Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
His eyes shift to the papers briefly before sliding up to me again. Then he turns for the fridge once more, opens it, and takes out leftover chicken and green beans. He opens the microwave and it’s now that I’ve realized my error.
He pauses, staring at the box in the microwave—donuts from Sal’s Donuts. Wendy, the florist at BeeKeep Flowers, gave the donuts to me. She wanted to thank me for choosing her shop to select flowers for the mansion and I took the box out of kindness. I didn’t eat a single one . . . not that I didn’t want to. And I suppose that’s why I’d left them in the microwave—because maybe I would indulge in one just for the hell of it. The donuts were the least of my concerns when I got home though. I literally threw them into the microwave so I could run to my office and print off the information about the accounts Anita sent me.
My heart beats faster as Dominic takes out the box and turns with it in his hand. “What is this?”
I wet my lips with my tongue, searching for words, but they all fail me.
He steps around the island counter, and I know when his switch goes off. It wasn’t this way when we first met. I didn’t see this switch go off until after we were married, when we lived in a condo in downtown Raleigh together.
The signs are all here right now.
His eyes darken.
His nostrils flare at the edges.
His jaw ticks repeatedly.
He was clearly angry about something before arriving home, but this discovery has fueled it. He’s trying to change the subject, shift the blame on me somehow. He knows I have something on him. He must know. Surely the bank in South Carolina got in touch with him by now but I had the leverage, so I didn’t care.
“I know you sold several hundred of our shares from True Oil,” I say, and am surprised my voice remains steady. Perhaps the wine has allowed me to perform that miracle. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d do that?”
“Shares? You really want to talk to me about shares when you’ve got a half dozen box of donuts in our microwave?” He says the words donuts like it’s a drug—like I’m doing meth or something. Dominic opens the box, studying the contents. “Got a little bit of everything in here, don’t you, Fat Jo?”
The nickname causes a stir in me. I haven’t heard it since college. That name was like having bricks thrown at my face. I shared the detail of that name with Dominic because I thought I could trust him, that he’d understand. Instead, I’d given the information to him like a loaded gun, and he uses that weapon against me every chance he gets.
“Dominic, they were a gift from a florist. I didn’t even eat them.”
“But you wanted to, I bet.” He takes one of the donuts out, a powdered one. Some of the white powder sprinkles to the waxed floor as he raises it in the air. “How about this one, huh, Jo?” He chucks the donut at me, and it hits the center of my chest. “Or this one?” he takes out a chocolate glazed donut, chucking it. I duck just in time to miss it, but that sparks his anger even more because he marches toward me with the box and dumps the entire thing on my head. He smashes the box and donuts down so that it meshes into my braids.
“Stop!” I shout, but of course that’s not enough. He’s now swiping his hands inside the box, collecting leftover glaze and powder on his fingertips. He grips my face with his other hand, clutching it tight and then shoving the glazy-powdered fingertips into my mouth.
“That’s what you wanted, right, Jo? Sure, you want to talk about selling shares and finding a fault in me, but don’t want to talk about how much of a pig you are.” He shoves his fingers down my throat, causing me to gag. I try snatching my face out of his hand, pushing against his chest, but he holds onto my face tighter, forcing me back until I’m wedged between him and a wall. “Do you want to be a fat bitch again, huh? Do you want to look like a disgusting sack of shit? Because that’s what you’ll be if you keep eating this shit, Jo. Trying to hide it won’t hide the fat that takes you over! We have a reputation to uphold and if you are going to be my wife, you will not be some fat, sad, dumpy bitch! I will not walk around with a big-ass wife, do you hear me?” He drops his hand to my throat, clutching tight and blocking my airways.