Page 3 of Somewhere Without You
The space beside me was cold and empty. Jackson had slipped out of bed hours ago, but his scent still clung to the sheets. Propping myself up on my elbows, I caught a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror and was greeted by an all too familiar reflection. My face was swollen, and a purple bruise painted itself over my left eye.
As I kicked off the tangled sheets, I searched my mind for excuses. But how many times could I blame the bathroom door? The stairs? My own clumsy feet?
Outside the bedroom door, I heard movement, followed by muffled voices. I stood, the chill of the white oak floor biting at my heels as I pulled on my robe and opened the door.
“Mrs. Bishop!”Ritagasped, pressing a hand to her chest.“I didn’t know you were here.”
She did. Of course she did. Where else would I be?
Her warm, caramel eyes flicked to my face, then darted away.“I’m sorry. We didn’t mean to wake you.”
I offered a small smile as a young girl rushed past her, eyes averted.
“New girl?”Iasked, my voice hoarse.
Rita nodded.“My niece. She just moved here from Mérida with her mother and two brothers. Mr. Bishop was kind enough to offer her a job.”
Kind.
The word stuck to the roof of my mouth like peanut butter.
“Oh. Well, that’s good,”I managed tightly.
If anyone feared Jackson more than I did, it was the staff. Unlike the rest of the world, they didn’t buy into the charm. They knewexactlywhat kind of man he was—andkindwasn’t it.
Rita had seen the marks before. They all had. The staff watched in silence, an unwilling audience to a show no one wanted to see. Still, I often wondered what they truly thought of me.
Did they pity me? Think I was weak? Or maybe, to them, I was just another spoiled wife—draped in designer clothes, floating in wealth, too blind or too foolish to leave.
On the outside, I had it all. A picturesque life, a handsome husband, the illusion of happiness. But beneath the gloss, I was a prisoner—trapped inside a gilded cage of privilege.
She knew Jackson wasn’t kind. They all did. But like any good housekeeper, she kept her mouth shut. After all, there was a reason her green card had never expired.
“Have you seen my husband?”Iasked, not expecting an answer—just hoping to gauge how long I’d been alone, or if I’d simply gotten lucky and missed him.
Rita shook her head.“Mr. Bishop left before I arrived this morning. He did, however, leave something for you downstairs.”
I nodded. I didn’t have to ask what it was. I already knew.
“Is there anything else you need, Mrs. Bishop?”
I shook my head, fighting back the urge to remind her that it was ok to call me Emily. Bishop washisidentity, and my first name was the only thing I had left to claim.
“That’ll be all. Thank you.”
She hesitated for half a second, then turned sharply and walked away.
I didn’t rush heading downstairs. If there was one thing I had in abundance, it was time. And with no one to entertain but the staff, there was no reason to hurry.
In the living room, a soft breeze drifted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, carrying the sweet, heady scent of hydrangeas and oleanders.
Outside, José, our gardener, moved methodically through the flower beds, his back bowed under the weight of the morning sun. I gave a small wave. He glanced up, the brim of his wide hat shadowing his dark, unreadable eyes. He nodded once before turning back to his work.
I closed my eyes and inhaled the luscious scent of daylilies and azaleas, letting it carry me back to childhood summers with Gran. We’d spend long afternoons in her garden, her sun-spotted hands guiding mine, until my knees were stained and my fingernails came away caked in dirt. I loved how the earth smelled after a fresh rain, echoing the perfume off each peony and coneflower wafting into the open windows of her old farmhouse.
But here, in this manicured paradise, it felt different. I rarely stepped into the garden—no matter how beautiful. It had been a gift from Jackson, an elaborate apology planted in the aftermath of violence.
Just as Rita had said, a grand bouquet of dark pink roses sat perfectly centered on the dining room table. His signature gesture. The one he made after every painful night.
