Pretty Little Wife(3)
She silently fought back by going out to dinner less and never attending his events. He’d sweet-talk and push, and now she recognized every move as manipulation. Nothing more than a long con that she’d fallen for until he’d gone one step too far.
“I run this household,” he said.
His money. His house. He made the decisions, even the ones that impacted her job and where they lived. Him, him, him.
She’d conceded so much ground to him. She had no idea when it’d happened or why she’d let her life get so small.
No more. The unspoken declaration vibrated through her.
“Do it or let go.” Her voice strained against his hand.
He frowned at her. “What?”
“Kill me. That’s where this is heading, right?” Every move and the dragging anger in his voice pointed there.
Despite his need for control, his mood had always been pretty even. But she had something on him now. Something that could break him and ruin that shiny reputation he stoked with neighborly good deeds and a fake smile. It was as if her breaking point this afternoon tipped off his.
He shook his head but didn’t let go of her neck.
Her hand covered his. She tried to pry his fingers off, to put an inch of distance between them, as the panic constricted her throat.
That quickly, he dropped his arm to his side. The swift move had her tipping forward when all she wanted to do was run away.
After a few seconds of her stumbling, he put his hands on her forearms to steady her. “I’m not the kind of man who hits.”
“Because that’s the bar? You don’t beat me, so you’re a great husband.”
“You’re pushing me, Lila. I advise you to stop.” He never blinked as he watched her. “This thing with the phone really is nothing. Don’t let your imagination fill in gaps that don’t exist.”
“The videos—”
He made a tut-tutting sound. “I told you. Silly girls doing silly things. That’s all.”
Liar.
It was as if he’d forgotten about her previous life. She’d played verbal gymnastics with people much more cunning than him. The kind who would be smart enough not to use the same password on their secret phone as they used on their usual one. “If that’s true, then why did you save them? And why hide the phone?”
“For insurance.”
“How? Even if the videos were a prank, they could be used to ruin you. I heard your voice on one.” She feared she would never forget what she’d heard. “Explain how you’ve protected yourself. Us.”
“I don’t appreciate your tone.” When she started to respond to that, he held up a hand and talked over her. “This discus sion is over. I’ve told you what you need to know, and now you can stop worrying about this. There’s more to it than the videos. I have the whole matter handled.”
She knew that was a lie. All of this was one big lie. She didn’t ask anything else, because the responses would be more of the same. Nonsense and bullshit.
He smiled in a way that made her feel more like prey than a wife. “Now that we’ve resolved that . . .”
He leaned in and kissed her on the forehead. She fought off a flinch but just barely. Maybe that’s where he wanted her energy focused, because he swooped in and pried the phone out of her hand before she realized what was happening.
“Clean this room up. I came home early to take you to dinner, but I can’t do that with this mess.” Then he walked out, cell phone in hand.
To him, that was it. He actually thought his comments and weak assurances ended the conversation. That she would slink back into her life, forget what she’d seen, and move on. That she was too stupid to have forwarded some of the videos to her email before the battery on his top secret phone died.
She would review them all and tease out every detail. And no, she would not let him turn this around and make it her fault. He’d always known the one thing she could not live through again . . . and he’d crashed their marriage right into it.
She’d handle it. She didn’t before, but she would this time.
She would be the one to stop him.
Chapter Three
Six Weeks Later
End of September
A NORMAL TUESDAY.
The relatively boring nature of the usual morning schedule would tumble through Lila Ridgefield’s mind every time she thought back on this day. Nothing different. Nothing to see here.
She walked around all morning, groggy and unsettled. Nursed a cup of coffee as it morphed from piping hot, to lukewarm, to sour and cold. By a little after ten, she slipped out of her comfortable pajamas and put on long, flowy black dress pants and a green silk blouse. The kind of outfit worn by ladies who enjoyed a fancy lunch out at the club but didn’t do much else with their time.
The temptation to find sweats or yoga pants tugged at her, but she didn’t give in. She maintained the image Aaron wanted, even this morning. Casual clothes would be out of character. People would notice. Today needed to look like a normal day. Blend in so nothing stuck out as unusual or, worse, memorable.
The wardrobe specifications had been a request from Aaron early in their marriage. After suffering through a difficult childhood, complete with the loss of both parents, he insisted a family look a certain way to the outside world. For his wife—if only on the exterior and to others—to come off as put together and project a certain image at all times. For them to have a weekly housekeeping service and meal delivery for the times when neither of them wanted to cook. For anyone watching to see success.