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Twenty-One

Maddie

“Did you sleep well, Mrs. Stryker?”

“Yes, thank you, Cora.”

Today I’m wearing a pale pink pantsuit, a long double-looped strand of pearls, and silver kitten heels. All things Aidan bought for me on yesterday’s shopping spree.

I sit at the kitchen table while Claude makes me an omelette, which from the looks of it is so much more than a standard omelette.

This morning is much less awkward with Cora than yesterday.

I can tell she is somewhat skeptical of me, as though I’ve somehow bewitched her sweet boy, but I choose to just ignore this.

She clearly has no idea about what’s actually going on.

But if she doesn’t, then probably no one else does either.

As the household manager, Cora would know what the staff is whispering about.

Which means my security detail kept their mouths shut about my meltdown the night I learned I was basically sworn to Aidan. I have to admit, back when we had the money for help, the best quality for household staff to have was discretion, and I’m relieved Aidan’s staff seems to have it.

Claude removes a pan of fresh buttery croissants from the oven, and I can smell them from all the way across the room. Cora pours me some orange juice.

“Or did you want coffee?” she asks, uncertain.

“Juice is fine,” I say, “Thank you. Also, I hired Claude on full time, so would you be the person to talk to about making sure his pay reflects that?”

“I would, and I’ll take care of it.”

“Thank you.”

Cora nods and excuses herself.

I had some time to talk to Claude this morning.

He’s partially early-retired but says he misses it.

He has no family and it’s pretty lonely with only him and his little scruffy gray dog, Jackson.

The dog is staying with him in the cottage.

So it was decided that he should stay on full time.

By me. I decided that. I’m testing the bounds of my “Lady of the House” status, to see if Aidan really means it, or if he only means it while it’s convenient.

The truth is, I don’t mind reheating things, but I like Claude.

He doesn’t just have a French name. He is for real French.

With an accent and everything. I’ve learned that he studied at Le Cordon Bleu in Paris which sounds totally made up, but I looked it up.

It’s a real place. And very prestigious.

Founded in 1895. Julia Child studied there.

Claude has informed me that all the best food in the world is French, and I don’t disagree.

I’m honestly waiting for him to break down and sing that Little Mermaid song about the fish, but I will never say this to him. Since Aidan’s guards and his driver are all Italian, it’s a little shocking that the chef isn’t, but Claude has been with the family on and off since Aidan was born.

“Do you expect Mr. Stryker home tonight?” Claude asks as he flips my omelette onto a plate, garnishes it with an orange slice and a sprig of something green and adds a fresh hot buttery croissant. I love the way he says Stryker .

“I don’t actually know when he’s returning,” I say. “He said a few days.”

Claude nods and presents me with my breakfast, and when I indicate that I don’t need anything else, he excuses himself to go work in the herb garden.

By the time I finish breakfast, Cora is back.

“Do you have an itinerary for the day or anything I need to be aware of, Mrs. Stryker?”

If we hadn’t had the weird power struggle we had initially, I would have been happy for her to call me Madison, but Mrs. Stryker is probably the right tone to set after all of that.

“I thought I’d go shopping today with my friend.”

Again, testing the waters to see just how real all of Aidan’s promises are.

Can I leave the house? Can I use the black card?

Can I wander around without question? Can I hire Claude on full time?

All these exciting questions will be answered on the next episode of Forcefully Married to the Crime Lord .

“Of course,” Cora says. “I’ll let Vincent and your security detail know. When should they be ready to leave?” She tends to call the staff by their more formal given names.

“Thirty minutes?” I say it more as a question and realize I’m actually going to have to take the question marks off my statements if I want to be taken seriously.

I used to know how to do this. I’m trying to reclaim who I was…

a queen bee. Losing everything with the IRS shook some of my confidence, but if ever there was a time to project my long lost queen energy , it’s now.

Aidan may hold all the ultimate power, but clearly he won’t always be here, and I won’t always be with him. So, I am absolutely going to leverage that to the highest level I can and wield whatever level of power I can hold.

I texted Erica to meet me while I was getting ready this morning. I feel like I haven’t seen her in forever, but it’s only been two days. My relationship with time is really off right now.

I’m still considering means of escape, but the betraying part of my brain has decided I should just stay here and be the Queen of the Castle.

It’s definitely a whole other level of wealth and privilege than I was raised in.

And it’s very very tempting, especially with the effect actual adult Aidan has on me.

I can pretend all I want that he’s still that awkward weird thirteen-year-old boy that stared at me too much and followed me around, but that creepy stare has turned into a smoldering intensity that does all kinds of wrong things to me.

Poor Poor little Maddie… rich hot husband who literally killed for her.

All the comfort and luxury she could require.

Not locked up in the house. What a tragic life.

Won’t somebody please think of Madison? Somewhere in the distance a song about being in the arms of the angels starts to play as we cut to her sad sad eyes.

My inner monologue is getting quite ridiculous. But the other side of being raised around wealth is… the pretty picture on the outside is almost never what’s going on underneath the surface.

In reality it’s usually financial control, various forms of abuse, cheating, micro-managing and massaging an “appearance” for society.

And by society I mean… High Society—those our snobby circles have determined to be “the people who matter”.

The reality for many a pampered princess in the higher strata of society is having to beg or “perform” for every single scrap from the man providing it for them.

Everything held over your head. There isn’t a single thing that won’t be paid for, usually in a transactional sexual way.

If I’m really honest about it, I’ve seen hints of that from my father toward my mother.

He always doted on me, but it did sometimes feel like my mother had to remain useful in some way to be afforded the lifestyle my father promised her, even though she herself came from money.

They met at the country club. She wasn’t some lost, struggling Cinderella waiting for her prince to come. She had her own trust fund.

So even though every fiber of my being wants to just forget Aidan’s darker side and fall into this situation, the smarter side of me knows this can’t be real, and I can’t trust it.

I can’t afford to be that foolish. How can I truly be safe with this man?

And when the novelty of showering me with gifts and wooing and impressing me fades, I can’t be anywhere near here.

I can’t just fall into this like some little idiot. I need to get away while I have the chance. I at least need to try.