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I feel like the kitchen floor swallows me up. That’s the most direct, harshest description of our relationship I’ve heard anyone admit to so far. What he’s saying makes sense on the face of it. I mean, those are all the reasons why we’re doing this. He’s right, this isn’t love, this isn’t romance—it’s basically a business deal set up by our parents.
What did I expect from him?
And yet it hurts.
It really fucking hurts.
Maybe I’m silly and immature, but I’m a romantic. I’ve always dreamed of having a loving partner. I want warmth, comfort. I want a cottage with children and happiness and laughter. Instead, what this man’s offering is—money, quiet, solitude. He’ll knock me up and ignore me and I’ll spend my life chasing meaning, but never finding it.
I thought we might build something together, as real partners. Maybe we wouldn’t fall in love, but I assumed some measure of tenderness would grow.
But I was wrong.
God, I was so stupid and wrong.
And what bothers me even more?
That he’d stand there and lie to my face about those pictures like I’m an idiot and can’t see the truth.
“You’re cheating on me.”
“Come on, Marie. I’m not. That’s not me.” He’s grinning now. He knows he’s being a bastard and he doesn’t care. He’s so used to getting his way that he probably can’t even imagine getting in trouble for this. How could he, when he’s doing nothing wrong in his head? It’s not cheating if it’s only a business deal.
My heart’s snapping into pieces and I feel like I’m going to crumble to dust on the floor.
I’m embarrassed and my head’s spinning, and he doesn’t care.
“You’re lying. You’re cheating and now you’re lying about it, and why? What’s the point? If your argument is that our marriage isn’t real, why can’t you own up to what you’re doing?”
He raises his glass thoughtfully, takes a sip, and shrugs. “Because it’s not me.”
“You fucking bastard.” My hands shake as I grab my phone and shove it in his face. I make sure there’s a good picture of him with his tongue down some ugly club girl’s throat. “This is you. Admit it’s you.”
“Passable lookalike at best,” he says, waving my phone away and slipping past, heading into the living room. “Marie, honey, I get you’re mad. This is all very weird. Why don’t we sit down, have some wine, order some good dinner from that place you like—”
“No,” I say, raising my voice now. “Admit you’re cheating. Admit it’s you!”
“Sorry,” he says, his smile slipping away. “Not gonna happen.”
“Fuck you.” My embarrassment turns suddenly and a white-hot anger unlike anything I’ve ever felt rolls over me in a wave. “Fuck you, William. You lying piece of trash. I’m glad this happened now so I don’t have to divorce you later.”
His face grows serious. “Wait, are you joking? You’re breaking the deal?”
“Go to hell, you asshole.” I storm past him, so done with this farce. I’m so done with myself, with my father and William’s father, and everyone in my world. They’re all fakes, liars, monsters. All they care about is money and image and power.
I’m done with it all.
I want to burn it all to the ground.
“Marie, wait.” William shouts like I’m his to command.
But he’s nothing to me now.
I run out the front door and slam it behind me as he tries to make me come back. I storm down the street and he doesn’t follow. I knew he wouldn’t, the coward. He’s too afraid to fight in public.
He’s terrified of staining his perfect, good-boy image.
And as I walk down the block, an idea hits me.
A terrible, horrible idea.
I really can burn it all down.
I find a bar and duck inside. It’s dark and loud, and I sit in the corner at the bar and order a glass of wine. When it arrives, I throw it all back and type up an email on my phone.
Hey, Bells, how the heck are you? I’ve got the best scoop of your career if you’re interested. It’s about my former fiancé, William Crawford. Want to see it?
I hit send, head tingling.
Bella Baby is a friend from school that started a gossip blog about a year ago. I’ve known her most of my life, ever since I was a little girl and we went to daycare together. We’ve been friends forever, and while we’re not super close, I still have total confidence in her.
Her blog is hyper-niche, focused on rich, trust-fund babies like William living and playing on the East Coast, but it’s getting more and more popular among very young, very online people.
I know this is a terrible mistake, but I’m so mad I can’t help myself.
She gets back to me by the time I finish my second glass.
Hey, girl! WOW, okay, this is a super crazy email. Are you SURE you want me to write about this? Whatever’s happening with you two, maybe think about it first, give it a couple days, before you bring me in?
