by Dylan Allen
My head snaps up, and I scoff loudly; dismissing his statement for the conjecture it is. “He doesn’t—”
“He what?” Marcel’s keen eyes narrow and I curse my near slip up.
“Nothing. He is no one,” I lie.
“And that’s exactly what I will tell your children. That you threw their family away for no one.”
I blanche at the malicious glee in his voice. That he would relish hurting our children fills me with a crushing despair, so heavy that I can’t bear it and my own weight. I sit on the small dark leather trunk at the foot of my bed, drop my face into my hands and I search my disordered mind for a way to stop this. To keep them safe, with me and ignorant of their parents’ failings.
“Time is ticking, Regan,” Marcel taunts.
I lift my head to glare at him. “We haven’t lived together for five years. A quiet, straight forward divorce would have barely made a ripple. Their lives wouldn’t have changed at all. But this…you are taking them to Paris in the middle of the school year?”
He snorts a derisive laugh. “They’re lives will not be disrupted. I will continue residing in Paris and will make more frequent trips to see them. And when school is over, they will come to me.”
Incredulity slackens my jaw and widens my eyes. I gaze over at him. “Don’t be ridiculous. the children can’t stay here alone.”
“Hanna is moving in.”
I shoot to my feet, my fear and despair burned away by a surge of primordial rage.
“You wouldn’t.” I growl.
He swallows thickly, his eyes dart away from my brimstone gaze. He tugs the cuffs of his shirt, collects himself and looks back at me, the challenge back in his beady eyes. “The children know her and like her. You are the only one who had a problem with her.”
“Because she was our nanny and you got her pregnant.” I scream, incandescent anger propelling me toward him.
He takes a step away from me. “Lower your voice,” he hisses.
“I will not. I’ve never cared where you have dallied. I still don’t. But if you do this--I will see you in hell.” His eyes dart past my shoulder again, this time, his tongue darts nervously over his thin lips.
I swivel in the direction of his gaze. There’s nothing there but the huge gold leaf framed mirror that hangs over my fireplace.
“What the hell are you looking at?” I demand, searching the wall for whatever keeps drawing his attention.
“Anything but you.” He means the words to sting, but his cadence is stilted. His unease, in a moment where he holds all the cards, plucks at my suspicion.
I erase any trace of it from my voice and my expression and turn back to him with a narrow-eyed glare and scornful scowl on my face. “Why? Because I’m not eighteen and under your employ?”
His haughty, self-righteous stance is back. But I don’t miss the flash of worry in his eyes. Or the way his throat bobs behind his starched collar.
“You must stop this delusion about Hanna.”
“Is the baby she popped out with your fucking eyes a delusion?” I ask incredulous that he’s still denying it.
“You have no proof. Whereas, I have this picture.” He waves his phone in my face, and his sneer turns taunting. “You’re nothing but a common slut and soon, the whole world will know.”
I bristle. “Well, they already know that you are the king of sluts, so they’ll just think you finally rubbed off on me.”
He flinches as if I slapped him and then his face flushes scarlet and he bares his teeth in a feral snarl before he rushes toward me. With more speed and strength than I thought him capable of, he shoves me. I land flat on my back. The rug cushions the impact of my fall, but I lay there, dazed and disoriented. He drops to his knees beside me and grips my cheeks, squeezing so tightly that I can’t move my lips.
“Is he the reason you asked me for a divorce?” Spittle sprays my face and shock at the violence of his touch stuns me silent and still.
“Fucking answer me.” He tightens his hold on me and my teeth cut into the inside of my cheek. The salty metallic taste of my own blood is an elixir – neutralizing my fear and feeding my fury.
I gaze into the wrathful face of the man I wasted too much of my life on. The last ember of goodwill I feel for him, dies. Whatever he sees in my expression startles him – his eyes widen and his grip on my face slackens. I yank his hand away, press my palms to his chest and shove him off me. He lands in a sprawl beside me.
I pull myself up with as much dignity as I can muster and wait for him to do the same. And then I step to him and stand close enough that I can see sweat beading on his cowardly upper lip.
