Chapter 10
Two hours ago, I was a piece of candy; now I'm something rotten.
My fingers pull at my skirt like it's indecent, even when it isn't. Just shorter than anything I've worn since marrying Richard.
"What happened to your hair?" He points at the knots on my head—and I can't tell him. Not now.
He doesn't wait for my answer and jabs at his phone screen in his hand. "I messaged you. Three times. No answer."
Shit. I must have accidentally turned off my sounds.
"You always reply right away." His stare presses me flat. "Where were you?"
I peel off my heels and hide them behind my feet so he can't see them, since I'm about to lie like my life depends on it. "I went to see Lucy. We went to the beach."
"The beach?" He frowns and points at the shoes anyway. "In those?"
"Yeah," I say through the lump in my throat.
"You're seriously telling me you went to the beach in stilettos?"
"Yes. Stupid idea, I know."
His eyes narrow even more, almost to slits, and he starts enunciating each word. "Why did you take them if you knew you were going to the beach?"
"I didn't know we were going to the beach," I snap and might as well faint. "We changed the plan last minute."
He studies me, then points at my hair again. "Did you go in the water?"
I pretend to laugh. "Yeah. Lu dared me—"
His jaw ticks. "She's always bad news—"
"I started it," I rush in, feeling like shit for dragging Lu into it. "It started as my idea. Childish prank."
"Agreed. Childish." He snaps a cold nod. "I left the office early—early!—while working on a deal that could bankroll our lives, and this is what I walk into?" His hand slices toward the bedroom like a gavel.
I flinch. That's where I left the box, with all the evidence of my morning identity crisis.
Before he can say anything else, I run there. "Sorry. I found the dress in the closet and was trying things on. I wanted to feel like myself again."
Richard walks over, arms crossed, eyes drilling me from above as I perch on the bed, stuffing everything back.
"This is you? A woman who leaves the house with no self-respect?" he says with disdain.
My hand halts above the box and I blink, shame creeping up so fast it snatches my breath.
Then blink again because there's no way he knows where I've been. He's talking about my dress.
That's all, Emma. He's talking about your dress.
"Did you just say I have no self-respect?" I ask, frowning.
"Yes?" He says it like a question, but it's clearly a statement.
"So I'm a hooker now?" I ask, honestly more baffled than anything else. "For wearing a summer dress?"
"I'm surprised you would wear something like that when I'm not around."
Okay, now I'm pissed. I stand up straight against him, hands on my hips. "What the hell does that mean?"
"It means," he drawls out like I'm stupid, "that's not who I married. Not this version."
"Version?" I scoff. "What am I? Software you can update when I glitch?"
His jaw grinds, eyes going cold. "Stop being petulant."
"Petulant? For fuck's sake, you just called me a hooker!" I yell because it lands way harder than it normally would and push past him, pacing back to the closet to fling the box in the corner. "Over a dress!"
When I turn around, Richard's there—in the doorway again—staring me down. The word fuck hangs heavy between us.
He hates it when women swear, when I swear. Says it's vulgar and low-class.
I save it for when he's not around, like some dirty little pleasure I'm supposed to overgrow.
But what's the point now? I'm tainted. Might as well speak in my own tongue.
"It's not just a dress," he says in that executive tone—cool, definitive, used to being obeyed. "You are my wife, and with that comes responsibility. Presentation. Decorum."
"Don't you think I know that?" I strip the dress, fling it over my head for the second time today, indignant. "It was one day. People change hairstyles, clothes, makeup. People change, Richard."
"I don't." He gestures at the dark blue suit like it's proof of virtue—same cut, same shade as the ten others lined up in his closet.
"Congratulations," I bite out. "Some of us are still finding ourselves."
Slam. The wardrobe door rattles in its frame.
"Finding yourself?" He snorts, derisive. "Sure. Keep at it. Just let me know which version of you I'm supporting today."
There it is again. Version.
You know what? He might be right. There are two Emmas now. The one that says I'm a hypocrite, I crossed a line, and should apologize, and the other that knows this has nothing to do with me and Ben.
"This doesn't look like support to me." I cross my arms.
His eyes flash in the dim closet light to something almost intimidating and his voice comes out with that cold steel. "I'm not fond of your tone."
"Yeah, well, I'm not fond of your shaming," I say, voice too steady for the churn rolling in my gut. God, this whole thing is sick. "Stop being patronizing."
"Oh, so I'm the bad guy now?" He arches a brow, too controlled, like he's above the flames he started.
