“She’s married. But, so fucking what? You don’t seem like the type to let small details stop you. If you want her as badly as I can tell you do, man the fuck up and do something about it. Even if she kicks and screams at first. Eventually, she’ll come around.”
His eyes drift to Rebecca.
“Trust me,” he says, his hand slipping causally into his pocket. “The payoff in the end is worth it.”
“What the fuck do you know?” I ask, uncomfortable with what is now the third person to point out my interest in Adeline.
This is too close.
I’m getting way too fucking close.
His eyes slide from photo to photo, a knowing smile stretching his lips. “I think the exhibit tonight should be your answer. Some women are in need of a demon. And from what I see in those shots, it’s not her husband she’s talking about.”
With that, he walks away, a sophisticated stride as he approaches Rebecca and places his hand on her lower back. He bends to whisper in her ear, and she smiles, her eyes glimpsing up at me before returning to the group of people surrounding her.
A few seconds and a woman runs up to them with a bottle of champagne in hand, the top popping off as Rebecca tells Adeline that all her photos have been sold.
But rather than elation on Adeline’s face, I see relief…and that fake ass fucking smile she always wears.
Grants hand clamps on the back of her neck tighter.
And I’m about one second away from storming up to him to break every finger.
I’ve had enough of the night, and rather than stand in place staring at a man who drives my violence to dangerous levels, I do what’s smart and leave the gallery without drawing attention.
It’s clear Adeline has made her choice, even if something is telling me that choice wasn’t an easy one.
Deciding a new approach is necessary, I’m relieved to know I won’t have to pretend to be an investor anymore. But I also realize that the next time I come face to face with Grant Cabot, it’ll be a meeting he won’t walk away from.
Adeline
Three weeks. I kept telling myself that’s all I had to endure before I could leave Grant. Only three. Twenty-one long days where I would put up with the escalating abuse.
He’s smart, my husband. He doesn’t leave marks where they can be easily seen, each one small and discreet. The placement of them are in places covered by my clothing, each one of them given when I’m too drugged to remember exactly how it had gotten there in the first place.
Bruises. Teeth marks. Small cuts that have no explanation other than a desire to hurt me when I’m too drugged to fight back.
It became a pattern after that first night. Always while at home. Always in the bathroom. I’m not sure why he only hurts me in there, but it makes me fight to avoid walking into one.
A person can go only so long before nature calls, and I was becoming dehydrated as the weeks rolled on, only because I’m trying like hell to avoid it.
Not that it matters. He’s an inventive man. And after the first few nights I tried to refuse what he wanted, I learned it hurts less if I just give in.
Two weeks passed before the gallery show, and I was strong enough to survive it.
If I hadn’t depleted my trust account years ago, I would have left after that first time. I’d thought about going to my old house and sleeping on the floor, but I knew he’d find me there. Knew he’d drag me home.
I thought about calling Ari since he’s the only person I know who isn’t loyal to Grant. Every time I typed the first text, I erased it just as quickly, my fear justified, but for what reason I’m not sure.
If I’m to escape completely, I know I have to do it on my own.
So, I decided to do the smart thing and wait it out to come up with a plan.
I’m now only a day away from leaving my husband. Less than twenty-four hours and I’ll take what little possessions I can carry and flee the state. I used what was left in my account to purchase all the necessary tickets. A short flight, a long ride on a train, a bus to one town and then back on a plane.