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It feels surreal now, like a dream I’m waking up from. I can’t believe I came on to him like that, and then what followed… Groaning, I roll over onto my side and swing my legs off the bed. My stomach is cramping in full force, and when I get to the bathroom, I’m not surprised to discover that my period is starting. What does shock me is that we again forgot condoms last night, and no alarm bells rang in my mind.
It’s like I subconsciously want to get pregnant.
No. I shove away the horrifying thought. I definitely do not want a child like this. I just wasn’t thinking clearly last night. After listening to the men talk about the dangers they’ll face, I was so sick with worry, and so desperate to distract myself, I all but attacked Peter, seducing him despite how shitty I was feeling. I’m pretty sure he would’ve left me alone last night—he’s always considerate when I feel ill—but I needed a distraction, and that’s precisely what I got. By my second orgasm, I forgot all about Nigeria and not feeling well, and by the fourth, I could barely recall my own name.
I’m in desperate need of a shower, so I ignore the twisting discomfort in my stomach and step into the stall to wash from head to toe. Then I towel off, brush my teeth, and trudge back into the bedroom to get dressed. To my surprise, I discover a glass of water and Advil on the dresser—Peter must’ve left them there for me this morning.
Feeling pathetically grateful, I swallow the medicine and lie down, waiting for the worst of the discomfort to pass. It’s stupid, but I already miss my captor… miss his attentiveness and care. I know it’s just because I’m feeling low, but I want him here to rub my belly, to hold me and make me feel like I’m the center of his world.
I want him here and not halfway around the world, where bullets fly and bombs explode.
No. No, no, no. I squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s too late. The anxiety I thought I banished returns with a toxic blast, the panic tightening my chest and throat. It’s stupid, utterly irrational, but I don’t want to see my tormentor dead. I can’t even imagine it. His impact on my life is so absolute, so all-encompassing, I can’t picture it without him.
I don’t want to picture it.
My chest squeezes even tighter, and I focus on my breathing, trying to relax my tense muscles and slow my wildly beating pulse. I tell myself that Peter will be fine, that he can handle whatever comes his way. Danger is his comfort zone, assassinations his chosen profession. There’s no reason to think that something will go wrong, no reason to imagine he will not return.
Except he got hurt on that Mexico job.
No. Breathing deeply, I force away the insidious reminder. It’s stupid to worry just because of a one-time slip. Over the years, Peter has done plenty of dangerous jobs without getting hurt.
In fact, he killed my husband and his three guards without getting so much as a scratch.
My stomach roils, worsening my cramps, and my throat fills with bile at the recollection. How could I have let myself forget, even for an instant, what kind of man Peter is and what he’s done? Up here on this mountain, my old life may seem less real, but that doesn’t mean it didn’t happen.
It doesn’t mean the husband I loved did not exist.
Closing my eyes, I focus on George and the happy memories we had together. There were so many: our first dates, the trip to Disney World, the barbecues at my parents’ house… My parents loved him, thought the world of him, and for years, so did I. We laughed and cried together, went out and stayed in. He was there for my college graduation, and I was there for his. Then things got tough: my med school and my residency, his never-ending trips abroad. And still, we were together, our love bolstered by the knowledge that our lives were just beginning, that we were young and could withstand it all.
Of course, that was before the drinking and the moods… before his secrets destroyed our marriage and brought Peter to our door.
Opening my eyes, I stare at the ceiling, feeling the now-familiar pain of betrayal. I wish I could forget that part, to pretend that everything Peter told me is a lie, but I can’t deny the facts.
The boy I met in college wasn’t the man I married, and for years, I had no idea why.
Spy, not journalist. It still seems so impossible to believe. Would George have ever told me? If the tragedy at Daryevo and all the things that followed hadn’t happened, would I have ever learned about his real job? Or would he have kept me in the dark our entire lives, lying to me with a smile?
