The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives

by Kristin Miller

  “That’s very kind of him,” Erin says. “And you’ve been very generous with your money as well. You donate to all kinds of charities, don’t you?”

  Georgia’s jaw clenches.

  Behind me, Hillary snickers. She must have somehow realized from the expression on Georgia’s face that it’s over. The audience must be able to see through her by now. She’s a gold digger who married older men for money, and then killed them off one by one.

  “And…” Staring at her phone, Erin seems to falter. “Now Robert. He’d be the wealthiest of all your husbands, wouldn’t he?”

  “Stop,” Georgia bites out. “I can’t do this—I need a minute.”

  “I think we all need some time to process this information,” Erin says sweetly, glancing into the camera. “We’ll return after this short break.”

  At the cue that they’ve cut to commercial, Georgia is on Erin before she can blink, her finger pointed into Erin’s chest. “What the hell was that about? We’re trying to save Robert, not incriminate me.”

  Erin holds up her hands in surrender, her phone clutched between her fingers. “I’m sorry, Georgia, I don’t have a choice.”

  “Dissecting my past like this was not part of the deal. We were supposed to be focusing on Robert, bringing attention to what happened, and pleading to the public to come forward if they know something.”

  “This is what they think is going to bring in the most viewers.”

  “And it’s gold,” Hillary pipes in. “Pure television gold. You’re doing amazing, by the way. Building up suspicion without admitting guilt. It’s the perfect balance.”

  Georgia points at Hillary. “See? This is the stupidity I’m worried about. Erin, you know me, probably better than anyone, and you know what’s at stake. You know I can’t afford to have everyone think I had something to do with what happened to Eli and Andrew. Now Robert!” Standing with a jolt, Georgia rips the mic pack from her waist and drops it to the floor with a thud. “I didn’t think I’d have to explain myself this way, not to you. The interview’s over.”

  “Georgia, let me explain—” Erin starts as Georgia heads for the door.

  “I don’t think so.” Hillary Gleaves puts out her arm, stopping Georgia from leaving. “When you committed to doing this, you agreed to the terms, and that includes finishing the interview. It’s live. We can’t just cut it partway.”

  “I do what I want, when I want,” Georgia says, snapping over her head to mimic the way Hillary had earlier. “You’re on my property and I’m officially asking you to leave. Oh, look, now you’re trespassing.”

  Hillary’s lips curl in the most sinister way, and I suddenly know why they didn’t want Georgia to be prepared with questions beforehand. Why they painted her eyelids exceptionally dark. They probably suggested she wear such a low-cut top.

  They never intended on hearing Georgia’s truth, the way she’d hoped.

  They’re going to make her out to be a gold-digging killer. And, well, she’s not a saint.

  “Oh, darling,” Hillary says, laughing cynically. “We’re not going anywhere, and neither are you. Sit your rich ass down or you’ll be hearing from our lawyers.”

  I’m moving toward the door when Erin rises off the chair and steps between Georgia and Hillary. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a subtle twist of the camera, and a whisper from Rob, the cameraman. They’re being recorded. I freeze, feeling the hostility snake between them. The last thing I want is to be caught in the crossfire.

  “Hillary,” Erin says, “it’s over. We need to let her go. It’s the right thing to do. We don’t want to push her if she’s uncomfortable. That’s not the way we do things.”

  Hillary chuckles. “Thanks for the advice, but if they wanted the show to continue running the way it was with you, they would’ve asked you to come back. They didn’t. They wanted me to fill your shoes, but”—she leans in close to whisper—“they’re cheap and ugly, like you. So we’re doing things my way.”

  As she turns, Erin lurches toward her with a roar and yanks back on a smooth rein of her hair. I leap into action to stop the fight but wind up tangled in the middle. Hillary cries out, teetering backward, and loses her balance on the edge of her stiletto heel. She lands on her backside with a thud, knees buckled, legs spread, clutching at Erin’s hands, which are still attached to her hair. Someone laughs. Someone screams. I can’t tell which sound is coming from whom.

  “Erin, stop!”

  I don’t know who yells her name, or who eventually releases her death grip on Hillary’s hair, but when the smoke finally clears, Hillary is across the room, mouth open in a scream, her finger stabbing in our direction. Chunks of her hair are wound around Erin’s fingers.

  “Keep that bitch away from me!” Hillary spits. “I’m filing charges, you psycho! You’ll never work at the station again. Monique, call the police!”

  “You’re not calling the police. Not in my home,” Georgia says. She’s planted firmly between Hillary and Erin. “You want to call the police, do it on the curb.”

  “You’re just as crazy as she is!” Hillary snaps at Rob and Monique. “We’re out of here. We got what we wanted in the end anyway.”

  Even though she didn’t say the words, she doesn’t have to.

  They were able to capture Georgia’s weakness and refusal, along with a catfight between the Real Wives. It only goes to show how much Georgia has to hide. If she were innocent, why would she resist answering questions? Why wouldn’t she be completely transparent?

  Hillary knows she got the final blow.

