17. Margot
Chapter 17
Margot
F eeling sorry for myself, I burrow further into the couch, only half listening to the TV as it plays in the background. I’m nursing a killer hangover and trying to process a whole host of regrets about letting my husband fuck me against a wall in his club. Thankfully, he was gone when I woke up this morning so I was spared the embarrassment of having to face him in the cold light of day.
Unfortunately, I was not spared the embarrassment of having to ask Maria to get the morning after pill for me or asking her to take me to my doctor’s to get contraception. Thankfully, she was understanding, not bothering to hide her pleased grin, and more than happy to help me out. There was no way in hell I was asking Massimo for any of that.
Groaning, I swing my legs over the back of the big white couch, hanging my head off the edge and covering my eyes with my arm. My stomach protests at the motion, threatening to bring up its contents.
No amount of carbs at breakfast seemed to do the trick of absorbing the stupid amount of alcohol I drank. I never should have returned to Cece and Reagan, or got blackout drunk hoping to wipe my memory of Massimo’s touch from my mind.
I breathe through the nausea before focusing my mind on something other than how gross I feel. Immediately, X-rated images flash through my mind, sending a bolt of lust to my core that’s quickly followed by a shower of guilt. I open my eyes, my focus darting around the room from one unfamiliar and upside down piece of furniture to the next. He’s so infuriating . I know that he had something to do with the text I received from Ethan, but ruined my only chance at being able to confront him about it by letting him touch me.
Blood rushes to my head when I attempt to move, only making me feel worse. I’m halfway through shifting when I spot something peeking out from under a credenza on the far side of the room. It’s tiny, a small corner of something, but the fact that it’s hidden wipes away any other thoughts and forces my attention to it.
As quickly as my body will allow me, I right myself on the couch before standing. With a glance behind me to make sure the door is closed, I cross the room and grip the edges of the unit. It’s heavier than I expected and I have to put my weight on my heels to push it away from the wall. It scrapes across the floor, the sound so loud that I flinch, certain that someone will have heard it.
Urgency fuels me, the fear of what will happen should I be caught snooping following quickly on my heels. My shallow breaths seem amplified in the quiet of the room and when I hear a noise somewhere in the house, I whip my head toward the door. I wait, listening intently, and when I hear nothing further, I look down the small gap I’ve created between the wall and the unit.
My brow furrows at what I find. Half hanging onto the back of the credenza by a single strip of tape on its corner is a thick A5 envelope. Why would Massimo keep an envelope taped to the back of a unit? Surely, he’d have a safe here or even in the club?
Carefully peeling away the tape, I take the envelope before moving the credenza back into place. I turn the envelope over as I walk back to the couch. There’s no writing on the front so I think it’s safe to assume it didn’t come in the mail.
I slide my finger under the seal and tilt my head when I realize it hasn’t been secured. Why would you go to such lengths to hide something but not seal it? Unless whoever left it behind has been returning to it regularly. That would explain the tape half hanging off.
Hesitating for a moment, I stare at the envelope. It suddenly feels heavy as if it’s gained the weight of the world in the moments since I picked it up. If I uncover something I shouldn’t, will they kill me? Probably . But I’m married to the man who would give the order, and I don’t think he would.
No . If me storming into his office and shouting at him in front of people doesn’t get me killed, then finding an envelope of whatever this is, won’t either.
I roll my lips together, tentatively peeking inside and assessing a wad of papers that have been haphazardly stuffed in. When I pull them out a USB stick lands on my chest with a soft thud. I stare at it, like it’s a foreign object that’s alien to me before picking it up and turning it over. There’s nothing remarkable about it so I drop it back into the envelope and turn my attention to the papers.
I unfold them, smoothing out the crease down the center, ignoring the headache looming at the back of my head as I start pouring over the contents. Phone records? Sections are highlighted but none of the numbers are the same. My gaze lingers on the scrawled notes, trying to decipher the illegible handwriting. Somebody was in a hurry, that much is clear, but why?
Flipping through a couple of the pages, I find newspaper clippings with letters cut out and sheets of plain paper. What the hell is this? My mind instantly goes to the old school ransom notes before I dismiss the idea. Why would someone go to the effort of cutting out letters when you can create a fake email? None of this makes any sense .
Anxiety forms like a ball at the base of my throat. Whatever this is, it’s dangerous, too dangerous to keep to myself, that much I know. I shove the papers back into the envelope along with the USB and stand. I need to tell Massimo what I’ve found.