Her chin sets in the way that says she won’t give up. “How are things at home, with Gabriel, I mean?”
I don’t want to saddle Kris with my problems, but I do need a friend to confide in. “Not well. He’s a walking corpse.”
She stuffs her mouth with noodles and mumbles, “Sounds kind of normal with what he’s going through.”
Immediately, I feel selfish and bad for thinking of my needs when I should be placing his first.
“Mourning takes time,” she says.
“He hasn’t been back to work, and he hardly leaves the house.”
“He doesn’t need to work if he doesn’t want to. He’s got enough money.”
“I’m worried about him sitting in his study all day.”
“I’m sure he’s doing stuff.”
“I wish I knew what to do to help.”
“Give him space.” She takes another big bite. “And be patient.”
When I don’t say anything for several seconds, she stops eating and looks at me again. “You want things to work out with him, don’t you?”
This is the crux of the problem. “Yes,” I whisper.
“You feel you shouldn’t because of how the two of you started.”
“I don’t know what I feel. I only know I want this to be real. I don’t want to pretend, anymore. I want a real husband who loves me for me, not an owner who married me so his enemies won’t decapitate me.”
“Whoa.” She laughs. “It sounds harsh when you put it like that.”
“But true.”
“Yeah. Harsh, but true. What are you going to do?”
“I was hoping you’d tell me. What should I do, Kris?”
“I guess it depends on what you want.”
“I want him.”
“Then fight.”
“Fight?”
“Yes. Give him another few months to mourn and then start walking around naked. That should catch his attention.”
I swat at her with my napkin. “We have other people living in the house.”
“I know. Maybe that’s part of the problem. You need time alone. Send the guys away and bring Charlie over to me.”
“You’re a good friend.”
“I’m practical.”
“You’re still a good friend.”
She checks her watch. “Eat your food. We’re back on in five. See? I’m practical.”
That gets a laugh out of me.
Pulling weeds from the vegetable garden, I sit flat on my ass on the ground as I can’t bend down anymore. Dr. Engelbrecht, who does a house call every second week, tells me I’m gaining too much weight. Some of it is water retention, but for the most part it’s unhappiness. I gobble down ice cream with peanut butter sauce when I’m sad, at least since I’m pregnant. The extra weight restrains my movements, and I still have two months to go.
The July midday sun beats down on my head. Even in winter, it’s hot. I seem to have an internal heater inside, making things worse. Unless I want to faint from overheating, I better seek out the cool interior of the house. As I’m battling to lift my heavy body, a pair of hands clasps my elbows and helps me to my feet.
I look up into Quincy’s face. “My knight in shining armor. Thank you.”
“Where’s Gabriel?” He looks pissed off. “Wait, don’t tell me. In his study.”
“This is hard on him, Quincy.” I don’t know if I mean me, the baby, or Carly’s passing. Probably all three.
“Yeah.” He motions at my stomach. “This is not hard for you.”
“It’s not the same.”
He looks like he wants to argue, so I say quickly, “Charlie has a session with Christopher. I’m going to make a fresh pitcher of iced tea.”
“Need help?”
“I’m good, thanks.”
He watches me broodily as I make my way back to the house. Christopher is already there, chatting to Rhett. I show the doctor and Charlie into the cinema room with an uneasy feeling. The last few sessions left a mark on Charlie. He was agitated afterward, but Christopher wrote the mood swings off to a normal mid-phase of the therapy. Today, I wait by the door, immediately noticing the tense set of Charlie’s shoulders as he exits.
I grab his arm before he can escape. “How did it go?”
“Po–pool.” He jerks free and skirts around me, heading for the sliding doors.
“I made iced tea,” I call after him. “It’s apple and cinnamon.” Charlie’s favorite.
He gives me a backward glance, but walks away with quick steps. He’s irritated and won’t be swayed.
Christopher follows next. “Well, I’ll be on my way, then.”
“Can we please talk for a moment?”
He glances at his wristwatch. “I have another appointment.”
“Five minutes?”
He can’t refuse me without being rude, but the corners of his mouth turn down. “All right.” He puts his briefcase down and takes the tea I offer.
“Charlie’s been irritable of late. To be exact, since your last four sessions.”
“I told you it’s normal. We hit a barrier in his development, and breaking through it is hard work, but once we’re through he’ll be fine. Better than fine.”
