by Shelly Ellis
“Do you really think I want your goddamn money?” he boomed.
She didn’t respond. She didn’t know what to say.
“Did your mom put you up to this? Did she give you some guilt trip and say what we were doing was wrong so that changed everything that you felt about us, about me?”
“She didn’t put me up to anything! She reminded me of who I am . . . of who we used to be.” Leila took a deep breath and shook her head again. “We’re better than this. It’s time to admit that we made a mistake.”
“A mistake?” He looked hurt all over again. “So me being in love with you was a mistake?”
“You know that’s not what I meant.”
“So you just . . . you just want to wash your hands of all of it? You want to act like none of this ever happened. Act like you never loved me . . . if you ever loved me!”
“Damn it, Evan, I do love you! Don’t you get it? That’s why I’m doing this!”
The tears that had been pooling in her eyes finally spilled onto her cheeks. She wiped at them with the backs of her hands. “I want to be with you. I want it more than . . . than anything.” She took another step toward him so that now he was within her reach. “I look at you sometimes and I think, ‘He’s mine and I’m his.’ No one can tell me any different. We’ve been friends since we were kids. You know more about me than any other human being on this earth. We’ve shared a bed together. We’ve made love, told each other our deepest, darkest secrets. Except for Izzy, you’re the most important person in this world to me.”
She raised her hand to his cheek, preparing herself for him to pull away from her touch. But he didn’t. Instead, he met her gaze and she ached because she saw so much pain in his eyes.
“But despite all that, the truth is that you aren’t mine and I’m not yours. You’re married to someone else. Charisse is your wife and I’m just . . .” The tears were falling more profusely now. They were coming too fast to wipe them away. “I’m just your mistress. And I can’t be that anymore. I can’t be one of your deep, dark secrets. It’s not right,” she said, dropping her hand from his face.
“So what are you asking me to do? To announce to everyone that we’re having an affair, to divorce Charisse? You want me to bring ruin to my family, to the company?”
“No, that’s not what I’m asking. I know how . . . how important those things are to you. I wouldn’t ask you to do that.”
And that was the part that hurt the most—that she knew not to even bother to ask Evan because it was totally out of the question. Despite how much he professed to love her, she knew she was a risk he would never take.
Leila turned away from him then and headed back toward his office door. She paused when her eyes fell on the portrait of George Murdoch less than ten feet away. The old man looked like he was watching her as she retreated. He seemed almost smug.
I knew you two would ever end up together, his arrogant stare said. You were fools to ever think you would have your happily ever after.
I guess you were right, you heartless son of a bitch, she thought.
“So if you’re not asking me to get a divorce, then what are you asking, Lee?” Evan suddenly said as she wrapped her hand around the door handle. “Please tell me. Because I don’t . . . I don’t understand. What do you want from me? Tell me what you want!”
“I want you not to hate me . . . even after I walk away,” she murmured before opening his door, walking out of his office, and out of his life.
Chapter 22
PAULETTE
Paulette sat in the driveway of her home with the engine running, gazing at darkened windows of the beautiful colonial she shared with her husband. She turned off the engine, removed the keys from the ignition, slumped back onto the leather seat, and closed her eyes. In the silence of the car’s interior, she heard nothing but the thudding of her own heartbeat—by far the loneliest sound she had ever heard. Her lashes dampened with unshed tears. Her chin trembled as she bit down hard on her bottom lip, holding back her sobs.
She wished the ground would open up and swallow her whole.
Paulette had sworn to herself that she wouldn’t grow up to be like her mother: a doormat who was ignored by the people she loved, and dominated by the men in her life—first and foremost, Paulette’s father, George. But not only had Paulette grown up to be like her mother, she had managed to surpass the woman’s legacy of servitude and misery.
