Page 20 of The Weekend Getaway

Because like it or not—and Grace did not like it—Chris was Alex’s bitch. He’d always been, from the moment he met Alex, and he probably always would be. Grace was struggling to come to terms with Alex’s place and position in Chris’s life. She’d never understood Chris’s devotion to Alex. Sometimes, Grace felt as though Alex was an enigmatic cult leader and Chris was under his spell. She wondered if her husband needed to be deprogrammed.

She would have left him long ago, if not for the insane amounts of money Chris made, and the lifestyle he provided her.

Grabbing her phone, Grace checked the time.

5:03 a.m.

Easing over onto her back, Grace closed her eyes, tried to coax herself back to sleep. But her mind was racing. Chris was no longer making insane amounts of money. He wasn’t broke, but the firm was suffering. Because of stupid mistakes Alex had made.

Stupid mistakes Alex claimed he could fix with some ridiculous plan.

But unlike the scheme he’d concocted fifteen years ago, the plan to blackmail Phil had backfired. None of them would benefit as they had the last time, when Alex convinced Phil’s father to pay them for their silence.

Phil wasn’t about to provide the cash infusion the firm needed to survive. Because of some stupid notes that someone decided to send him. Notes that pissed Philoff. Made him seething for revenge. Who had sent Phil those notes? And why?

Grace still suspected Chris, but she wasn’t sure. Did he really have the balls to go against Alex? And what could possibly be his endgame?

Sighing, Grace opened her eyes.

She wasn’t going back to sleep. Her mind was too active, even this early in the morning. She felt chaotic and overwhelmed. Rising to a sitting position, Grace glanced around the spacious bedroom, eyes adjusting to the dim pre-dawn light seeping through the French windows.

Maybe she could take a walk.

A brisk trek through the rainforest might help to calm her mind. Quiet her rambling, runaway thoughts.

Grace eased out of bed, careful not to wake Chris, who still snored softly. Grabbing her robe from the settee, she put it on and then padded into the bathroom.

Grace sighed, removing her toothbrush and other toiletries from her makeup bag.

Tilting her head, she scrutinized her reflection in the full-length mirror. Fifteen years and seventy pounds ago, she might have obsessed about her round cheeks, flabby arms, and double chin. She would have beat herself up for the thick thighs and wobbly ass. But not now. Not after she made the decision, six months ago, to stop eating like a slovenly pig and start a strenuous exercise program. No more processed junk. No more fast food. No more wallowing around on the couch, binge-watching reality shows.

After suffering the humiliation ofoverhearing a group of legal assistants refer to her as Chris’ fat-ass wife at the law firm’s annual Christmas party, Grace had been determined to shed the weight. The day after the party, she hired a personal trainer, a former Navy SEAL who had her waking up before dawn to do a three-mile run, then a session of Krav Maga before ending with vigorous weight training.

Six months later, she’d shed enough of the fat she’d carried since college to drop three dress sizes.

Brushing her teeth, Grace smiled a little.

The best thing about being skinnier was the faintly surprised, almost startled look Mia gave her whenever they got together for lunch, or to go shopping, or for spa treatments. Mia was pissed that Grace was no longer the “fat friend” who made Mia feel secure in her own beauty.

Finishing her quick skincare routine, Grace slipped out of the bathroom, then tipped over to her luggage. Making a note to transfer her things to the bureau drawer, she removed her athletic wear, slipping into the tank and matching leggings. After donning her running shoes, she grabbed her phone, and left the bedroom, easing the door closed behind her.

The wide hallway stretched before Grace, enveloped in the warm glow of natural light filtering through tall, wooden-shuttered windows. Her steps cushioned by polished mahogany floors, she admired her surroundings, and vaguely wondered how much it was costing the law firm.

Creamy ivory walls, intricate molding, arched doorways framed with dark wood, vaulted ceilings, ornate rugs, wicker chaise lounges, and carved teakwood side tables didn’t come cheap.

A fluttery sensation of panic slipped through Grace, reminding her of the firm’s troubles, and how Alex had tried to fix things by blackmailing Phil, and how that plan had gone to hell in a handbasket.

But she didn’t want to think about that now.

Didn’t want to think about how Phil had promised to ruin all of their lives.

Minutes later, stepping out of the villa, Grace took a breath of the humid, early morning air. She headed across the covered terrace, then skirted the pool and headed onto a path leading into the dense rainforest. Walking beneath the canopy of trees, she accessed the app that contained her affirmations and selected a program she hoped would take her mind off her problems.

Soon the soothing, dulcet tones of the narrator filled her ears, instructing her to calm her thoughts, focus on her breathing, and begin to practice mindful meditation. Glancing left and right, Grace tried to discern the trees in the barest sliver of pre-dawn light filtering onto the forest floor. The narrator encouraged her to concentrate on her immediate surroundings, blocking out all other thoughts.

“What do you hear?”asked the narrator.

Grace picked up on the rustle of leaves and distant chirping of birds singing, calling to one another. Her running shoes crunched fallen branches and snapped twigs. As she continued, deeper into the jungle, there was the chorus of buzzing insects and tree frogs.

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