“What are you working on?”
“I’m not at liberty to discuss that. It may compromise our goal if you interfere.” I open my mouth to object, but he stills me with a hand in the air. “Trust me, all caring relatives interfere. It’s human nature. We can’t stand seeing our loved ones suffer. Just remember that all great results come with hard work.”
I’m not reassured, but he downs his drink and leaves the glass on the table. “Great iced tea. It reminds me of my grandmother.”
“Thank you,” I mumble as he sees himself out.
I’ll give it two more sessions, and if Charlie is still worked up, I’ll stop the treatment. Sometimes Charlie gets impatient, especially when he can’t express his feelings, but mostly, he’s just a big, huggable bear. I don’t want him to be unhappy, ever.
Gabriel
Days weave into nights and nights into days. Time is one, slow, never-ending, torturous cycle. Most days, I pour over photo albums with pictures of Carly from when she was born up to her death. I study each picture, hunting for details and information I may have missed before, like on how many photos she wore her blue T-shirt with the red heart. I never realized how much she liked it. Had I known, I would’ve packed it in a box and kept it with her first baby shoes, her favorite rattle, and the doll she slept with until she was five, the one whose hair she cut off, believing it would grow back. My life is a box of memories. Full, yet empty.
I’m making an effort to carry on with my life. The money in my bank account won’t last forever. I accepted a management job at one of Michael’s firms, which is nothing but charity from his side. He’s turned out to be a good friend, and no matter how hard it is to pull my head out of the sand, I refuse to disappoint him.
Magda and I are still not on speaking terms. She sent me an email stating whatever happened between us, her grandchild will always be welcome in her house, and she hopes I’ll change my mind.
Tough luck. I’m on my way to a new future that doesn’t involve loan sharks or breaking bones. I need to do this for me, but also for the people who depend on me to take care of them.
I’m about to leave for my first day on the new job when Quincy steps into my study.
Adjusting my tie, I say, “I’m running late.”
The wide stance he takes makes me look, really look, at him. His fists are balled at his sides and his jaw is flexed. He is mad. Furious.
“We’re going to talk, Gabriel. Now. This has gone on for long enough.”
“Talk about what?”
“You want me to spell it out for you?”
What the fuck is eating him? “Why don’t you?”
“Your neglect of Valentina.”
It takes a moment for his words to register. “My neglect of––” And then they sink in.
“What?” I glare at him. “It’s none of your business.”
His stance becomes wider. “Is she your wife or isn’t she?”
My temper starts to slip. “Of course she’s my wife.”
“Then act like a husband, and if you can’t, let someone else.”
I see fucking red. Burnt black with orange, melted edges. “Keep out of my business,” I growl, “and out of my wife.”
“She deserves better. You got her pregnant. Now treat her right.”
Grabbing his lapels, I lift him off his feet. “If you’re wise, you’ll shut your mouth.”
He doesn’t look scared in the slightest. “Can’t face the truth? Not man enough to hear it?”
Before I can stop myself, I slam my fist into his jaw. He goes flying, hitting the floor with a thump. At that very moment, the object of our discussion walks through the door. Valentina freezes, looking from me to Quincy who is sprawled out on the tiles. It’s him she rushes to.
“Quincy! Are you all right?” She gives me a startled look. “Gabriel, what’s wrong with you?”
The jealousy I had tapered down to an art during the last few months bubbles back to the surface, ugly and acidic in my throat. She’s mine, and she’s carrying my child. Nobody gets her, no matter how much better a man he is.
Before I say or do something I’ll regret, I leave Quincy in her concerned hands and set off for work. I’m not going to tell her about it until the time is right, until I know it’s working out. She doesn’t need to worry about where the money is going to come from.
Throwing my full weight behind my resolution, all I eat, drink, and live for is work. I’m adjusting well in the company and get on with Michael. I respect him as a friend and boss. Elizabeth is his second-in-command. She often asks about Valentina, but gives up when she gets nothing out of me. It feels strange to work my way up in someone else’s business, but I’m grateful for the challenge. It keeps my mind off darker thoughts. The kinder they are to me, the harder I work to earn it. I want to prove my worth to them, but mostly to myself. This isn’t my father’s business or my mother’s money. I’m earning my own way, and it’s harder than I thought. I spend long hours at the office, coming home after eleven when the rest of the house is asleep, and leaving before they wake. Little by little, day after day, I stitch back a resemblance of a life.
