Page 39 of Secrets That Bind Us

"Micah. My life is here . My publisher is here. My kids' lives are here. I've set roots here."

"And I haven't?"

Oh, he’s definitely set his root everywhere. But I don’t say that. "Is this about money? I know the gallery isn't doing as well as it was-"

The dark chuckle that leaves him sends slow chills up my spine.

He didn't use to chuckle like this. Like he's a king, and we're all his jesters in his court.

I grip the armrest of the chair I'm sitting on, letting the cool leather ground me.

The truth is, I know the gallery is tanking.

And thanks to both Elijah and Zoey for convincing me to have a lawyer draw up a prenup and have us both sign before we married, or I would have gone into this marriage with the small town, Southern Baptist mind of " divorce is a sin, marriage is forever, 'til death do we part. "

He'll get twenty-five percent of the proceeds from every book I wrote before we were married (which is close to three million) and his debts, which he acquired on his own.

The largest one being at a club called Eden in New York.

None of them are in my name (thank God for that small mercy), although he tries to siphon money from my accounts to pay them.

I'll let ten thousand go every now and then, so he keeps thinking he gets away with it.

Whether he's squandered it or saved it up, is on him.

I no longer care. I just want to be free.

"Every sin you've ever committed against me is written in your fucking books.

They're all right there. One night stands in clubs, hooking up with strangers, you've written about it all.

Our prenup is null. You're fucked. And if you don't want the whole world to know their darling Verity Huntington is a cheating bitch-"

I'm over it. In a way, he's right. Every passionate scene I've ever written in my books has all been memories.

But not of hookups or one-night stands. (Except the one before we married.) They're memories branded into the very marrow of my bones, my heart.

If I close my eyes just enough, I can feel his fingertips trailing across my skin like phantom touches.

There. Always there, seared beneath my skin forever.

I shouldn't say it. I know I shouldn't. But it comes out of me like vicious projectile word vomit before I can even stop them from spewing out. I stand up and -

"Fuck you. If I ever cheated, it was when I was thinking of him while you were inside me.

It was wishing it was him I was marrying.

It was regretting you entirely. Every decision, every choice, and having to make it with you!

It was suffocating alive, pretending I was happy being stuck here with you!

It was having to give my child your last name!

" and then I say the thing to dig a little deeper, to hurt him more - “It was pretending you're more than a mediocrity!”

He moves so quickly I don't even see him coming. Just a bang from the back of his chair slamming against the wall.

Ear ringing, white hot pain across my cheek and temple, my vision blurred as I blink once.

Twice. Recognizing I'm on the ground, staring up at him.

At first I think my vision is blurred because I'm crying but.

.. it's blurred because he struck me so hard my glasses flew off.

For a moment, I swear I see him standing over me.

Dean . Beautiful, beautiful, so in love with me he said he’d read for me, Dean. My heart lurches.

But then my head clears, and I’m back in this fucking office.

Pain and humiliation radiate through me like bolts of lightning across a tormented sky.

I can hear Micah panting, panic setting in. "Verity, I-"

My eye hurts, and now my temple is really throbbing. I pick myself up, dust off my skirt and fix my hair, pulling it all over one shoulder, squaring them. I feel a trickle down the side of my nose and wipe at it. Blood. Didn’t see that coming. Just like I didn’t see everything else.

“Promise me you won’t marry him, Ver. He won’t make you happy. He won’t love you like I do…”

I shake my head to get rid of Dean's voice, clear my throat so I don’t choke on a sob, and inhale.

"The prenup entitles you to three million.

I'm giving you the beach house. And I'll pay taxes and utilities on it for one year.

We can mitigate custody through our lawyers, which I'll also pay for, or simply give up your rights as a father.

While I rather the latter, the choice is yours. "

So many times I picked my mother up off the floor. I never thought I'd have to pick myself up. Never. Bile rises in my throat as memories of so many black eyes, so many nights in a hospital beside her bed, having to go back home to Daddy when he was bailed out.

No tears now. No. I cried too many tears over the years for Daddy. So many tears for Mama. Dean. Never for me. I won't start now.

"Verity."

"I kept my vows, Micah. And I kept every promise I ever made you." I twirl my finger, motioning to the office above his gallery. The one currently showcasing his flavor-of-the-month's shitty pieces. "None of this would have happened," I gesture between us, "had you kept yours."

"I'm sorry." His voice cracks, but I'm done.

How many times did Daddy apologize?

I make my way to the door of his office when I hear the unmistakable 'crunch' sound of my glasses breaking under my shoe.

I bend to pick them up and put them on, cracked lenses and skewed wiring be damned.

I open the door, grabbing my scarf, coat, and hat hanging from the coat rack.

"Don't bother coming home tonight... or any other night. " I say, barely above a whisper.

I shut the door behind me as Eli spots me, violence in his coffee eyes.

"Oh honey..." He wraps a shaking arm around me, both pretending not to hear the shouting or things crashing behind the heavy office door I just closed.