  And it just aired live for the whole country to see.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  ERIN

  SATURDAY MORNING

  I storm into the station, hands clenched into fists, feeling as if I’m going to rattle apart. I don’t know if Theresa prescribed a low dosage of anxiety medication on purpose—maybe everyone starts out this way so as not to shock the system—but I’m not feeling any better. In fact, I’ve never felt more volatile, more shaken. If people would stop screwing with me, I’d have a better chance at knowing what normalcy feels like.

  This early, the only people who’ll be here are the morning show staff and, if I’m lucky, Bill. He’s the one I really want to see.

  Winding my way through cubicles, I don’t make eye contact with a single coworker. Over the speakers, the morning show anchors’ voices blare the top news stories of the day. I don’t care about current world events. I have my eyes on the prize: Bill’s office. I don’t bother knocking when I reach the door. I push inside and slam it behind me.

  He lifts his arms from his sides and smiles as if he’s happy to see me. “I was just going to shoot you a text. I’d hoped to see you this morning.”

  “You put me in one hell of a position.” I’m breathing hard, my chest rising and falling in short pants. “You should’ve sent me the questions beforehand so I could’ve prepped her. That was wrong, and you know it. We’ve never handled a live interview like that before. We’ve always given the subject the option of seeing the questions.”

  “You’ve never interviewed a murder suspect before. It was crucial that it appear completely candid.”

  “You wanted to catch her in a lie.”

  He grins slyly. “Of course we did. Have you forgotten we’re in the entertainment business?”

  “We’re the news!”

  “But if it doesn’t keep the public’s interest, they’ll click, click, click, to the next best thing. We want to stay on the air, we have to compete with everything else out there.” He stands, raising the blinds behind him, revealing the morning show’s set. Lucy and Miguel are on air, illuminated by blinding lights, talking and laughing curtly. They hate each other, though they play nice when the cameras are rolling. “You think people watch this particular segment because they want to see the news? No, t
hey watch because they know there’s tension between those two. They don’t know if they’re fighting or fucking, but they tune in to see the friction anyway.”

  My heart pounds. “But Georgia is, or was, my friend, Bill. I don’t know what more you expect me to film now, but I’m done.”

  He whips around. “It’s not your call to make. I already talked to Georgia. We’re going through with it.”

  “What?”

  “Just got off the phone with her. We’re finishing the special the way we planned before.”

  “Her fiancé is gone.” My thoughts reel. “The police still don’t have any leads.” I know because I spent most of the night on Google, searching forums and news outlets, praying someone would come forward with new information. By dawn, my worst fears were confirmed: no one knows where Danny might’ve been keeping Robert, and I might’ve lost my best friend for nothing. “There’s not going to be a wedding without a groom, Bill. What do you plan on filming?”

  “The devastation on the Black Widow’s face when she’s standing at the altar, and he doesn’t show up.”

  “Maybe you’re not hearing me clearly.” I can’t help but laugh. “Without Robert, Georgia’s not going to be standing anywhere near an altar.”

  Bill snatches a folder off the corner of his desk and waves it around. “Our lawyers say otherwise. She signed an interview release agreement.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Hillary Gleaves took care of it.”

  Must’ve been before I arrived. That’s the reason Bill sent her. Not to set everything up, or make sure the lighting was right, but to lock Georgia into an agreement he knew I wouldn’t consent to.

  “No interview release agreement would force Georgia to go through with her wedding,” I think aloud. “What did she agree to?”

  Bill grins slyly. “Two interviews to be included in a single two-night special. One interview the evening before the wedding and one on the actual day.”

  “Two interviews in a two-night special.” I shake my head, disbelieving. “And you ran the first one live…”

  “Which means she owes me an interview that’ll run tonight.” He raises his hands into the air triumphantly, like Moses parting the Red Sea. “It was brilliant legalese. She tried to claim we were in violation of the agreement due to invasion of privacy, but according to our lawyer, she doesn’t have a case. I’ve already gone over the options with her. She can either complete the interview at her home, dejected, waiting for her fiancé to miraculously arrive…or go on with the show, wedding gown and all. That’s more her style and you know it. If the police somehow pull a rabbit out of their hat and find her missing fiancé, we capture the sappy moment on camera. If he doesn’t show up, that’s even better. When it’s clear Robert Donnelly’s not going to show, you’ll interview Georgia a second time, per our contract, and catch the raw emotion. Talk to her friends and family, get the real story, the one that viewers have been dying to hear.” He presses his palms on his desk. “Don’t look at me like that, like you want to slug me in the face. You came crawling back here begging for your job, remember? You want it, here it is.”

  I fold my arms over my chest, mind reeling. He’s leaving me no choice.

  “Take a look at this.” He lifts a stack of papers off his desk and shoves them at me. “Ratings were through the roof last night.”

  “What?”

  I skim fast as he goes on. “You had more viewers than your largest day as anchor. People ate it up. Not only the actual interview, but the fighting afterward. They were riveted. The network thinks the numbers will skyrocket for the wedding segment. Everyone wants to be there, to watch Georgia be jilted at the altar.”

