so you can be by his side. It wouldn’t pay for you to decline.”
I stare at him, my chest filling with anger. Anger at both my father for thinking he can ask this of me and at Joe for the arrogant way he talks to me. “He can ask all he likes, but I’m not saying yes.”
Joe’s lips press together. “Chelsea, this may start off as a negotiation, but you know it won’t end as one.”
I stand and face him. “I’m done negotiating with him.”
“No, you’re not. Especially not when it comes to his premiership.”
God, I hate my husband when he’s like this. He’s infuriating in his lack of ability to actually engage in a discussion. He likes to simply state how things will be. Well, not this fucking time.
With a shake of my head, I walk away from him, towards our bathroom.
“Don’t walk away from me when we’re in the middle of a fucking conversation,” he says.
I spin back around to face him. “We weren’t in the middle of a fucking conversation. We were in the middle of you being the dictator you like to be, and I’ll always walk away from you when you’re like that.”
He closes the distance between us as I turn to continue on my way to the bathroom. His hand snaps around my wrist as I turn. Pulling me back to him, he warns, “Careful, Chelsea. I’ve been more than patient with you over the last month, but I only have so much patience to give.”
I attempt to pull my wrist from his hold, but his grip is too strong. Glaring at him, I say, “Let me go.”
He contemplates that for a moment before releasing me. “This was me giving you a heads-up so you can prepare yourself. I suggest you take what I’ve said under consideration.”
“I’ve taken it under consideration, dear husband, and I’ve given you my answer. Perhaps you could take it back to my father and give him a heads-up so he’s prepared for our conversation.” I know I’m playing with fire here, but I can’t hold myself back. Joe brings this side of me out.
When he doesn’t respond except to look at me with his signature look of displeasure, I make my exit and lock myself in the bathroom.
Deep breaths, Chelsea.
You can do this.
You can do this.
You. Can. Do. This.
It’s crazy how often I have to chant that to myself these days. I used to practice manifestation. Now, I spend my days chanting this over and over. In its own way, this is my new form of manifesting things in my life. It’s just a shame the only thing I’m trying to manifest is success in getting through my days.
I spend a good ten minutes in the bathroom, which I suspect is the amount of time Joe’s patience will last before he comes looking for me. Slipping out, I’m relieved not to find him in our bedroom. I spend another few minutes psyching myself up to face the afternoon and then make my way out to the kitchen.
Joe’s parents, Andrew and Rachel, have arrived. I hear them talking with Joe in the formal living room. Knowing Joe won’t be happy if I don’t say hello, I join them.
“Chelsea,” Rachel greets me, a smile fixed on her face. It’s a fake smile, the one she gives every person she comes in contact with. Joe’s mother doesn’t like many people, especially not me. She tolerates me because of what my family can do for hers, but I don’t think she wants to share her son with any woman. As far as I’m concerned, we don’t need to share him; she can have him.
I air-kiss her. “Hi, Rachel. How are you?”
“Oh, you know, dear, as well as I can be.”
That’s code for “my husband’s an utter prick and I hate my life.” I know this because I’ve observed them when they don’t think anyone’s watching, and he is an utter prick, and she hates him as much as I suspect I’ll hate her son one day.
Andrew doesn’t move from the armchair he’s sitting in. He simply rakes his gaze over me and says, “Chelsea.”
“Andrew,” I reply, moving to sit next to Joe on the sofa.
Joe extends his arm across the back of the sofa and pulls me close to him. I allow this because I feel safer being near him when his father’s around. The only time I’m more than happy to sit next to Joe is when his father’s in the same