Valentina
It’s seven in the evening when Magda’s car pulls up to our gates, and Scotts announces her through the gate intercom. What is she doing here? Did Gabriel invite her for dinner? Since the funeral, she hasn’t been back to the house. Even if Gabriel doesn’t say as much, they must have had some kind of fallout.
I brush down my dress, a nervous habit that stuck with knowing how much she disapproves of my choice of clothes, and meet her at the door.
Her manner is urgent. “Is Gabriel still at work?”
“You’ll know better than me.”
“Me?”
“He works with you, doesn’t he?”
“He hasn’t told you?” She makes big eyes. Behind her faked expression, she seems pleased. “He works for Michael and Elizabeth Roux, now.”
Wow. That’s like pushing a needle under my nail and twisting it. The fact that he didn’t tell me something this important hurts in ways I don’t care to examine.
“Come in.” I step aside, wondering how much I should ask. I don’t want to give her ammunition to shoot down the already crumbling walls of whatever warped relationship Gabriel and I have left. I’m holding onto the ruins with both my hands, digging my nails into the broken bricks as I dangle over the wall, but I’m not sure cracks of that size can ever be filled.
She looks around the space. “Where’s everyone?”
“Charlie is upstairs, and Rhett is in his room.”
“Quincy?”
“With Gabriel.”
“Ah. Good. I was hoping we could talk alone. Can we go somewhere private? I don’t want to be interrupted.”
An itch crawls down my spine. I should say no, but my gut is stirring, and red flags are waving in my mind.
“In here.” I lead her to Gabriel’s study, the nearest room with a door.
“I’m surprised he didn’t tell you he left our company,” she says once we’re inside. “Then again, he doesn’t tell you much, does he?”
Why did he hide it from me? And Rhett and Quincy? Are they in on this, too? I can’t help how defensive I sound. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I bet he never told you why you fell pregnant.”
That itch from earlier spreads over my skin, making every nerve-ending tingle in alarm. “What?”
“He replaced your birth control with placebo pills.” She pushes a USB key into my hand. “Here’s the proof, and the reason why he chose you.”
12
Valentina
Gabriel did what? I don’t believe it. He wouldn’t. Never. Why is Magda doing this? My gut warns me this is only the beginning. Magda planted a path of destruction in my palm, and my feet are firmly on it. My fingers clamp around the key in my hand that will, if true, destroy me. The heartache I felt at Gabriel’s rejection is nothing compared to the pain slashing through my insides. I prefer a hundred lashes of his belt to this. Anything, but not this. If Magda is right, he purposefully deceived me. He lied to me. Worse, he let me believe it was my fault. My nails cut into the skin of my palm around the piece of plastic. I ache in every corner of my soul.
“I’ll leave you to it.” Magda walks to the door. “I assume you prefer to watch this in private. If I were you, I wouldn’t waste time in packing my bags.” A victorious smile marks her grand exit.
For some time, I stand rooted to the spot. My body trembles, and chills run over my skin. This is game over. It hurts, really hurts. Why me? The answer I want is in the palm of my hand. Releasing my fingers one by one, I stare at the black object with Magda’s company logo. My hand shakes as I carry it to Gabriel’s desk and open his laptop. When the screen comes to life, I hesitate. Once the key hits the slot, there’s no turning back. I won’t have a choice but to face the facts. My hand hovers next to the slot.
How could you Gabriel?
I insert the key and bite my nail.
As the file is loading, Charlie appears in the open door.
“I’m hu–hungry.”
“I’ll be right there. How about folding the laundry while you wait?” Charlie loves pairing socks.
“Lau–laundry.” He disappears in the direction of the scullery.
I turn my focus back to the computer. A folder named Valentina sits menacingly on the screen. Shiver after shiver creeps over my arms. It’s eerie to see my own name and wrong to open something that doesn’t belong to me, something that Gabriel is clearly hiding. I make a last brave effort to abort my mission, which is driven on the ugly fuel of curiosity, pain, and humiliation, but my finger is already hovering over the mouse. Will Gabriel give me honest answers if I question him? Probably not. The final thought that sways the balance and brings my finger down is the knowledge that Magda knows more than me.
