Page 11 of They All Own Me

The warehouse looms in front of me, its windows dark except for one faint light on the second floor. Whatever Thomas is involved in, it's big enough to need fake companies and secret meetings. I snap a few pictures of the building before putting my car in drive.

Time to head home and play the dutiful wife. For now.

.

I pull into our driveway, my headlights sweeping across the too green lawn. The garage door lifts with its usual mechanical whir, and I park my car next to Thomas's precious BMW.

The kitchen door slams open before I can even grab my purse.

"Where the hell have you been?" His voice cuts through the garage. His collar is askew, and his hair's slightly mussed—not his usual perfectly coiffed look.

I take my time collecting my things. "Apparently a lot of people like to get their suits dry cleaned after 9pm. And you told me to take the long way."

"Three hours?" He blocks the doorway, arms crossed.

"Well, If anything, I'm thorough."

He doesn't move. "You're fucking lying."

"Why would I lie?" I step closer, squinting at his collar. "How was your meeting with those diplomats?"

His hand shoots up, grabbing my wrist. "What's your play here?"

"Nothing at all." I twist free of his grip.

The muscle in his jaw twitches. "You're walking a dangerous line… Just... Go the hell upstairs." He runs a hand through his hair. "I have work to do."

"Don't work too hard." I head for the stairs, patting his cheek as I pass. "Wouldn't want you getting worn out."

Thomas's hand shoots out, grabbing my arm and yanking me back before I can reach the stairs. His fingers dig into my skin, and I wince at the pressure.

"You think you're so clever with your little comments?" He shoves me against the wall, his other hand slamming beside my head. "You don't know anything."

I lift my chin, refusing to show fear. "You're right, I don't."

"Smart girl." His breath hits my face, smelling of scotch and mint—probably to cover up whatever else he's been doing with his mouth. "You know what I allow you to know. That's it."

"Let go of my arm."

He tightens his grip instead. "You're my wife. My property. Your job is to smile pretty for the cameras and keep your mouth shut. Nothing more."

"Property?" I laugh, the sound sharp and bitter. "Is that what you tell all your diplomats?"

His free hand wraps around my throat, not squeezing, just resting there. A warning. "What I do, who I meet with is none of your business. You're here to play your part. Nothing more."

I swallow hard, forcing down the urge to knee him right where it would hurt most. His hand on my throat reminds me of just how much bigger he is, how much damage he could do if provoked. The smart play is to back down—for now.

"Okay." The words taste like acid.

His grip loosens slightly, surprise flickering across his face. "What was that?"

"I said okay." Each word carefully measured, steady. "I overstepped. It won't happen again."

He studies my face, searching for any hint of defiance. I keep my expression neutral, channeling years of practice at playing the perfect political wife. His hand drops from my throat.

"See? Was that so hard?" He straightens his tie, already dismissing me. "Now go upstairs and get ready for bed. I have some calls to make."

I nod demurely, rubbing my neck where his hand had been. The urge to strike back, to hurt him like he hurts me, burns in my chest. But I've learned something valuable tonight. Something worth more than the momentary satisfaction of violence.

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