  But Georgia can’t possibly think Robert will show up in time to marry her today. If anything, she’ll be going through the motions for contract purposes only. If the viewers want raw emotion—shock and horror when the time to say her vows has come and gone, and Robert’s still nowhere to be found—they’re going to be disappointed.

  But the numbers don’t lie. With everything going on, I hadn’t been checking my Instagram viewers, but I would expect those numbers to correlate with these. Tingling sensations whip through me at the thought. I’d begun to believe I was irrelevant, that viewers didn’t care about me anymore. If what Bill is saying about the response to Georgia’s program is true, tonight’s special will definitely take my career to the next level.

  “What’s your plan?” I ask, because I know he has one. “You can’t send Hillary to see her again.”

  He licks his lips sloppily, as if clearing away lingering flavors of breakfast. “We’re going to set you up with a camera and mic you. You’ll talk to her, dig deep, expose her secrets. This is big, Erin. The show of your career. After this is over, you’ll be thanking Georgia Jane what-the-hell-ever for making you famous.”

  I’ll be thanking her? I nearly jolt back from shock. It should be the other way around. The only reason she’s infamous in the first place is her Black Widow moniker. And she has that only because of me. I was the one who contacted the hitman on her behalf. If it weren’t for me, she’d still be married to Eli, miserable, walking on eggshells, bruises on her ribs because he’d been too much of a coward to hit her in the face, where the marks would be seen.

  She should be thanking me.

  Only, now that I think of it, she hasn’t thanked me. Not once. She probably thinks this screwup with Robert was my fault, but it wasn’t. I had no idea Danny would take him instead of Mason. How could I have known? A vile, bitter taste rises in the back of my throat.

  I’ll be thanking her…over my dead body.

  “And,” Bill says, closing the blinds once more, “you should be thanking me too. I didn’t have to give you this show on a silver platter. I didn’t have to run it at all.”

  “Thank you,” I say. “Of course I appreciate the opportunity.”

  He plops into his chair and leans back, arms draped over the sides. He’s staring expectantly, swiveling his chair so that his legs aren’t beneath the desk, but beside it. Realization creeps in.

  He wants repayment for his favor.

  “Listen, Bill,” I start, but he puts up his hand, cutting me off.

  “I want to say that I appreciate and respect the work you’ve done as a news anchor for this station. I would never want you, or anyone else who works for my company, to feel uncomfortable at any time.”

  Is it possible I’ve misinterpreted his cues completely? Wouldn’t it be great if this were all a stupid misunderstanding?

  “I appreciate you saying that, Bill.” I place my hand over my thumping heart. “I can’t tell you how relieved I am to hear it.”

  Nodding, he leans back in his chair, letting it bounce back and forth a bit as his gaze rakes up and down my body. “That’s why, if you’re not comfortable getting on your knees to thank me properly, right here and now, you shouldn’t work here anymore.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You want to come back, those are the terms. If you’re uncomfortable with what’s being asked of you, I’ll have Hillary take your spot at Georgia’s wedding.”

  Before, when I’d been in his office and the proposition was first insinuated, I’d hesitated. I’d wondered if I should or shouldn’t or what that would mean for my career. But now, in this moment, the lights are too bright, glaring into my skull. The air is too dry, clogging my throat when I try to breathe. My clothes are too tight and scratchy. Something has changed, and I think it’s me.

  I’ve changed.

  “Bill,” I say, feeling steadier than I have in days, “thank you for the enticing opportunity you’re offering, but I’d rather die on my feet than drop to my knees.”

  I turn on my heel and storm out of his office without looking back. I hear the squeak of his chair wheels and the creak of his door as he pushes it open.

&nbs
p; “Keep hanging around with the Black Widow,” he bellows after me, “and you just might get your wish.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  BROOKE

  “I thought we were supposed to have dinner last night.” Jack adjusts his tie in the bathroom mirror. “You didn’t come home until after midnight, and didn’t head to bed until almost three.”

  Didn’t realize he was making mental notes about my sleep habits. “I know, I’m sorry. I got caught up at Georgia’s. After the camera crews left, she needed someone to stay with her for a bit. Then when I got home, I felt really inspired to work on my book, and it was worth every minute—I finished. Sent it in before I went to bed. The Nightmare Next Door is out of my hands.”

  “Congratulations,” he says dryly. No excitement. No embrace. “I bet you’re thrilled.”

  I am, actually. Despite his poor attitude. He doesn’t have a right to be upset about last night. It’s not like we were going to have a romantic evening together.

  But that’s not the point, I remind myself. It’s about upholding the image that I’m a loving, doting wife, cooking dinner for my husband at dusk. Going out with my criminally minded friend definitely taints the image he’s shooting for. The parking garage incident gave him perfect fuel for his reasoning that Georgia’s a terrible influence. He hasn’t asked me too many details about it because he wants to make it clear that the event should have no part of our lives.

  But it did. It happened. And it’s affected me deeply, bringing up events from my childhood that he doesn’t even know about. It’s as if Georgia sliced open a wound and now it’s raw and bleeding again, hurting as much as it did before.