Page 3 of They All Own Me

"Yeah, like a fucking robot." He pulls out his phone, scrolling through emails. "You're supposed to be charming, engaging. Instead, you sat there like some department store mannequin."

"I smiled. I nodded. I played my part."

"Barely." His jaw clenches. "Do you know how it looks when my wife can't even pretend to give a shit about my career?"

"Your career?" A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "You mean the one my father bought you?"

The phone drops to his lap. "Watch yourself Tatum. You're not exactly irreplaceable."

The threat hangs between us as the limo merges into traffic. I turn to watch the city lights blur past my window, counting the blocks until we reach home. Sixteen more to go.

Chapter 2

Tatum

The driver pulls upto our colonial-style mansion, all perfect angles and manicured hedges. Even in the darkness, I can see how the grass alternates in precise stripes, like someone took a ruler to nature itself. The fountain's gentle splash mocks the tension hanging between us.

Thomas checks his phone again as we step inside. "Got a text. Davidson and his crew are stopping by in an hour."

My feet ache in these heels, and all I want is a hot bath. "Tonight? It's almost nine."

"Yes, tonight." He says while tossing his tie onto the marble entry table. "Change into something less..." His hand waves dismissively at my outfit. "Less uptight. And get some drinks and appetizers ready."

"We don't have any appetizers prepped." I set my clutch down next to his discarded tie. "The housekeeper's off today."

"Figure it out. That's what you're here for, isn't it?" He heads toward his study, already unbuttoning his jacket. "Oh, and make sure there's scotch. The good stuff, not that blend Davidson brought last time."

"Anything else?" The words slip out before I can catch them.

He pauses at the study door. "Yeah. Try not to look so fucking miserable when they get here. These people write checks that keep us in this house."

The door clicks shut behind him, leaving me alone in the foyer. The house is always so quiet, so empty. Like a museum where nothing real is allowed to happen.

I climb the curved staircase, my hand sliding along the polished banister. My walk-in closet beckons—a prison of designer labels and perfect appearances. For a moment, I eye my yoga pants folded neatly in a drawer. The soft gray cotton calls to me like an old friend.

"Wouldn't that be something?" I mutter, pulling out the drawer. "Show up looking comfortable for once."

The image of Thomas's face if I walked down in leggings and a sweatshirt almost makes it worth it. His jaw would clench, that vein in his forehead would pop, and he'd probably drag me back upstairs himself.

"What the hell do you think you're wearing?" I mimic his voice, pulling the leggings out. "Do you want to embarrass me in front of Davidson?"

But the fantasy dissolves as quickly as it forms. I shove the drawer closed and turn to the endless rack of approved attire. My fingers brush past silk and chiffon until they land on a pale blue sundress. Optimal Stepford wife material. The fabric whispers against my skin as I slip it on, the hem falling just below my knees.

In the mirror, I readjust the bodice and touch up my makeup. The dress makes me look younger, more innocent. Like the seventeen-year-old girl who signed her life away with a marriage certificate.

I rifle through our medicine cabinet, looking for mascara, while pushing aside Thomas's extensive collection of hair products. The bottle of laxatives sits innocently behind hismultivitamins. A laugh escapes me as I imagine Davidson and his cronies rushing to our powder rooms in unison.

"God, wouldn't that be something?" My fingers brush the bottle before pulling back. "Whoops, so sorry gentlemen. Must've been something in the canapés."

But Thomas would do more than just yell. The thought sobers me up quick. I close the cabinet and head to the kitchen. I tie a crisp white apron around my waist. It completes the look—the perfect little housewife, ready to serve drinks and smile at his jokes. I arrange cheese and crackers on our "casual entertaining" platter—the one that only cost three months' salary for a normal person.

The prosciutto needs to be rolled just so, each piece a perfect spiral. Heaven forbid the meat isn't aesthetically pleasing enough for Thomas's business associates. I'm halfway through when I realize I should check if anyone has dietary restrictions. The world about came to an end when I almost served the old geyser with celiac disease, gluten.

My bare feet pad up the stairs. As I approach his study, Thomas's voice drifts through the door.

"No, she doesn't suspect anything." A pause. "Look, I've got it handled... Yes, I know what's at stake."

I freeze mid-step, my hand hovering over the doorknob.

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