Page 50 of Desperate Vows

Almost as quickly as I reached the closet, he was next to me. “What are you doing?”

“Bird watching. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“It looks like you’re taking your clothes from the closet, and I don’t know why.”

“Why? WHY? Because I’m not staying here anymore. Not with you.”

He snatched my clothes from me. “Oh yes, you are. We’re married. You’re my responsibility now, and I take that seriously.”

I lifted on my toes and screamed, “Fine!” I stomped to the guest bedroom.

He was hot on my heels. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Away from you,” I shot over my shoulder. “Leave me alone.”

Before I could reach the guest room, Lucas had me by my upper arm, wrenching me back and flush against him. “I’m not leaving you alone.”

I tried to break free. “Yes, you are. I won’t ever have your trust. It will never matter what I do. I’m Claire Benoit, Franklin Benoit’s daughter. Tainted. Impure! Isn’t that the word?”

“As if you trust me. You lied about Franklin being at the restaurant. I asked you, and you didn’t say a word. I told you no lies, and what did you do? Lie. Every time I try to learn anything about you, you freeze me out. I don’t know if you’re trustworthy, pure, or anything else.”

“Leave me alone,” I repeated the words slowly.

He set his jaw. “No.” It came out between his bared teeth.

I was raked out down the middle, held together by a thread, and it had just snapped. “I’m not supposed to lie. I’m not supposed to speak unkindly of Franklin. I’m supposed to call him Daddy in public. Appearances, you know. You must keep up appearances, Claire. Don’t you know that, Claire? Be perfect, Claire.”

Lucas’s mouth was open, and he stared at me with wide eyes, watching my train derail. I didn’t care anymore. I would crash and burn in full view.

“Here I am, Lucas. Here I am. You want me to tell you the truth? Fine.” I spat. “Franklin called my mom a whore. A whore because she was with someone and didn’t realize she was pregnant with me. She didn’t cheat, but I’m not Claire Benoit. I’m Claire Santos. A short, pasty, cheap imitation of my Brazilian beauty queen mom. My eyes are too close set. My nose isn’t perky enough. I’m short. Ugly. Almost twenty-one years of assessment of never measuring up. Not even once.”

“Claire…”

“Stop. I’m not pure. He said he told you. Right?” My vision was so blurry I couldn’t even make out an outline of his face.

“Told me what?”

“I don’t know what’s funnier. That I’m unraveling, or that you’re standing there like you don’t know.” I yanked so hard to get out of his grip that I tumbled and had to use the wall to stay upright.

“I don’t.”

“Liar! You’re the liar! He wanted to hurt me like mom hurt him, so he let someone rape me at that club when I was twelve.” I felt like my soul was being wrenched from my body, and I was watching this from a distance. “Twelve. What’s…” I choked. “What’s worse is that it was Marco Moretti who did it. I didn’t know until that night at the wedding. I knew that voice. That disgusting, cigarette-laced, vile voice. He panted in my ear while he told me things I wish I could wipe from my memory.”

I couldn’t hold myself up. My back hit the wall, and I slid down. I’d never, never voiced this. In all the time since it happened, it’d been locked in that little box of darkness, tucked away. My own nightmarish Pandora’s box.

“Claire.” His voice was close, but I couldn’t see anything. I could barely register that he was calling my name.

“Are you happy?” I wrapped my arms around my knees and put my head between them as I was overtaken by a tidal wave of unspent emotions.

The next thing I knew, he had me encased in his arms, pressed hard against his body, kissing the top of my head. He wasn’t making a sound. I was being rocked back and forth as I wept the ugliest cry I’d ever had.

It was like I had been a walking, festering wound since that night, and now, the bandage was pulled off, and all the infection was spreading everywhere. I felt small and insignificant and worthless.

Claire 3.0 was a fraud. I wasn’t even sure I was Claire 2.0.

At some point, I guess I cried myself to sleep. I didn’t know how long ago that happened, but I could tell it was dark outside. Lucas was on the floor with his eyes closed, his chin resting on his shoulder with me in his arms. I remembered him holding me, but I guess I expected him to eventually put down the insane woman he married.

His arms tightened around me as I shifted. I didn’t know how he did that like it was some sort of manly instinct. Despite our issues, I really liked that. It made it feel like he wanted me all the time.

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