carrying began to unravel.
The relentless doubt was gone. I wasn’t just a fragile, dying wife trapped in an upstairs bedroom anymore.
Simon was standing in that shower utterly certain of his victory, entirely blind to the trap closing around him.
Tomorrow is Thursday. One full day left to endure.
I pulled my legs out of their crooked, awkward positions and stretched them flat against the mattress.
Listening to the steady hum of the shower, I felt my breathing finally slow.
The digital evidence of his affair and his confession was sitting securely on Lawrence’s encrypted servers downtown.
The trap was fully set, just waiting for Simon to step into it on Friday afternoon.
I released the tight grip on my bruised arm, letting my hands rest loosely against the dry cotton fabric of my sweatshirt. I closed my eyes, allowing the ambient noise of the rushing water to lull me to sleep. The snare was pulled tight; all I had to do now was wait for morning.