Page 102 of A Secret and a Lie
When I’ve somewhat composed myself, I proceed to wash my face, brush my teeth, and slather on my skincare, before stripping out of the crimson dress and draping it over the back of a chair in the massive closet.
Once I’m dressed in a silvery-gray silk babydoll nighty that’s trimmed with Chantilly lace, I shut the lights off and slip into bed.
The penthouse is quiet, the silence screaming louder than a sold-out rock concert. I huff as I roll over, fluffing the pillow to get comfortable, but sleep is elusive.
This war I’ve found myself engaged in is much bigger than I ever imagined, and even if I wanted to, I don’t think I can win this without help. But it’s more than that. I don’twantto fight this alone. I want help. I wanthishelp, and technically, I’ve already asked for it, even if it was under a blissful version of duress.
Let me fight for you.
I’ve spent so long shutting Ford out; what would be so wrong with taking a leap?
Groaning, I flop back onto my back, staring up at the ceiling. I don’t know how long I lie there, tossing and turning, before I finally fold the sheets back and climb out of bed.
Genevieve
Padding into the dark hallway, the hardwood is cool beneath my bare feet before it gives way to a plush runner. The closer I get to the double doors at the end of the corridor, the harder my pulse hammers in my chest.
By the time I finally reach the suite, I swear my heart will combust. Not bothering to knock, I curl my fingers around the silver-finished door handle and pull the door open.
The room is unlit, and slipping inside is like stepping into a mouth of shadows. I just barely make out Ford’s muscular form lying on the bed, the whites of his eyes seeming to glow like a beacon of safety.
Summoning a little courage, I ask, “Could I stay with you?”
I’m met with the sound of fabric rustling. “Always.”
My breathing hitches, my stomach fluttering as I make my way toward the bed, praying I don’t bruise my shin on anything in the process. When I climb into bed, I find the spot warm, smelling of Ford. He pulls the blankets over me before dragging me closer to him, our bodies slotted together like pieces of a puzzle.
He wraps his arms around me, and I nestle into the embrace, a sense of calm washing over me. I realize with a mental jolt that there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than curled up with my husband,his strong body shielding me from any predators, even those in my own mind.
“I used to lay awake at night, listening to the guys in my unit snore in the other bunks, wondering what you’d feel like in my arms, your body next to mine. I’ve spent hours imagining it. Even though we never met up back then, I never stopped thinking about it.” His voice is husky yet reverent, like a man experiencing a wish coming true.
“Is it everything you thought it would be?”
Swallowing hard, I brace myself for the answer, melting when he replies simply, “It’s better.”
I’m not ready to admit it, but I used to dream about this, too. What it would be like to come home to him, shoveling bites of cake into our mouths during movie marathons or wandering around the city together. I clung to the fantasy of propping my feet in his lap while we talked late into the night, laughing together as we swapped stories. He was the person I fell asleep and woke each day thinking about.
Instead of divulging that, I ask, “What did you do that night?”
There’s no need to explain which night I’m referring to. He knows.
“I waited there for two hours before I could accept that you weren’t coming. I avoided checking my inbox because I didn’t want to see what was there for me, but when I saw your message, I decided to re-enlist. I hadn’t planned on doing that, but I wanted to be as far away from this city as possible.”
He’d never been anything other than honest back then, so I assumed he’d gone to that park and sat on a bench, holding his breath. The more I imagined him lingering for hours, the more it stabbed me in the chest. The picture he paints with his words now is worse than what I envisioned.
My choice to leave hurt him; I knew it then and I know it now, but it hurt me, too. What I needed warred with what I wanted, but necessity won out. Looking back, I wouldn’t change the decision I made. I had to leave, had to protect myself. And it’s not like I could explain myself then, but I can now.
I unlocked the door to this conversation, so I’m not surprisedwhen he steps through it, his voice gravelly but tentative, as if he doesn’t want to push me farther than I’m willing to go. “What happened that night? Why didn’t you show?”
I take a deep breath and let it out before rolling over to face him. Telling this story to the shadows of the dark room would be cowardly, even if that’s precisely what I want to do. He deserves better than that.
“I had a pimp, Leo, who was an abusive fuck. When he first set me up with a new client, I thought things might be changing for me. I didn’t have many regular clients who I particularly liked. Henry Fisher was the only one, really. I liked Grady Blandon, though. We got along, and I started enjoying our sessions, looked forward to them.”
He reaches up, his hand brushing the side of my face as he tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Is this the same Grady Blandon who was the Speaker of the House?”
“That’s the one,” I answer solemnly. “While I was a switch, I didn’t have any clients who I truly submitted with. I didn’t necessarily feel safe with any of them, but Grady took the time to establish trust with me. He wasdifferent,so I felt comfortable giving him what he wanted, what webothwanted. He molded me into the sub he desired, and I was stupid and naïve enough to believe that he was my Dom. Somehow, it made what he did so much worse.”
A large lump forms in my throat when I think about this next part, and I have to force myself to swallow it down, even as my eyes begin to sting. “About a week before we were supposed to meet, I showed up to Grady’s place for a session, only he wasn’t alone. He…” I trail off as horrific snapshots cloud my brain, scrambling the words I’m about to speak. It takes me a moment to find them again, and when I do, my voice is strained. “They hurt me.”
