The President's Wife - Kathy Myme Page 0,42

she’s changed her mind about meeting me.

I wonder how long I should wait. How long I can wait. Surely people have started to notice I’m missing by now. I bet my fancy starter is stone dead cold on the posh dinner table.

“Veronica?”

I bolt upright. My name? Out here?

I’d assume it’s Stephanie… but that was definitely a man’s voice. From memory from the press conference, Stephanie’s voice is practically a falsetto.

Well, of course someone is looking for me. The President probably sounded the alarm as soon as I didn’t return in his perfectly scheduled time-frame. There’s probably a national alert out on my safety as we speak.

Such a control freak. He can’t even let me have one moment alone.

“Hello?” I call out, trying to work out where the voice had come from.

There’s no reply.

I frown, closing my eyes. All I can hear is the sound of the breeze blowing through the trees.

Had I imagined the voice? It has been a long day. If I’m allowed to be a little bit crazy at any point in my life, it would be right now.

I could lie back down on the bench, but it’s probably around the time I should be getting back anyway. I get to my feet, looking back at the trail I’d come down. I probably have some explaining to do. The President won’t be pleased.

I step forward, thinking about how pissed off he’d most likely be, and-

I feel an arm close around my waist.

The scream that leaves my mouth is piercing, but it only lasts for a moment. Fingers clamp down over my lips.

“Don’t fucking move,” growls a voice from near my ear.

I can’t explain the rush of emotions that washes over me. The voice speaking is so familiar to me. I heard it every day for years. Through the whole of high school, and even after that… that voice is the voice of the person that knew me best.

Trevor.

I splutter, squirming in his arms. I must catch him by surprise with my strength because his fingers slip.

“What the fuck, Trevor?” I pant, trying to throw off his arms that are still around me. “You don’t call me for days and now you show up in the middle of the night - all the way in DC - and grab me?”

I expect to hear him laugh. To watch him drop my arms and apologize for scaring me. To have him tell me it was a stupid joke.

But he doesn’t do any of those things.

“Stay still, Veronica,” he commands, his voice deathly flat.

I try to twist my body, struggling to see his face. I don’t like what I see. The Trevor I know isn’t the person holding me. In his place is a man with bloodshot eyes and a pale, haunted look on his face.

“Tr-Trevor?” I ask nervously. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on,” he spits, “is that you slept with the fucking President.” His grip on me is getting painfully tighter by the second.

“Trevor, no,” I gasp, frantic. “It’s all a lie. We’re not engaged-”

He roars, shaking me with venom. “I know you’re not fucking engaged, bitch. I don’t care about whatever piss-poor excuse for a cover story you came up with for the media. How long did it take you to jump on his dick?”

“No-”

“Do you think I don’t know you?” His fingernails are digging into my skin. “Did you just conveniently forgot the fact we’ve spent our whole fucking lives together?”

He’s not acting right. This isn’t the Trevor I know. My Trevor might get grouchy and snappy sometimes, but never downright sadistic. He’s scaring me.

“I asked you a question, bitch.” He yanks one of his arms and the next thing I know there’s something pressed to my throat. Something hard and unyielding. A knife. “How long did it take you to fuck the President?”

“Trev, please-”

“You’ve only just moved to DC. But I’m guessing it took you days - maybe hours - to forget about me. When did he first have you?”

He’s completely insane. I feel something wet sliding down my face… I’m crying, without even fully realizing it.

“Trevor, we can talk this out. If you’d just listen to me-”

But there’s no reasoning with him. He grunts and the flat edge of the knife is suddenly choking me.

Is this how I die? Sliced into little bits in the middle of some random park, hurt by my own boyfriend? The idea is maddening. Dying is one thing… but I can’t get all the hypothetical newspaper headlines out of my mind. If