Page 8 of Somewhere Without You
I cut him off gently.“Nothing happened. I walked into the bathroom door.”
He nodded, slow and approving.“Yes. You did. Honestly, Em, you really should be more careful.”
My eyes flicked to the driver’s in the mirror as I turned to face Jackson.“It was an accident,”Isaidwith a bright, brittle smile.“I’ll be more careful next time.”
His hand found mine in my lap, giving it a soft squeeze.“You know I love you, right?”
I nodded, though the gesture felt hollow.“I love you too.”
The words were automatic now—reflexive. Like locking a door or checking the oven. I said them because I was supposed to. Because not saying them was dangerous.
The first time he hit me, I told myself it was a mistake. A flash of anger, a moment he couldn’t control. A misunderstanding.
The second time, I decided it was my fault. I’d pushed too hard, said the wrong thing, chosen the wrong moment.
By the third and fourth, my excuses began to fray. Each new bruise came wrapped in an apology and a vow to change—always tender, always temporary.
By the twentieth time, I’d stopped counting. I gave up the excuses and traded them in for acceptance instead. This was my life now. I just had to do better.
The rest of the drive passed in silence, broken only by the occasional clink of ice in Jackson’s glass and the low hum of the engine. I kept my gaze on the road ahead, watching the streetlights blur past the tinted windows like ghosts. My dress itched. The safety pins dug into my skin. I was sweating, but I didn’t dare move too much. Not now. Not with our carefully crafted illusion still intact.
The car eased to a stop, and Jackson reached over to tuck a curl behind my ear—one Anya had carefully arranged only hours ago.
Sometimes, I didn’t know which was worse—that I fell in love with someone who hurt me, or that I hated myself for it.
Five
ThecorporatepartiesIusually attended were held at the convention center downtown. But tonight was different.
We pulled up to a private estate near Sunset Cliffs, string lights hanging from the trees. From the balcony, I could see the naval air base stretched along the palm-fringed coast of Coronado, clinging to the Pacific. Most guests would be awestruck by the house’s pristine Mediterranean Revival, its Spanish influences woven into every archway and tile.
But I wasn’t impressed.
Once you’ve seen one mansion, you’ve seen them all.
The driver opened Jackson’s door first, of course. Then mine. I stepped out carefully this time, clutching my purse to hide the gaping zipper that still refused to close all the way.
Jackson adjusted his tie and offered me his arm.“Smile,”hesaidthrough his teeth, the corner of his mouth twitching.“You’re the luckiest woman here tonight.”
I slipped my hand into the crook of his elbow, painting on the smile he wanted.
With my arm draped around his, we made our way inside, greeted by a flurry of familiar faces and forced smiles.
“There he is!”a voiceboomedabove the chatter.
Stanley Greer—an oil executive with more hair on his face than his head, pushed his way through the crowd, a statuesque blonde draped over his arm like a designer handbag.
“Stan the Man,”Jackson drawled, flashing a polished grin.“You remember my lovely wife, Emily.”
“Of course!”Stanleybarked, his mustache twitching with amusement.“How could I forget?”
Jackson’s eyes drifted to the woman at Stanley’s side.“And who’s this vision you’ve brought tonight?”
Stanley puffed up.“Allow me to introduce my wife, Natasha.”
Natasha offered a dazzling smile, her hand extending toward Jackson in a perfectly rehearsed gesture. Her nails were French-tipped and flawless, her ring so large it looked like it belonged in a museum, not on a finger.
“A pleasure,”shesaidin a syrupy accent I couldn’t quite place—somewhere between Moscow and Malibu.