Paulette felt like the world’s biggest fool for falling into Marques’s trap and allowing herself to be blackmailed. And now that he had nearly all the money he needed from her for his sham business, he used her almost exclusively for sex. Every time she left his apartment after doing some sexual favor for him, she felt dirty—so dirty that a thousand showers wouldn’t make her feel clean again. Whenever she closed her eyes, she’d see Marques looming and leering over her, feel his mouth on his skin, or the weight of his body on top of hers and she’d cringe at the flashbacks, nearly sick to her stomach.
She was locked in an invisible prison, and she had no idea when or how she would ever get out of it.
“You did this to yourself,” she whispered. “It’s a prison of your own making.”
But knowing this didn’t make her feel any better. It just made her want to scream. It made her want to slit her wrists.
“Don’t think that way,” the little voice in her head encouraged. “If you found your way in, you can find your way out. Think positive. Think positive!”
She wanted to think positive, but it felt more and more like a silly mantra. How could she be optimistic when her life was so bleak?
After taking a deep breath, Paulette finally climbed out of the car. A minute later, she was pushing open the front door to her home. She turned on the light near the door and gazed around their empty foyer. She supposed her husband was either in his office or in his man cave in the basement, where he often went nowadays. She dropped her gym bag to the hardwood floor and started to hang up her jacket when she heard the sound of a throat being cleared. She turned to find Antonio standing in the entryway of their living room.
“You’re home late,” he said, leaning against the door frame.
“I-I am?”
He nodded as he walked toward her. He was still in his work clothes. His silk tie was loosened. The sleeves of his lavender dress shirt were rolled up to his forearms.
“Yeah, it’s nine o’clock. You’re usually back home from the gym by eight at the latest.”
“Oh? Well, uh . . . Daniel tried out this new routine tonight. It’s really intense, but he says it gets good results. I guess it . . . it took longer than I thought.” She laughed anxiously.
That wasn’t true, of course. She hadn’t worked out with her trainer Daniel tonight. She hadn’t been to the gym in weeks. Instead, she had spent a good two hours in bed with Marques tonight until—satiated—he finally drifted off to sleep. When she’d heard his loud snores, she’d eased out of bed, grabbed her clothes, quickly dressed, and rushed out of his apartment before he could wake up and make another “demand” of her.
“Sorry, I’m so late. I-I hope you weren’t waiting for me,” she now whispered to Antonio.
“Actually, I was.” He took another step toward her and shoved his hands into his pockets. “We need to talk, baby.”
Paulette stilled. Her pulse quickened. So it was finally happening. Antonio was going to confront her about the distance that had grown between them and all the nights she’d arrived home late. He probably suspected that she was having an affair, but the truth was even worse than he imagined.
“S-sure,” she stuttered nervously, trembling like a leaf in a strong wind. “What did you . . . what did you want to talk about?”
His handsome face broke into a gentle smile. “I have something to show you first.” He extended his hand to her and her anxiety instantly disappeared.
“Something to show me?”
He nodded. “Yeah, come on.”
She took his ha
nd and let him lead her through their living room and into their dining room. When she saw their dining room table, she breathed in audibly. It was covered with fine white linen, silver-lidded dishes, and two table settings that included crystal stemware and fine china. A bouquet of roses sat next to one of the settings. The lights in the glass chandelier were turned down low so the only light in the dining room came from two candelabras at each end of the table and one sitting on the sideboard.
“I know we’ve been going through some things lately,” he said as he pulled out one of the table chairs. He then picked up the bouquet and handed it to her. “I admit that we’ve . . . well, we’ve had some issues. But I want to try to make things right, baby.”
She gazed at him, now struck speechless.
“I thought a candlelight dinner might help. I didn’t know for sure when you were getting home so I didn’t schedule reservations somewhere. Mama said she would cook it for us.” He began to walk around the table, removing lids from the dishes, revealing a Cornish hen, a platter of greens, red potatoes, and corn. “I let her pick the menu. My only rule was no sticky buns,” he said, laughing awkwardly at his own joke. He gestured to the seat again. “So go ahead. Sit down.”
