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Present Day
HOUSTON, TX
The Jezebel’s Undoing
Regan
“I need to speak with you.”
The unexpected sound of my husband’s voice nearly stops my heart. My reflexive gasp draws soap and water into my nose and throat, and I cough violently to clear it. I turn the water off and meet his unreadable gaze in the mirror.
The burn of mint scented face wash invading my nostrils and stinging my eyes barely registers against the shock of seeing him stan
ding in my bathroom when he should be on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
I grab a towel from the small pile on my counter and wipe the soap off haphazardly and turn to face him. “Why are you here?” I demand.
He raises one gray flecked eyebrow as if surprised by my question. “This is my house. You are still my wife.” He curls his lip and drags a possessive gaze over my towel clad, shower damp body.
I resist the urge to cross my arms over my chest and glower at him. “Please leave, now.”
He shakes his head slowly; one side of his thin mouth curls upward in a sneer. “I’ll wait for you in the bedroom.” He informs me, and then he turns and walks out of the bathroom.
I release the breath I was holding, and rush into my closet, slide the door closed behind me and start to pace. Mounting dread compounds my shock, but I can’t afford to indulge either.
Since our confrontation after he received the divorce petition, he’s been radio silent. I’ve been praying, unceasingly, he’d stay that way. Marcel being here today is a very, very bad sign and even worse timing.
The State of Texas gives a respondent twenty days to respond before granting a divorce by default. This morning, I woke up and drew the nineteenth red “X” on the small calendar I keep on my bedside table. It was like hearing a key slide into the lock of a door that had been sealed shut for years.
Just one day left. I could taste my freedom. And, for the first time ever, I dared to imagine welcoming Stone to Houston as a single woman.
It was stupid to think Marcel would make this easy.
I glower at my reflection, this time, the sting in my eyes from tears I won’t allow to fall. There’s no reason to cry. Marcel will drag it out and make it as painful as possible, but he can’t do anything to stop the divorce. This is just one battle in a war that, ultimately, I know I’ll win.
I take my time getting dressed, pulling on my softest pair of leggings and a t-shirt Stone bought me in Todos Santos. I stride into my bedroom, walking past him toward my bed without stopping or looking at him, my voice projecting irritation and impatience. “Whatever this about, I wish you’d called first. I have a very busy-”
“Who is he?” Marcel speaks in a quiet, insouciant voice, but his question lands with the potential lethality of a grenade before it detonates. I have no idea if it’s a dud or if my whole life is about to go up in flames.
I quell that flare of panic. There’s only one he that matters, and Marcel can’t know about him. No one does. Stone is my heart’s most closely guarded secret. With that certainty as my shield, I ignore the explosive question, turn my back to him, and start making my bed.
“Regan, I am speaking to you.” The easy confidence in his voice is splintered by indignation that provides another balm to my rattled nerves. He’s much easier to manage when he’s angry.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I drawl and glance over my shoulder in his general direction, one eyebrow raised in apathetic curiosity. “I didn’t hear you.” I resume my task without meeting his eye or waiting for an answer.
A second later, a black smartphone lands face down on the bed. “My mother was right about you. You are the devil in disguise.” he snarls behind me.
I sigh loudly at his dramatics before I pick up the phone and turn to face him. “What is this about?” I snap.
He nods at the phone in my hand. “See for yourself, Jezebel.”
Those tendrils of trepidation hiss like agitated snakes in my gut and drawn my grudging gaze to the phone and the shield I’d been so sure of crumbles as the grenade I’d dismissed for a dud, detonates.
The headline written in bold red all caps reads, “La femme de Landel montre au monde qui elle est: La Jézabel” The wife of Landel shows the world who she is: Jezebel.
It’s splashed over a picture I looked at just this morning with sweet longing and tentative hope. Me and Stone kissing, his hand grasping my bikini clad bottom, my tattoo glaring the small of my bare back. My arms are twined around his neck, obscuring the sliver of his profile that the brim of his hat didn’t hide. I scan the article and see the words “unknown companion”. At least they don’t know it’s him.
Amidst the discordant bells of devastation, disbelief, horror, and humiliation tolling inside my head, is a note of relief. But my knees still buckle under the weight of this disaster and I sit on the bed, dazed.
“I want you out of my house, faithless woman.” Marcel issues his order like a tyrant who expects complete obedience and my head snaps up. His eyes glitter with the anticipatory menace of a spider preparing to devour the unfortunate prey trapped in its web and I’ve never been so afraid in my life.
But, after years of living with his flagrant infidelity, Marcel’s righteousness spawns rage so ardent, it momentarily overwhelms my fear.
I raise my head and meet his raptor like glare with one of my own. “This is my home. The kids and I aren’t going anywhere.”
His thin-lipped sneer spreads into a malevolent smile that chills me to the bone. “The children aren’t going anywhere. But you most certainly are.”
Heart-stopping fear steals my breath. “No, they wouldn’t...you couldn’t. They need me…” My throat throbs with unshed tears of helplessness and fury. The phone slips from my hand and lands at my feet with a clatter that’s muted by the panic thundering through my veins like a band of unbroken stallions.
The polished tips of his bespoke Aubercy loafers come into view. And he presses a finger to the underside of my chin and lifts my face to his. I’m too shell shocked to resist.
Disdain draws furrows between his brows, scorn etches grooves around the edges of his lips and he leans forward until I can smell the cognac on his breath. “After you have so thoroughly disgraced yourself, me and them, do you think they will want to be with you?”
Oh God. My children. The thought of them seeing that picture fills my gut with an unbearable ache.
At my silence, his sneering lips curl into a satisfied smile. He drops his hand from my chin and takes a step back. “You will leave. They will stay here. And if you tell me who the man is, I will call this newspaper and have them take this article out of circulation. This was published at midnight in France.” He checks the time on his wristwatch and purses his lips, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “It’s only 2am there, now. One phone call, and I can make it go away. I will spare you the humiliation of your children knowing what kind of woman you are. Just tell me who he is. Then, it will only be his life I burn to the ground.”
Disgust cuts through my apprehension and I find my voice. “You would use our children as pawns?”
His eyes narrow in condescending pity, “But, that is exactly what they are, Regan. The prenuptial agreement we signed saw to that.”
