This isn’t a relationship, it’s a service contract. Not of me to him—hell, at some level, I’d probably accept that. No, ofhimtome.
Why would that satisfy him?
And as usual, now that I’ve asked the right questions, the answer comes easily.
He’s here because he doesn’t have a choice. Fournier made it clear: if he leaves, if we’re not together, Van Wyk gets to come for me. And there’s nothing Alex will be able to do without endangering himself, too.
This wonderful new house, the wedding, this damn dress… it’s all for me, not for him.
How long will we stay happy with that hanging over us?
“All finished,” Kirsten says.
“Yes, it is,” I reply, distracted.
“And with twelve minutes left. Can’t be early to your own wedding. What do you want to do? Have a drink?”
WhatdoI want to do?
“Would you mind very much if I had a little time to myself?”
She smiles at me. “Of course, honey. It’s your day.”
Yes, it is.Myday. Not our day, not his day,myday.
“Thank you.” It’s easy to make the words sound sincere; my brain’s working overtime.
Kirsten walks out, leaving me alone, with ten-minutes-and-change to do whatever it is I’m going to do.
I have no fucking clue what that is, only that I can’t go through with this wedding.
We need to talk. No, I need to run—he won’t accept my reasons. He’s spent the last few weeks beingperfect—sickeningly, so unlike-Alexperfect. He’ll only claim it’s the right thing for me, for both of us. Something like that.
Money. A change of clothes.
They’re all in our room, where Alex got ready; I’m in one of the spare ones. But I’m betting he’s not there anymore, I’m betting he’s already on the veranda, waiting for me.
I open the door quietly, and the hallway is empty. Everyone is outside, save for Kirsten who will be by the door. I can’t get to the other doors without her seeing me, and she’ll tell Alex. Because he’s ‘kind.’
The window, then. Get to my car that Alex bought me, then drive and drive.
I slip to our bedroom, pull out a case from beneath the bed, and stuff it with clothes at random. My credit card on Alex’s account. It’ll do for now. My passport. I need that too. It’s in the desk in his study. But that’s perfect, because that’s where my car keys are because I use it so rarely, and the window overlooks the guest wing, where the roof’s lower.
His study is empty, his desk immaculate. Inseconds I have my passport and the keys to my car. Should I leave him a note?
No. We’re past that, and I’m out of time.
A ring, on a blank piece of paper, left on his desk?
No. This time, I’m going to keep it. A memento. Proof that he does love me, and now I’m going to show I love him.
By setting him free.
The window is stuck. It won’t open. I push, and it doesn’t move. I shove harder, and it flies back, hits the shutter, and both crash into the wall outside.
I freeze, listening. But there’s no noise, nothing. The house is quiet, everyone on the far side. It’s difficult to maneuver my heavy case through the window and balance it on the roof, but far harder still to climb out in this ridiculous dress. The roof slopes, my wedding shoes giving me little traction, and the drop is higher than I thought. Twelve feet, easily.
But ahead, the roof meets a low wall, barely six feet down, then another six feet to the ground. That I can do. I just have to get there.
