Total pages in book: 225
Estimated words: 218500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1093(@200wpm)___ 874(@250wpm)___ 728(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 218500 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1093(@200wpm)___ 874(@250wpm)___ 728(@300wpm)
Feeling dejected that my bitchy little snipe failed, I roll away and go to the bathroom. I lock it behind myself and run a bath in a huge, deep tub.
I turn the jets on and lean back against the bath pillow, closing my eyes.
When it’s deep enough, I sink down, going under, tuning out the rest of the world, holding my breath and just… being. Not thinking. Not feeling. It’s like I’m in my very own sensory deprivation chamber.
I used to do this in the bath when I was a teenager, when Bryan got really sick, then later when he was … no more. Turn off all the noise, tune out all the bad shit. Just, float. Float like I floated before consciousness, when I was a fetus in my birth mother’s stomach. Maybe she wanted me then. Maybe she loved the idea of me. Maybe she glamorized motherhood in her mind before the reality of a crying, hungry baby overwhelmed her teenaged brain.
Derek is rich enough to buy me a sensory deprivation chamber. Maybe I should ask for one – get something out of this marriage.
I’m suddenly yanked from the water, hauled out of my warm, bubbled cocoon of stresslessness and facing the wild eyes of my new husband. Derek’s expression is stark. Fear? He’s standing in the tub, in his (still undone from when he fucked me) tuxedo pants, holding me. He steps out of the tub and sets me on the countertop as if I’m breakable, dragging towels off the towel bar as he examines my face, cussing under his breath, “Fuck, fuck, holy fuck, baby, fuck.”
He’s winded. Panicked. His hands are trembling as he grips me.
“Stop. I was just trying to take a bath. Let go of me.” I push him as he touches my face, my arms, looking wild with worry.
“You… you…” He flinches and looks back at the tub and then at me again, seeming like he’s traumatized, shaking it off. “You were underwater. I thought…” He looks back at the tub and blinks a couple times.
“I was holding my breath,” I defend, covering myself with a towel and climbing off the vanity onto the soaking wet tiles. “Did you think I was drowning myself? That I’d rather be dead than be your wife?”
He flinches again almost like I’ve landed a blow on his face. He rakes his hand through his hair, then grabs a towel and dabs at his torso as he leaves the bathroom.
I pull the plug and dig through the bag he brought for us until I find my toothbrush and toothpaste.
I don’t know if he packed this for us today or if he had someone do it but nothing important seems to have been forgotten, which is good if I don’t have access to my stuff for a few days.
A honeymoon. Five days alone with him somewhere after a trip on the Steele private jet? I stare at myself in the mirror as I wipe away what’s left of my eye makeup and again can’t fathom how I wound up here. I’m not entirely uncultured, but married to a wealthy, powerful guy like him? I guess he’s not the typical, wealthy powerful guy type, is he?
I’m not the trophy wife type. What on earth must my boss Frank think of me after getting a call from our largest client who informed him that he’s marrying me and that when I get back from my honeymoon, I’ll be his boss?
Do I even want to be a boss?
No. Not really.
Not really able to wrap my mind around any of that, I step out of the bathroom and see Derek in the sitting area on the couch, staring out the window with a drink in his hand. A large one. He takes a big swallow and stares out the window with a bitter expression.
I dig into the wardrobe where our clothes have been hung and all that’s here is one outfit and sneakers for each of us. I pull down a new soft, gray pair of yoga pants for me with a long, drapey matching cardigan, and tank top. I find underthings in the drawer folded neatly beside Derek’s socks and underwear and take all this back to the bathroom.
I try to pull in some slow, cleansing breaths and follow them with a not-so-cleansing glug of my bourbon.
When I busted the bathroom lock with plans to join her in the tub, I was first thrown that the room seemed empty. When I saw the still water of the tub, and then movement underneath, I sprang into action and hauled her out of the water, images assaulting my mind and blurring my vision.
As I got her out, saw she was breathing, conscious, my mind was filled with reels of when I was maybe five or six, at one of our vacation homes. I hadn’t forgotten the events of that day, but this was the first time in years they came to me so vividly.