We get into the elevator, and I let Eli lead me through the gallery, the lobby, out the front door, out to the new downpour the heavy clouds promised, and then his Towne car, his driver opening the door for us. "I'll be right back."

"Eli." My voice cracks, but there's just no tears. Just a soul that's aching.

"No. You're not going to cry. You're going to wait for me here. When I come back, we're going to take you to the hospital so they can make sure you're okay. While we’re there, I’ll have them call the police department so we can not only press charges, but file for an immediate restraining order.” He says roughly.

“Afterwards, I'm going to take you home, then pick your kids up from school.

But right now, you're going to wait for me right here. Okay?"

I nod. What else can I do?

When he comes back, we do everything Elijah said... and we pretend his knuckles aren't bloodied and bruising the entire time.

My doorbell doesn't ring when I'm lying on my couch, ice pack on my swollen face. There is no knock on the door, just a jingle of keys I know are attached to a Jack Skellington lanyard, and a heavy bag drops in the foyer.

There is the sound of quiet thuds, size eight footfalls coming toward the darkened living room where I am.

A dip in the cushion at my feet. Hands pull my feet up and into their lap.

No words spoken. No words need to be spoken, I should say, when I'm finally brave enough to look into hazel eyes, rimmed with dark brown lashes.

For a heartbeat, there's a flash of anger.

No pity. No awkwardness. Just me and Zoey, whose hair is lavender and makes the hazel pop, and our peace.

I don't cry. She doesn't either, even though tears well into her eyes.

They stay there, just on the verge, glistening in the dim lighting. Like mine. Never dropping.

These tears aren't of sadness or pity. They're anger. Frustration. Mirroring my own, because I know what she's thinking. The same thing I did– I unknowingly married my father. I asked Mama once when Daddy had changed. She winced and looked away from me, never gave me an answer.

We sit in heated silence, those fucking watery glimmering lines in her hazel gaze recede. Slowly seeping back inside. The silence is never loud between us, though. It's comfortable.

It's an incredible feeling, to be able to sit with your best friend, your sister via soul tie, and not have to say a word. For that alone, I love her. But I’m so grateful she let me sit in silence, even though I know she’s about to break.

The moments pass and then, "God, Verity. It's like... it's like I've gone back fifteen years in the past and seeing your Mama again, except this time it’s you. Please, because I gotta ask, please tell me this is the first and only time?"

I give a curt nod, drops of anguish fill me. Not just anguish. Humiliation, regret, and rage. "He was arrested, and an immediate restraining order was approved."

"Are you finally coming home?"

The question doesn't surprise me. She asks every time she flies up.

I sigh. "Eli has scheduled the launch for Gravity in Paris and then Verona, ending in London.

As soon as the kids get out of school for winter break, we'll be spending the holidays there.

When we come back, I'll be touring around here until late March.

During spring break, I'll be on the West Coast."

"You know, I'd be mad at you for not spending the holidays with me but... I understand it. I just... God, I wish your dream hadn't taken you so far away."

"And I wish your dream had brought you closer."

She tips her head back and laughs. "Yeah right, like a bunch of WASPs are secretly aching for a tattoo shop to open in their little town? They'd throw me out in a pinch. Corrupting the youths." She says in a preacher's sermon's voice.

A little too accurate.

"Eli fly you in?"

She nods. "Flew me in while you were being seen at the hospital.

I think I scared Evan. I don't think he's ever seen me throw up and almost shit myself.

I was so mad, Verity. So fucking angry. The demon in me came out.

.. I grabbed my emergency duffel and ran out as soon as Eli texted.

Fuck. I haven't even told Evan I landed safely or that I'm here.

It's been hours. I hope he still wants to marry me. "

"That man would still marry you if you had shat and thrown up in bed. I don't think you can do wrong in his eyes, Zoey. You're that man's everything and more. C'mon, let's call him."

She grins. "He's worried about you, too, you know."

I give her a lopsided grin because my cheek is still somewhat swollen. "Yeah? That poor angelic man is stuck with us for life."

She laughs. "As it should be."

I glance at Zoey, who’s fishing her phone out of her back pocket and brightening the screen. I wonder if she knows how lucky she is?

"He'd build a ladder to the moon and hang all the stars for you, you know?"

This makes her lose it. This makes her cry soft sobs.

Not for the love her man has for her, but for me.

I clutch the blanket in my hands so fucking tightly the skin around my knuckles hurts.

But she doesn't push to hold me, doesn't push to seek more out of me.

Except she hangs her head in her hands and says, "Why do I get the good one and you only get to write about it? "

Memories of cobalt blue eyes, clumsy fingers and lips, words of praise and broken promises flood my mind.

"Because some of us were only meant to watch it from afar and write about it. Some of us were only meant to catch a glimpse of that supernova... and I'm okay with that." And when she breaks out in tears again, I feel even more hollow.

I finally realize why Mama's fingers were always cold, even in the summertime.

It's one thing to let your heart break– it's another to feel any warmth you had left within– leave your very soul.