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I’m getting close to my thirties, and my needs and wants are not the same as they once were.
What do I even want? The answer to that question is lost on me too.
Now I handle all things, my husband. He has a manager, sure, but I am practically his assistant and schedule everything for him. Like right now, as he gets into his Porsche, I know he is off to record his next album, and he’ll be there all night. He works better at night.
Kyler is talented, crazily so. He’s stepped away from playing music to writing and producing for other artists. He’s had hits all over the world, and his songs have been sung by the biggest names.
He is important.
Whereas I am… Well, I’m nothing more than just me.
I’m not even sure when I let that happen, maybe it’s because we were married so early I just gave him my all and got lost along the way. And in doing so I lost my own identity.
Who am I important to? I would hope to my husband, but I’m not so sure anymore. Everything between us feels transactional.
The last time he kissed me like he missed me was over a year ago. And even then, it was put on for the cameras.
That’s his number one rule. Don’t do anything that could embarrass him especially in front of the cameras.
So I don’t.
I am hardly ever seen out and spend most of my time locked in this house doing work for him.
I glance down at the white marble floor. I picked it out. Actually, I picked gray, and Kyler overrode me with white, but the stone and shape were all me. The walls are stark white, and the furniture is much the same, with the occasional gray accent. It almost looks like a hospital in here. The only place you can tell is used is my office.
Kyler hired a cleaner to come twice a week, as he wants everything spotless.
Mess doesn’t bother me, it never has.
I walk over and push a cushion purposely off the couch to give the area a semi lived-in feel. Then I walk up the stairs, gripping the glass railing, and go straight to my bedroom. It’s our bedroom, but nothing sexual happens in here anymore. I can’t remember the last time he fucked me. And sometimes a wife just wants to be fucked. Slammed up against the wall and have her husband ravish her.
The last time we had sex, it felt like a chore.
The sad part? I still love him, and I think he’s attractive. He came third on the best-looking list in People magazine’s “The Sexiest Man Alive” issue. Everyone tells me how lucky I am to have him, while I whisper to myself how lucky he is to have me. I signed up for this life—I know I did—but knowing I made this choice doesn’t make it any easier.
Stripping out of the dress, I watch as it falls to the floor. I plan for it to be burned so I never see it again.
Then I remember the grunting, and my body locks tight, freezing in place.
What did the man who saved me do to the other man? I should have asked. Maybe I’ll go back and ask.
I shake my head. No, no, I don’t want to know.
But what if there are photos? I cringe at the thought of evidence from what happened spreading around.
And then I tell myself not to be stupid, and it wasn’t my fault.
The hot water from the shower steams up the mirror as I look at myself. My red hair is a mess of curly locks in need of a good brush, and my green eyes are sleepy and scared.
How could Kyler walk past me and not see there was something wrong?
I turn away from my hazy reflection, then step into the shower and wet my head. The minute I do, I pull back and cover my mouth as a scream rips out of me so loud I scare myself. My body shakes with the pent-up exhaustion and after-effects of whatever drug that asshole gave me.
Then I remember stitches.
Deciding against washing my hair, I scrub the rest of my body before I step out, grab a fluffy white towel, and wrap myself in it.
Today I had plans. There are many work chores to organize.
But as I look at my bed, I know I can’t function, so I climb in, acknowledging I’ll be doing absolutely nothing.
I grab my phone and try to search for the man who helped me, but I have no clue what the place is called or even how to look for him. I remember the location, and that’s it.
Maybe I will go back.
Or maybe I should let sleeping dogs lie and never visit that place again.
The last option is definitely the safest.
