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He squeezed harder. “Say it.”
I closed my eyes and forced the words out. “I want you. Make love to me.”
“Beg me.”
“I want you now. Please.” I knew he wanted me to say more, but that was all I could force out.
“You don’t sound very convincing. Show me.”
I pushed the covers back and lifted my nightgown off. Straddling him the way he liked, I positioned myself so that my breasts were in his face.
“You’re such a whore.” He thrust into me with no regard to my readiness. I gripped the sheets and made my mind blank until he finished.
Fifty-Three
The next day, as usual, there was a gift. This time it was a watch—a Vacheron Constantin worth upward of fifty grand. I didn’t need it, but of course I’d wear it, especially around his business associates and at the club, so everyone could see how generous my husband was. I knew how it would go. He would be charming for the next few weeks: compliment me, take me out to dinner, act solicitous. In truth, it was almost worse than his derision. At least when he was debasing me, I could feel justified in my hatred. But when he went for days on end masquerading as the compassionate man I fell in love with, it was confusing, even when I knew it was all an act.
He checked in with me every morning to go over what I had planned for the day. That morning I had decided to skip my Pilates class and get a massage and facial instead. He called me at ten, like he did every day.
“Good morning, Daphne. I’ve e-mailed you an article on the new exhibit at the Guggenheim. Make sure you take a look. I’d like to discuss it tonight.”
“Okay.”
“On your way to the gym?”
“Yes, see you later,” I lied. I wasn’t in a mood for a lecture on the importance of exercise.
Later that night, I was having a glass of wine in the sunroom and reading the damn Guggenheim article while the girls were being bathed. As soon as I saw his face, I knew something was wrong.
“Hello.” I made my voice bright.
He was holding a drink. “What are you doing?”
I lifted my iPad. “Reading the article you sent.”
“How was Pilates?”
“Fine. How was your day?”
He sat down across from me on the sofa and shook his head. “Not great. One of my managers lied to me.”
I looked up from the screen. “Oh?”
“Yeah. And about something really stupid. I asked him if he’d made a phone call, and he said yes.” He took a long swallow from his glass of bourbon. “Thing is, he hadn’t. All he had to do was tell me, say he’d planned to later.” He shrugged. “It would have been no big deal. But he lied.”
My heart fluttered, and I picked up my wineglass, taking a sip. “Maybe he was afraid you’d be angry.”
“Well, that’s the thing. Now I am. Really pissed, actually. Insulted too. He must think I’m an idiot. Ihatebeing lied to. I’ll put up with a lot of things, but lying, I can’t abide it.”
Unless he was the one doing the lying, of course. I gave him a neutral look. “I get it. You don’t like liars.” Now who was treating someone like an idiot? I knew there was no manager, that it was his passive-aggressive way of confronting me. But I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I did wonder how he knew I’d skipped my class. “So what did you do?”
He walked over to me, sat down, put his hand on my knee. “What do you think I should do?”
I slid away from him. He inched closer.
“I don’t know, Jackson. Do whatever you think is right.”
He pursed his lips, started to say something else, then sprang up from the sofa.