Paulette took the flowers he handed to her and cradled them against her chest. She stared at the table and the chair he held out for her and slowly shook her head as her vision began to blur with tears. She couldn’t hold them back anymore. The dam broke and the tears spilled onto her cheeks like a ceaseless river.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so . . . so sorry, Tony.”
“Sorry for what, baby?” He walked toward her and embraced her. In his loving arms, her sobs only got worse. “Honey, what’s wrong?”
“I messed up. I messed up so bad!” she cried, wetting his shirt with her tears. “I’m sorry!”
He rubbed her back soothingly. “Listen to me. Listen to me, okay? You didn’t mess up, baby! We just hit a bump. That’s all. We’re good! I swear we’re good.”
But they weren’t “good.” She knew that for a fact. If what they had previously been going through was “just a bump,” their marriage was officially a five-car pileup now—and it was all because of her mistakes. She was giving Marques thousands upon thousands of dollars and having an affair with him. It wouldn’t matter to Antonio that she was being blackmailed into doing it, or that she loathed Marques. It wouldn’t matter that she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and prayed for it to be over whenever Marques climbed on top of her. It would only matter to her husband that she was sharing her body with another man, that she had broken her wedding vows.
Paulette had been afraid before about what Antonio would do if he found out about her decade-old abortion. She could only imagine what he would do if he found out what she had done only an hour ago. He’d scream at her. He’d hurl her bags out the door. He would hate her.
“Listen to me. Stop crying,” Antonio urged, blissfully unaware of his wife’s transgressions. He eased her away from him and gazed into her eyes. “So what if we argue? So what if we fight? I love you, baby! Nothing is going to change that!”
If only that were true, she thought sadly.
“I love you too,” she whispered, closing her reddened eyes. “I love you so much.”
His arms tightened around her again and he leaned down to kiss her. When their lips met, she shied away from him, unconsciously reminded of Marques’s lips, of being wrapped in his embrace. Her eyes flashed open to find Antonio frowning down at her worriedly.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“N-nothing. Nothing.”
She stood on the balls of her feet and kissed her husband again, forcing herself not to pull away, reminding herself that she was with Antonio—not Marques. These were Antonio’s arms, lips, and hands. She loved her husband. She wanted him to touch her and caress her. But it wasn’t easy. Marques kept intruding on her thoughts like a malevolent phantom. And when the kiss deepened and she could feel Antonio’s hand cradling one of her breasts, the flashbacks to Marques became even more vivid.
Could Antonio sense that she had been touched by another man? Did Marques’s cologne still linger on her or some other manly smell that would give away her secret?
Antonio shifted her, easing her back onto an empty spot on the dining room table. He stood between her parted legs. As he tugged her tank top over her head, her mind flashed to Marques roughly tugging her bra straps off her shoulders. As he eased her yoga pants over her hips and down her legs, she remembered Marques yanking down the same pair of pants and shoving her back onto his mattress.
Antonio continued to kiss her, even as he eased the crotch of her panties aside and lowered the zipper of his slacks. When he entered her, she cried out. She tensed, her body going rigid with unease. She squirmed uncomfortably on the table and whimpered against his lips.
He abruptly pulled out of her. “Baby, what’s wrong?” he asked again, this time sounding impatient. “Do you not want to do this?”
She was frustrating him. She could tell. And frankly, she was frustrating herself too.
“Nothing is wrong, Tony. I swear.”
He looked doubtful so she cupped his face and kissed him. She wrapped her legs around his waist, drawing him back to her. “Everything is . . . is fine. Please . . . keep going. Don’t stop.”
He hesitated but finally kissed her again and she met his tongue with her own. She ran her hands along his back. She pressed her breasts against his chest, all the while silently repeating to herself, Relax. It’s Tony. Relax. It’s just Tony!