Click-click.
The folder opens. My heart stops pumping for a beat. I hold my breath and bite my lip. The folder contains two files. The one is titled Birth Control and the other Evidence. I open Birth Control first. It contains a sound file. Confused, I click on it. It’s a recording of a telephone conversation. The voices belong to Gabriel and Dr. Engelbrecht. They’re discussing my health. Guilt and fearful anticipation heat my cheeks as I listen in on a conversation not meant for my ears.
“I want a placebo birth control pill,” Gabriel says.
“You want her to fall pregnant?” Dr. Engelbrecht asks.
Gabriel doesn’t hesitate. “Exactly.” He doesn’t even sound ashamed. No remorse, no explanations.
“Tomorrow?” the doctor says.
There is a smile in his voice. “Perfect. We need to repeat the examination to make sure she’s healthy and susceptible. I want her to have a fertility
shot to help things along.”
It takes a full minute to register the words. I rewind and play the conversation over. Over and over. With each repetition more anger boils through my veins until my body feels like a coal stove ablaze with a fire. Shaking uncontrollably, I go back to the beginning and listen to the conversation again. I can’t help myself. I keep on lashing my soul with the hurtful truth, punishing myself for my naïve ignorance. My heart doesn’t want to accept what I’ve heard, even if my mind already believes it. I cover my mouth with a hand and place the other on my stomach, over Gabriel’s planned intention, the baby I love more than myself. I feel sick. When I’ve played the conversation back at least ten times, I stop. I’ve listened to every nuance and intonation of Gabriel’s voice, searching for feelings and motivations that aren’t there. Why did he do it? Why did he lie to me? Why me? Magda’s words spin in my head. And the reason why he chose you.
It takes every ounce of courage I have left to open the second file. This one is a video clip. Fear snakes down my arm, making it feel heavy as my finger pauses above the keyboard, but my hand has a life of its own as it moves down and hits enter.
The image is grainy and blurry, but slowly comes into focus. It’s not a feed from a security camera as I expected, but a home movie. The lens is pointing at the floor. Whoever is carrying the camera is walking. A pair of polished, black shoes fall on the wood. There are voices in the background. They are excited, loud. There is something else, another voice my mind refuses to decipher. A feeling of foreboding heats my body, making my palms clammy. I want to turn the recording off, but I can’t. The unfolding pictures hold my eyes as if they’re glued to the screen. The shouting becomes louder, clearer. There’s cheering. The camera lifts, and the room comes into focus.
“You got that, Barney?” a voice says.
“Yeah, hurry up. I’m rolling.”
The walls are covered in wood paneling with framed pictures of dressed-up dogs playing cards. In the center is a big table covered with green felt. A pool table. My mouth goes dry. My body temperature drops ten degrees, and ice lodges in every pore of my skin. Frozen in horror, I watch as four men drag a struggling girl onto the table. Two of them grab her arms, and two her legs, while a fifth starts tearing her clothes. Her screams are futile. The more she pleads, the harder they laugh. Sobs wrack her thin body. She tries to kick and gets a fist in the stomach. Her eyes are pinched shut as the man who destroyed her clothes works his pants over his hips. He’s fat and gray. She keeps her eyes closed as he does the unthinkable, but I don’t. I watch every violating move of his body, every painful slap of his palm as it falls on her cheeks. Through the lens, I watch each face that looks on, that laughs as it’s his turn to smile for the camera. The coldness spreads through my limbs when the man in the center, the one with his pants around his ankles, falls over the girl’s body. Something hot and wet runs over my face and explodes in drops on the keyboard. The camera moves around the table, capturing every angle of the unmoving body that lies on top. When it comes to the side where her dark hair trails over the edge, the rapist stands up right in front of me. His head is bent, obscuring his features as he pulls up his pants and fastens his belt. Then he lifts his face and looks straight at me. My throat constricts. I try to swallow, but I can’t. I can’t breathe. The cold spell of my body ripples over my skin, freezing me inch by inch, until I can’t move a finger or toe. When the extreme coldness reaches my scalp, it’s replaced with scorching heat. I’ve seen the face of my rapist many times before. Right here, in my husband’s study. It’s standing on his desk, looking back at me now. Paying witness to my shock, he regards me with a mocking smile.
Consent (The Loan Shark Duet Book 2) Page 17