Page 73 of For Wrath and Redemption
He sneers.
“I guess I’m not surprised. That was probably some of the best pussy I’ve ever had. I came so hard I saw fucking stars. Maybe I should fuck more homewrecking whores.”
I flinch. “I’m not... I didn’t...”
“What do you call women who fuck married men, Davis? Because I usually call them homewreckers.”
“I’m not.” I shake my head again. I lean forward. I want to plead with him. “He’s not married. I didn’t?—”
Jonah cuts me off with a laugh. Loud and sharp, slicing me from neck to navel.
“He was married, Davis. Married right up until my mother killed herself.”
I feel the color leech from my face. His voice dulls because of the pounding in my head, the blood whooshing in my ears.
“No...”
“Yes. Married. Mother was living upstatefor her health,but depression is only manageable with constant treatment. Why treat yourdepression when your husband is fucking a junior creative developer at his company?”
I feel like I’ve been slapped. I don’t even realize I’m crying until the tears reach my lips.
“That’s not fair...I didn’t...It wasn’t my fault.”
He can’t put that on me. He can’t blame his mother’s death on me. I can’t carry that guilt on my shoulders. I know without a single shadow of a doubt that it’s not my fault, but everything is blurry. Everything. My vision. My memories. My logical thinking. I’m a raw nerve.
“No, it wasn’t.” He shrugs. “You didn’t force the sleeping pills and red wine down her throat. You didn’t make her give the housekeeper the week off.” He reaches down and pinches my chin between his thumb and forefinger. “But you sure fucking didn’t help.”
I jerk myself out of his grip. He tries to smile, but he can’t. It’s a frown. Sad and pained and disgusted, but it seems directed inward. Disgusted not with me, but himself.
I can’t help but feel like a murder-suicide was just committed.
He sliced me in half, then fell on the same sword.
He takes two steps backward, his own chest heaving as his eyes turn glassy.
“Checkmate, Trouble. Pack your shit and get out of my life.”
He turns and walks out. I don’t go after him. He’s still completely naked, but I can’t bring myself to care at all. I stare at the place he vacated for a long time. Minutes or hours. I don’t move until my heartbeat returns to normal and my tears stop falling. Until my mind goes utterly silent.
Numbly, I walk to the bathroom and step into the shower. I turn the knobs to scalding. I sit in the corner on the tiled floor and watch as the steam fills the glass enclosure. I close my eyes, rest my head on the natural stone wall, and breathe it in. I imagine dissolving into it. Condensing myself into a water droplet on the glass, then slipping back down into the drain. Down, down, down. Away from here. Away from this.
What have I done?
I try like hell to employ the healthy coping mechanisms I learned during my stay at the treatment center. To wrangle the extreme anxiety clawing its way up my throat into something more manageable. But...
How could I have been so stupid?
There were signs. There we so many signs. Did I really not see them? Did I ignore them?
Rationally, I know Jonah’s mom’s death isn’t my fault. But anxiety isn’t rational. My insecurities aren’t, either.
“Fuck.” My voice is swallowed up by the stream of water from the shower. I lift my head and drop it back on the stone wall, then raise my voice. “Fuck.”
What am I going to do? What the fuck am I going to do?
The whole scene with Jonah muscles its way back into the forefront of my mind. Every touch. Every feeling. Every praise and every insult. It makes my stomach cramp, and I pull my knees to my chest.
Then I think of Conrad’s email. Of the veiled threats he made through the company server. Anyone else would see it as a professional message from the CEO to a subordinate. But I spent almost a year with that man, so I know better.