Then turns and mutters on the way out, "I don't have time for this. Some of us are busy with real-life problems."
My face locks. I guess this is the moment when it all calcifies because inside? I'm bleeding. How many times did I beg him to stop treating me like a child? Told him how much that one cuts. And every time he promised, he did it anyway.
"Fine!" I yell after him. "Add another to your list! Make your own damn dinner tonight!"
I grab the cashmere scarf and hurl it at him, but it just flutters to the ground, making me want to shred it into pieces with all its elegance.
?
For the rest of the day, I mostly hide in my office, brain trapped in a loop.
Every time we cross paths in the hallway, it's the same sharp, too-loud sigh—Richard's unspoken demand for an apology.
Unlike what Ben believes, I'm usually the one who caves.
Today, I want to let my throat go hoarse with all the things I didn't say, though.
But I hold back—because betrayal dulls your right to resentment, and silence is the tax you pay for lying.
By dinner, I haven't tied my hair up the way I usually do before I cook, but it stays loose over my shoulders. Probably the best blow I've done in a while.
Like I said—there won't be any dinner.
I'm about to go see Carl.
At least one thing off my chest.
And screw Richard because here I am, stuck in front of my closet, questioning what I'm allowed to wear.
Most of it already passed his inspection, since he picked it out himself or asked Jessica, probably with exact instructions.
I wonder if all of this was to keep me from corrupting his precious idea of a wife.
Eventually, I choose a white turtleneck dress and beige heels.
Simple. Polished. It cuts just on the knees, hugging tight enough to feel my quiet defiance, and hiding the band aids underneath.
As I'm about to leave, Richard mutters something from the bathroom, half-drowned by running water. Might've been about my outfit or whatever his problem is, but I don't stop.
I shut the door and head a floor down, calling the elevator from there, so he doesn't think of following me. I can't see him now. Not when he makes me feel this small.
Still, I chin up. I've mastered pretending I have it together. The woman in the mirror knows how to turn pain into grace and grief into good posture. It works.
At least until I step into the lobby.
The punch is almost visceral, hitting the bruises I already earned today.
I can't see her face fully because it's shielded by a newspaper spread, but I can already tell she looks nothing like me.
Tall, willowy, not an ounce of extra fat on her. Hair long, platinum blonde. A pristine white dress like no grime of the city touched her. She probably floats instead of walking.
I hate to admit it but I feel that burning reflex I haven't felt in a while—competition. It reminds me I'm not half as evolved as I'd like to be.
But then again, she's not just a woman. She's Lisa.
And Lisa is Ben's wife.
My eyes drag to him. He's angled over her, scanning the newspaper, his hand settled on her shoulder in a way I don't like one bit.
I notice the front page with his face smiling above the title. Ben Bellini's Heart for the City: The Doctor Behind the Mobile ER.
Huh. He's here a few days and already managed to become best friends with the receptionist, and that too?
Somehow, I don't expect any less from him.
I sigh, drag my hands over my dress, paste a smile I reserve for polite torture, and force my legs forward.
The second he spots me, his mouth drops like air knocked out of him.
Not sure if it's because he didn't expect me or because of what I'm wearing.
"Emma." His hand slips off her shoulder all too fast, and he waves between us. "Lisa, this is Emma."
I'd smile at how fast he retreated if I wasn't busy bleeding out on the inside.
"I told you about her," he adds and I blink.
What? Told her what, exactly? No way he told her everything.
"The writer?" she asks, voice gauzy behind the paper, but doesn't put it down.
He nods, smiling at me. "Yeah. That's her. She's brilliant."
Oh. Brilliant. Not neurotic. Not inappropriate. Brilliant. He deserves at least a little smile back, so I give him one.
Lisa still doesn't show her face, too busy flipping a page. "Why did they use this photo? You have better ones."
I raise a brow at him, pissed at the dismissal, and he shifts slightly, thrown off by his wife's insolence.
"Emma lives in the building," he says, then adds quickly with too much emphasis, "with her husband."
There's a shift behind the paper and her voice comes out pointed. "Really? You didn't mention that."
He scratches the back of his neck, guilty-boy-tell. "Just didn't get to that."
She folds the paper and finally deigns to acknowledge me.
So yeah, she is pretty. Has those lagoon-blue eyes, but I don't know, something about her face makes you not like her.
Might be that snobbish tilt of her chin; might be personal. Who knows.