Chapter 1
"Al?" I peek around the corner where the doors to his office are swung all the way open. Normally that is a good time to disturb him, but he's been on edge all day and it makes me nervous. There's chatter, his tone is dim. I'm still not convinced it's a good time to go in.
"No, of course that's not what we want to do, but if you want a second term you'll have to please the people, Alistair." I watch how Irina is perched on top of his vintage, oak desk, poised and regal, like she owns the place. She's wearing another designer pants suit — baby pink today, her pants ridiculously tight and her white, silk camisole underneath an open blazer can't possibly be considered work attire. Her feet are encased in white, high-heeled sandals, toenails painted the same pink as her outfit. Who has time for that?
"Not now, sweetheart," Alistair throws over his shoulder, dismissing me. He's not even looking at me. His tie hangs loose around his neck, the top three buttons of his light blue shirt undone. My husband is looking positively disheveled. "I'm going over our strategy for the elections with Rina. This is important, Isabella."
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. Rina.
I feel chastised like a child who's asking for a cookie before dinner.
Irina watches me, the corners of her pink lips turned up into a smirk, her crystal blue eyes taking me in before she arches a judgemental brow at my faded jeans and turtleneck sweater. We can't all look like Capitol Barbie, can we?
"If you want to continue living at this beautiful estate, Mrs. Anderson, we might have to kick it up a notch." Irina's voice drips with condescension. As if the ten-year age gap between me and my husband means I'm illiterate and stupid. Or both. "You know, we will need to strategize and give this our all." She talks to me as if I have zero brain cells. As if she's entitled to. As if this house means anything to me. All it did was tear Alistair away from me, drive us apart. I hate this place and what it stands for.
"I just need to steal my husband away for ten minutes, Irina." I'm sickly sweet and impossibly calm. There's no way I can let her see that she intimidates me. I won't be weak.
She steps away from Alistair's side, heels clicking on the ancient wooden floors until she lounges on the couch in the office, her phone in hand, shiny lips pursed.
"What is it, sweetheart?" He takes a deep breath, one hand running through his chin-length black hair. "You know I need every spare minute with Irina. We need to make this our best campaign ever in order for me to secure a second term. You know that." There's that edge to his voice that always gets me jittery. It's like he's designed that way of talking to me to shut me up promptly. To scare me off.
"I just…" I sigh. "I miss you," Not a single trace of recognition. I want to run my hands up the side of his arms but don't. His eyes are cold, distant. So cold that he may give me frostbite. Alistair has hurt my feelings. Again. And today I can't seem to hide it. My face falls and jealousy drags its claws deep into my skin, crawling out for all to see.
"Would it kill you to spend maybe a tad of time with me? Fuck, you're always with her, always ignoring me. What's up with that?" I cross my arms in front of my chest, watch Alistair's eyes focus, darken as he looks down at me. I made him angry. I almost immediately regret speaking my mind. I always do.
His dark eyes take the lead as he pushes me against the paneling in the hallway, my body trapped in between my husband and the wall. I can't escape this. Alistair is too strong. He knows he's hurting me. My heart beats a thousand times per minute, every hair on my body standing on end. I cast my eyes down, trying to focus on the threads securing Alistair's shirt button's but wince once he forces my head up. His long fingers digging into my chin, muscles straining as I can't do anything but comply. I blink against hot, rapid tears that escape from behind my eyes.
"Are you accusing me of something, sweetheart?" His voice is a lethal whisper.
"Wh— what do you mean?" I wish I had never opened my mouth.
"It sounds like my good little wife is accusing me of cheating with my campaign manager." He almost spits the words into my face. My lips tremble.
"No!" I breathe shakily. "That's no—"
Slap.
The way his palm connects with my cheek reverberates through my entire body. I know Irina heard it, the office is too close not to and the entire house is silent. I gasp as hot tears trail along my burning cheek.
"Stop being such a jealous little cunt. Go make yourself useful. Go make some dinner, something French and four courses might keep you busy enough to stay the fuck out of my business." he barks at me before stepping back into his office. He slams the door so hard I swear I can hear the hinges cry. The lock clicks. I'm locked out.
Alistair Anderson hasn't always been like this. He used to be my Prince Charming. He used to be the man who saved me from the trailer park. He was the man who wanted to marry me despite all my mess. It wasn't until he got elected mayor of this town that he decided politics were more important than marriage. Until stress took over. That's when I got my first bruise.
I thought it was a one-time thing. He was drunk. Anxious. Angry.
Turns out he loves me a little less than I thought.
His leash is tight. My husband appears scared. As if I'd unveil secrets and cost him his second term. As if he's scared I'll run. Fuck. I don't even have anywhere to run to. My freedom doesn't reach beyond the guest room upstairs.
I hear Irina's throaty giggle drift underneath the heavy office doors. The sound that follows is unmistakably my husband's.
A groan, deep and lustful. I used to hear it regularly. Now it just makes my stomach churn.
I act like I don't notice Irina's moans or the way Alistair grunts. I bet he's fucking her, bent over. My tears taste bitter. He only touches me when she's out of town or if he's angry. Or when he decides punishment needs more than a slap on the face.
I wish they'd sneak around more instead of flaunting their affair right in front of me whenever they please. As if I don't deserve any type of respect. As if they think I'm stupid.
Something about today feels different. It's more suffocating than usual.
I'm crawling out of my skin, sobbing l over a man whose hands have given me more pain than love over the past four years.
Suddenly, I'm moving. I reach for one of the suitcases under the bed. In a whirlwind I start rummaging through my closet, dumping all that can fit in the sleek, orange Samsonite I keep underneath my bed.
My heart hammers wildly in my chest, making me feel like I'm going to pass out. Or be sick. Or both. I can't believe I'm finally doing this.
I'm halfway through the house, making my way down to the garage when I scribble down passive-aggressive words to my lovely husband. I dump the note on the kitchen counter. I grab the keys to my Jaguar before speeding off.
Alistair can go to hell. Preferably while still inside his precious Irina.