It worked. Within minutes, Antonio’s fervor had returned and he became lost in the thrill of moment. Unfortunately, Paulette didn’t share his zeal. Every impulse told her to shove her husband away, but she valiantly kept those impulses at bay. When he entered her again, her mind instantly shifted to its new default whenever she had sex. She closed her eyes, braced her hands on the edge of the table—and waited for it to be over. As he pumped and ground against her, her mind went blank. She wasn’t there anymore.
Later, Paulette and Antonio lay in bed together under their crisp, newly washed linens. In the old days, after they had made love in the dining room, they would have done it again in the living room or even the kitchen and finally ended up in their bedroom, but not tonight. Paulette had no desire to make love again. Perhaps Antonio had sensed it and he hadn’t bothered to ask.
Unable to sleep, Paulette now stared in the dark at the glowing number on her night table clock. Antonio cradled her from behind, breathing softly into her ear. Her mind was a riot of thoughts that refused to be quieted even though she was both physically and mentally exhausted.
“You can’t go on like this,” the loudest voice in her head said. “Something’s got to give. You have to tell someone what’s—”
“Are we good now?” Antonio suddenly whispered, interrupting her thoughts and startling her.
She thought he had fallen asleep more than an hour ago. She shifted slightly so she could turn to look at him. In the darkness of their bedroom, only the whites of his eyes were faintly visible.
She placed her hand on his shoulder and rubbed it. “Of course we’re good now.”
He paused. “Then why doesn’t it feel like we are?”
“I-I don’t know what you mean, Tony,” she lied.
He waited another beat, shook his head, and murmured, “Never mind.”
She watched helplessly as he turned over, turned his back to her, and finally went to sleep.
Chapter 23
EVAN
“Come in,” Evan murmured at the sound of knocking. He barely looked up from his laptop screen and didn’t quit furiously typing on his keyboard even when his brother peered around the edge of his office door.
“So he lives and breathes!” Terrence exclaimed, striding confidently into Evan’s office. He shut the door behind him. “I was wondering if you were still alive! I haven’t heard from your ass in more than a week. I was about to
send a P.I. after you!”
Evan didn’t seem to notice Terrence’s playful chiding. He didn’t even pause from his typing to glance up at his brother. “What do you want?”
“Damn! Is that how you’re saying hi nowadays?” Terrence flopped back onto the sofa and propped up his long legs on the glass coffee table, a move that would have pissed off Evan in the past, but he ignored it today. Terrence leaned back against one of the leather cushions and laced his fingers behind his head. “No wonder you can’t keep an assistant.”
At that, Evan did stop typing. He looked up from his screen and glared at his brother. “Don’t test me, Terry,” he said with a subzero iciness. “Today is the wrong goddamn day.”
Actually, the past several days had been the “wrong goddamn day”—make that the past few weeks!
Most on the twelfth floor of Murdoch Conglomerated knew not to bother the company’s young CEO with their questions or concerns, to stay out of his way and even his periphery if they knew what was good for them. Because Evan Murdoch was in a bad mood—the worst mood that anyone had seen in quite a long time. Gone were the days where he said, “Good morning,” as he passed. Gone were pleasant inquiries about someone’s wife or new baby. He was all business now—short, cold, and straight to the point. It was like a dark spell had been cast over him, siphoning out all his kindness.
Even Charisse had noticed the change in him. “What the hell’s gotten into you lately?” she had asked during one of the rare nights he ate dinner at home.
“Nothing,” he had murmured before returning his attention to his halibut.
Few knew the source of his sudden chilliness. Some wondered if maybe a big contract Murdoch Conglomerated was banking on had fallen through. Others speculated that maybe one of the VPs had left the company and gone to work for the competition. Or maybe it was the fact that yet another one of his personal assistants had quit, leaving him high and dry. Yes, maybe that was the culprit of his bad mood.
But only Terrence knew the truth. He knew how much Evan missed Leila. Terrence knew that Evan had spent almost a week calling her, emailing her, and texting her—practically begging her to talk to him and take him back, but to no avail. All messages had gone unanswered. Finally, Evan had taken the hint and stopped calling.