Lara is the bessssst.

Chapter 2.

I have about eighty dollars on me. It's more than I usually walk around with since I'm rarely going anywhere by myself but it's not enough for anything good, or far away. It only gets me one night at the Sunset Motel in Oakland but it's better than nothing, I guess.

The guy at reception hardly looks a day over eighteen, so I hope that makes him stereotypically ignorant of politics. That way, he hopefully has no clue as to who I am. And who I'm running from.

"Here's the key to room one-seventeen," the guy says. He dangles an actual key on a kitchy sunrise keychain in front of me. I smile and take them from him before I go back outside. The building isn't too shabby, not chic either. It's a neutral, beige sorta color brick, two stories high. Each room has its own door and a big window overlooking the parking lot.

I don't know why but there's just something about motels like this. A kind of vibe I associate with romance for some reason. Although I'm in the least romantic situation ever. I'm not meeting my lover, no. I'm not even meeting my husband in an effort to 'spice things up' as the magazines would call it. I'm fucking running from the man I promised 'until death do us part'. I'm fucking hilarious, crying my eyes out when I was younger because I was convinced no one would ever want me. And now that an eligible, handsome man married me I decided to leave him.

Good job, Bella.

My room is on the first floor. I take my time on the stairs. They're the metal, see-through kind that give me anxiety since I'm not too great at heights, or keeping my balance sometimes. Although I hate those steps, the sound they make when I step my sneakers on them is quite soothing. Ding. Ding.

The key doesn't move in the lock as smoothly as I'm used to. The lock is a bit rusty, the knob stiff as I lower it and let myself in. As I close the door behind me, I can't help but let out a loud sigh. It comes from deep within, from the piece of mind, from being away. A part of me doesn't stop worrying, afraid that I've turned myself into prey and that my hunter might find me.

Stop that. I tell myself.

My departure from the manor was more impulsive than I usually am. I'm being reckless, driving out during the day in a car that gets usually stands out because of the loud, vivid purple color. I'm not one to stand out but Jake—my childhood friend and mechanic downtown insisted I paint my vintage car a modern color.

I think about the grave decision I made today, fear running through my veins. I get up from the foot of the bed, close the heavy, burnt-orange drapes in front of the window and peek through, appreciating the way I've parked right behind a dumpster. That way people won't see it when they drive by. Not that Alistair has any business in Oakland. He's too busy conquering San Jose for another four years. Poor people, if only they knew the kind of wolf he is. One in sheep's clothing, for sure.

My stomach growls, and I rummage through my large, leather satchel. I grow agitated when I can't find my wallet right away and dump out the contents of my bag onto the bed. I smile, noticing the twenty dollar bill that was littering the bottom along with a protein bar. I sigh when I count the money I have left. True, the twenty from my purse is like a gift from the heavens but that only adds up to twenty-seven dollars. That, and a half tank of gas won't get me very far.

I frown, my lip tender from biting it as I contemplate my options. The second I use the credit card he'll know where I am.

My only hope is the debit card I still have from back when I waited tables, but I'm not sure just how much money is on there. I also don't have my social security card or my passport. Just my license. Now, in San Jose that gets me access everywhere since I'm the mayor's wife, but I'm not sure the people of Oakland care about Isabella Anderson. Hell, I don't even care about her. She's a petty little bitch who got weak because she got hitched to a richer, handsome, older guy.

I used to be so strong, I muse. I used to have to fight for everything I had, even though that was barely anything at all but I did it. All myself. Loving Alistair was as easy as breathing at the start. He was charming and knew all the right things to say to a poor, young creature waiting tables. He had lunch at the diner every day just to see me. Now I wonder if that was just a line, or if he actually meant what he said to me—the easy twenty-year-old whose only pair of good sneakers were to go to work.

As I lay down on the suprisingly soft, fresh-smelling duvet cover on my twin bed, it's like the last five years were a movie. The first year was worthy of a romance novel. The last four? That was more thriller material. Especially the last year. The last year was borderline insanity.

I don't even know why Alistair wanted to run for office. He was CFO at his father's company, doing extremely well for himself…we lived in the most beautiful, art-deco-style home in Alderbrook where the morning sun would shine through the glass sunroom and onto the breakfast bar. I used to love sitting there having coffee, used to love lounging in a pillow fort with Al while we watched his exotic birds in the aviary.

I huff, disgusted by myself. How is it that I can only ever conjure up positive memories about Al? It's like his charms and his smooth-talking ways cut out the parts in my brain where he forces himself on me, where he beats the living shit out of me whenever he feels like it. Those memories, those thoughts—the bad ones never come naturally. I have to dig them out as if I've been repressing them, shoving them to the back of my mind so I never have to relive those moments again.

Sadly, I may have to relive it all if I want to stand a chance in a courtroom, if I want to get divorced and have him out of my life. Fuck, I don't even want anything that isn't mine. I just want to get out of that house, out of Al's life since he's made mine even more miserable than it was when I lived at the trailer park. I didn't even know that was a possibility but suddenly 'last notice' bills and a hot, humid trailer don't seem so bad when you have to cover up bruises as often as I have to. It's just him…the man who seemed to have made my life so much better turned it into a gilded cage—hell.

I catch myself reminiscing again. Maybe he could change again. Maybe it's all the stress again from the re-elections.

Maybe once Irina is gone he'll have eyes for me again.

Maybe his cold and distant blues will melt and swim full of promises and regret. But I want to kick myself for thinking so.

It'll never be the way it once was. And he won't let me go, either. Divorce looks bad with the family-oriented campaign he's deluding the voters with. It would reflect badly on his golden-guy status he's worked so hard for.

Lies, lies, lies.

My phone rings a few times but I ignore it. I throw the suitcase on the floor next to my bed, barricading the door with it as if it would stop people from barging in if they really wanted. I take my toiletries, some sweats and a soft shirt and start the shower. Clicking on the light in the bathroom sets of a noisy, irritating fan in the corner, above the toilet, filtring the air since there's no window here. I sniff the towels. They're fluffy and smell like they're fresh out of the dryer. Honestly, this place should get a better rating on Yelp.

Once I'm showered, my dark hair a wet mop on top of my head, I finally look at my phone. I've been gone for three hours now. The missed call is from our housekeeper, accompanied by a text saying she'll be early tomorrow. Good. Let her catch Al and Irina fucking for all I care.

Three hours down. I wonder how much time will pass before he realizes I'm gone.

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