Page 127 of Mangled Memory
“Take your hands off me.”
“Outside.”
As if I answer to this prick. I look down at his hand before deciding I’m done with this charade. My “wife,” or so I thought, can— I don’t finish that thought. I can’t.
I stalk from the room.
My brother-in-law stares me down. How that’s possible with his shorter stature is only due to his overwhelming presence. “Calm down.”
I know he didn’t just try to pull that shit with me. “Don’t. Ayla?—”
“No. Shut the fuck up and listen, Barone. We both know Dad is a snake. We both know we walked in on something that could be… who the fuck knows what when it comes to him. Go home. I’ll stay with my sister.”
“I don’t give a?—”
“Stop.” He cuts me off with his words and a slice of his palm through the air, his tattooed fingers leaving a trail in their wake. “That’s my sister.” He pokes his chest as if to emphasize his ownership. “One, I’ll keep her safe. Two, I won’t listen to a bad word about her. Not even from you. Three, she’ll have me at her back no matter what she’s done.”
“And if she’s been in league with your dad and lying to all of us?”
“You know and I know Ayla can’t lie for shit.”
“And if he’s setting her up?” I’m running out of steam, anger melting into something far more destructive.
“I’ll pull the flesh off of any fucker who hurts her. I don’t have those pesky principles most people do regarding revenge or retribution, especially when it comes to her. That applies to my sperm donor the same way it applies to everyone.” He pauses. “Including you. You hurt her…” His words hang there. His threat isn’t implied. It’s explicit.
I sigh, looking at the man I trust. Or trusted. Who the fuck knows anymore?
“Right.” There’s nothing more to offer, so I turn and leave, passing Cian as he exits the elevator.
“Hey,” he calls. “What’s wrong?”
My only response is to lift a hand in acknowledgment. If I had to guess, my face saysnot nowas I move past him, pushing the button to head to the garage.
Me: Meet me at the house in thirty.
I don’t bother to check for a response. Ren will be there. The list of people I can trust is less than one right now. My liar of a half-brother is the only person with nothing to gain from Ayla’s betrayal. At least I think so.
The drive home is a blur.
How do I come to terms with this farce of a marriage? She made a mockery of our vows. My “wife” has reduced my promises to mere words, casting aside her own hollow declarations.
What—if any of it—was real? Was the whole thing a set-up? And how far back does it go?
Was it just the fall? Was it an elaborate scheme that she elected to participate in? If so, why? Her supposed amnesia was convenient. What does it take to fake that?
I’ve always said she’s a shit liar. Perhaps she’s the greatest actress I’ve ever known, showing tells at the right times, not knowing things she always should have, convenient vulnerability around inconvenient truths.
I’ve spent six months dealing with this bullshit. I’ve worried about her mental health, finding the best doctors, fighting for her care, understanding when she doesn’t want totalk about that or her therapy sessions with her secret therapist.
Everything around this joke of a relationship is a riddle with no answer.
I’ve stressed over her physical safety, her jaunts through the woods, her standing too close to the edge. I’ve had a man on her and security tightened around our home for the unknowable enemy she’s convinced me is coming for us.
This woman has accused me of control, of subjugation, of fucking cheating. Hell, she’s assumed I tried to kill her. Who else has she told that to? Is she playing others with the idea that I failed at my “murder attempt”?
The man who’s stopped at nothing to bring her back to us, to be everything she needs, and she’s been fucking me over the whole time.
I’ve been hustled by a professional of epic proportions.
