called cheerily. “Would you like your cappuccino, Mrs. Gardner?”
I pulled open the robe, frowning distastefully at the rip in the silk nightgown. Another one for the trash. “Yes, please, Moira.”
As the sounds and scents of the coffeemaker filtered in, I continued my inventory-taking. I was married to a man who gifted me his negligence ninety percent of the time and made up for it in the worst possible way the other ten. But what had once been an occurrence two or three times per year, when my husband was actually home, had become almost nightly since Calvin’s arrest five weeks ago for racketeering, bribery, and human trafficking. Since his travel was stunted while the trial began, I was a convenient place to take out his frustration. Particularly since January, when I refused to comply with his other wishes.
Frigid bitch.
It could be worse, I thought numbly. From the neck up, I looked relatively normal. My blonde hair was a mess, but Mikael, my stylist, would fix that later. My light gray eyes, a little too big for my face, were framed with dark circles, but I had concealer. My bottom lip was puffed slightly, but nothing lipstick wouldn’t hide.
We had a deal, after all. Anything but the face. And he only broke that deal sometimes.
Elsewhere, there were a few small bruises at the base of my neck left over from last Tuesday, but I thought I could cover those up too. It was the large one I could feel forming on my inner thigh, deep under the skin, that might make it difficult to walk properly later.
A decade ago, I had been called sharp. Striking. Full of promise. Now look at me. Thirty years old, haggard, beaten.
And what’s more, I deserved it.
The fuck you do, doll.
I suck in a sharp breath as the voice—deep, coarse, and utterly hypnotizing—echoed in the back of my mind. Uncalled for, but when was it ever? Matthew Zola’s voice was a bell whose ring never faded. Once I’d heard it, I couldn’t sleepwalk through this life anymore.
I still wasn’t sure if that was for better or for worse. These days, maybe the latter. Since, of course, he turned out to be the man prosecuting my husband.
I splashed a bit of water on my face, wincing as it dribbled over my lip. I ignored it and went about the mundane tasks of cleaning myself up for the day.
There was another knock on the door. I opened it to let Moira in. The older woman set my coffee on the vanity, then began running through the day while I brushed my teeth.
“Spencer will be here in twenty minutes for your morning Pilates. After that, you have cycling at seven forty-five. Your gym kit is on the bureau. You reached three hundred miles last week, so I picked up some new sneakers too. Be careful about blisters.”
I quirked a smile in the mirror. Moira had started laying clothes out for me when I was in the throes of postpartum depression and had never stopped. I didn’t always use them, but it was a sweet gesture. My own mother had never even done that.
“After that, you’ve got acupuncture at nine around the corner from the studio.”
I winced as the marble countertop pressed into my thigh. Acupuncture would be good today, but the look on the practitioner’s face when I removed my clothes would not. “Reschedule that for next week, please. And then?”
“Blowout with Mikael, then lunch with your mother at noon. She wants to discuss the Met luncheon she’s planning in honor of your cousin’s recent contributions. I assume you’re planning to go?”
I sighed. Once upon a time, luncheons, charities—all of these were daily occurrences, things that, if not particularly fulfilling, at least gave my shadow of a life some meaning. Now, I couldn’t help wondering how much of our “charity” work was simple self-congratulations. I’d rather just write a check and be done with it.
I spat, then rinsed and replaced my toothbrush in its charger. “Mother really is pulling out all the stops to kiss the ring, isn’t she?”
Moira didn’t respond, which was basically her way of agreeing with me. It didn’t take rocket science to figure out what was going on. Less than a year ago, my cousin Eric had returned to the family fold after a ten-year absence. He might have been the black sheep of the family, but he was welcomed as its prodigal son. The last of the line of birthright de Vrieses. Heir to