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Romy
It’s crazy how easily you can slip into a routine when you can convince yourself that all the cogs and locks and intricate mechanisms that make up your life are running smoothly.
I allowed myself to get lost in Donnacha’s storm for one night, only I never found my way out.
I don’t think I want to, either.
For the next two weeks, we work like a well-oiled machine. Each day ticks over into the next, as reliable as clockwork.
My mornings are spent with Aisling in the library now that she’s on winter break. Donnacha told her I can’t read, and when she brought out a stack of elementary school workbooks, I had to confess that I can’t write, either. At first, I was mortified, tracing a pencil on top of oversized letters and coughing out the syllables in The Very Hungry Caterpillar. But Aisling never judged, and thankfully, not once did she ask why I have the reading and writing skills of a very young toddler.
In the evenings, Donnacha leans against the kitchen island, reading out the step-by-step instructions to different recipes. Then he watches me like a hawk over the rim of his whiskey to make sure I get the measurements right.
Sometimes, the meals come out delicious. Lasagnas, meatloafs, pasta bakes. Other times, not so much. When a rancid smell seeps out from the hinges of the oven, interrupting our teenage-style makeout session against the counter, Donnacha will graze a soft kiss over my nose, rub my back, and tell me to go set the table.
I haven’t told him I’ve spotted him at the mouth of the elevator, taking containers from Franco with one hand while slipping a roll of hundreds into the pocket of his chef whites with the other. Instead, I sit and grin at the dining table as he spoons an upgraded version of my risotto or coq au vin into his mouth, proclaiming I’m the best chef he’s ever met.
As the evening melts into the early hours of the morning, that’s when I pay for my sins. I crave—and deserve—every bite mark and every bruise that my husband decorates my skin with.
The blood I draw from my lip tastes sweet; the hot whip of his belt on my ass even sweeter.
It’s under the cloak of darkness, tangled in Donnacha’s silk sheets, that I atone for every cruel thing I’ve ever done.
For every kid I killed in the courtyard.
For every man I poisoned.
For lying to my best friend for over ten years.
For plotting to kill my husband.
And when the harsh winter sun streams through the skylight, I collapse into the mattress, feeling lighter and happier, like I could walk into heaven with a fast pass.
Donnacha becomes a different man too—morphing from the beast begging to hear my voice to a caring, doting husband. Before he showers and slips on his suit, he bathes me. Rubbing ointments and creams into my most sensitive spots, he massages the tension out of my neck from where I’ve been clenching my jaw so hard.
And when he steps into the elevator and becomes that man who spreads terror across the East Coast, I’ve noticed it feels like half of my heart steps in with him.
As I drink my morning coffee in the silence of the penthouse, I wonder:
How the fuck am I going to kill the man who makes me feel so alive?
