Page 132 of Devil's Tulip

As far as I’m concerned, there’s nothing more to say. He wanted me pregnant, and he got his wish by deceiving me. I’d be a fool to stay here. But I give him another stiff nod.

He studies me like he can read my thoughts, then sighs again. “I did the right thing for us. Once you get past your anger, you’ll see it.”

This motherfucker.

I take an aggressive breath in, clenching my teeth so I don’t curse him out. He doesn’t deserve to see my reactions. He lingers a moment longer, like he’s hoping I’ll say something, then finally nods. “I’ve called Gracie and the guards back. They’ll be here in a couple of minutes.” And with that he leaves the room, closing the door behind him.

Right. He sent them away because he wanted us to have some time alone. If I want to leave this place, I only have the fewminutes it will take them to arrive. The window is impossibly narrow.

Ever since the incident with Aunt Marie, there are always two or more guards around the house, making sure nothing like that happens again. It used to make me feel safe, but now just thinking about it feels suffocating.

He has me trapped.

I drop the paper bag on the desk and calmly make my way to the bathroom. For a brief, desperate moment, I consider calling Elira, but I shut that down fast. She’s my friend, sure, but she’s Maximo’s wife—and his loyalty belongs first and foremost to Michael.

If I’m going to run away, I’ll have to do it myself. I did it once and stayed hidden for months. I can do it again.

I take a quick shower, then calmly exit the bathroom and head to the walk-in closet where I dress like I normally would—in a pair of stretchy maternity leggings and a baggy shirt. I pull my hair up into a tight bun, then dig through my jewelry box, my mind racing.

This time, I need to have a better plan—something sustainable. I can’t wash floors or bartend with my baby. Our baby.No, my baby now.

Not caring anymore how it might look to Michael if he’s watching me, I dump all the jewelry he’s given me the past few months into my purse. I’ll need to sell them to survive the coming weeks.

With my purse on my shoulder, I walk out of the closet. Out of my room.

Out of his house and out of his life.

40

MICHAEL

Two months later…

My fists clench until my knuckles turn bloodless white as I watch my wife struggle with the obscenely large vase bursting with flowers she’s trying to transport. She drops it on the floor, and even though she’s several feet away from me, I can almost hear her grunt.Almost.

This is the pathetic existence I’m relegated to now. Watching her from the shadows like some goddamn stalker, devouring glimpses of her from a distance without daring to bridge the chasm between us. All while my body aches with a primal need to cross that threshold, to feel her skin beneath my fingertips again.To claim what’s mine.

When I got back from work that evening to talk to her, to make her see how what I did was the right thing for us, she was…gone. And her mother’s necklace—the one she never takes off, the one with my tracker in it—was lying on our bed.

I nearly ran mad. No—I did run mad.

I ran her face through every piece of software in my arsenal, but she’s too damn smart, my wife. Brilliant, actually. She’sgrown to know me, to know how my tracking software works, and avoided anything that might trigger the technology and help me find her.

It took me two weeks to find her the first time—two whole weeks of sleepless nights and rage-filled days where I was a fucking menace to anyone unfortunate enough to dare cross my path. When I finally tracked her down, I walked straight up to her and told her I was taking her home. She agreed easily enough.

And then she slipped out of my grip like a slippery eel, and it took me another week to find her. Seven more days of hell. Seven more days of imagining every worst-case scenario.

The second time, I was smarter. I didn’t approach her outright. I observed from afar, noticed the way the house she was staying in was practically crumbling on its legs, so I reached out to her landlord and gave him an envelope thick with cash to upgrade her apartment.

Gianna knew it had to be me—my fingerprints were all over the sudden generosity. So she ran again. And again. Andagain.

Every time I try to make her life even marginally more bearable when I find her, she runs from me. All that running, the constant stress and fear… it can’t be good for the baby.

So when I found her this time, I decided on a different approach. I settled for watching from afar and doing little mundane things that she couldn’t possibly suspect were engineered by me. Things that seemed natural, coincidental. Like opening a small flower shop as soon as I confirmed she was here in Boston.

Creating flyers searching for an office assistant and strategically sticking them in front of her room, on the stairway of her apartment, even on a thick tree across the street—until she finally took the bait and went in for an interview.

Janet, her ‘boss’—an elderly grandma being extra nice to her—must not have seemed suspicious, because aren’t all grandmas inherently supposed to be nice to young people? Especially one who is so obviously pregnant.

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