My hands curl into tight fists at my side, the bite of my fingernails in my palm keep me grounded and in control of the tempest that wants to fly free and beat his ass the way my brothers taught me to. But I am not going to jail for this asshole. “You will never, ever touch me again, Marcel. Not ever.”
His jaw trembles, but his voice is as sharp and smooth as the edge of an assassin's blade. “I don’t have to lay a hand on you to hurt you, Regan. You smug, faithless woman. I am going to ruin you. And when I find out who dared to cuckold me, I’ll do the same to him.”
“Mom?” At the sound of my daughter’s trembling, tear clogged voice, we both freeze. I brush my cheeks, clear my expression, and with my heart in my throat, turn to face her.
“You should be sleeping, Angel, are you okay?” It’s an asinine question. It’s clear from the way her stricken gaze darts frantically between her father and me that “okay” is the last thing she is. My gut clenches at the sight of tears trailing down on cheeks and the trembling hand pressed to her mouth.
She rushes to me, her arms circle my waist, and she presses her wet cheek to my chest. My heart burns with something that scares me. I hug her tight, press kisses to the top of her head, and will my voice to steady. “It’s okay, baby. I promise. Let me take you back to bed. Daddy and I will finish talking and then, I’ll come see you.” I try to pry her loose. I am desperate to get her away from us and our disaster.
She shakes her head violently and tightens her hold on me. “The man downstairs said you’re leaving. I want to come with you. Please, Mommy.”
My eyes boomerang back to Marcel, and a shiver of dread runs down my spine at the triumph in his eyes. “What man?” I demand.
“The one who is going to throw you out if you refuse to leave on your own,” he informs me in an even casual tone.
I push my daughter behind me and bare my teeth. “I dare you to try.”
He claps twice and just like that; the battle of my life begins.
18 years AGO
RIVERS WILDE
HOUSTON, TX
No Right or Wrong
REGAN
“Haven’t you learned anything from me?” My mother's question isn’t rhetorical, and she's more interested in obedience than truth. But this is one of the rare times that I can actually give her both.
“Everything.” Even the things she didn’t mean to teach me. She’s the reason I floss like it’s my side hustle, run like it’s my religion, and will never get married or have children.
“Why did you go to your grandfather when I already said no?”
I roll my eyes the way I only dare to when she can’t see me. “You told me to ask him.”
“He was supposed to say no, too. He forgets that you are my daughter,” she seethes.
“How could he? when you remind him so often?” I quip.
“Don’t get smart, child.” Her voice cracks like an ice-cold whip. My reckless good humor fizzles. I know how far to push my mother and I just danced up to the line.
“I was just joking. I’m sorry,” I say, filling my voice with contrition.
“Apology accepted,” she says with the condescension of a queen granting a pardon. Her ruffled feathers smoothed; she returns to the original conversation. “Now, tell me what agreement you two made about this job.”
“I’ll be home by mi
dnight, I’ll go straight to bed. I don’t have to leave for school until 7:45. All my homework is done, I took a nap, worked out, ate dinner and still had time to beat Pops at a round of checkers,” I rattle off my itinerary, knowing that this is the key to her approval. Do everything that’s expected, and she’ll leave me alone.
“That’s all fine, Regan. But you don’t get kudos for the basics.”
As if I want or need her kudos. I grit my teeth to stop myself from scoffing. My spirit may be rebelling, but for my body to get in on the action, I need to make sure she doesn’t suspect anything. “I know. I just wanted you to know that I have a plan to stay on track.”
“Your grandfather and I have great expectations for you. Don’t let that wild heart of yours lead you astray. Your greatest asset is your brain. Use it.”
She hangs up without another word.
I put the bulky cell phone, otherwise known as my electronic leash, into my purse. The only reason I didn’t “forget it” at home tonight is so I can text Weston and let him know the coast is clear before he heads over to meet me.
The son of a local drug dealer, Weston Silk isn’t the all-American boy or the tall, dark and handsome scholarly type my mother kept trying to set me up with.
He has hair the color of flame and eyes the color of the sky - a palette of heaven and hell that drew sighs from every girl he passed. Including me.
But I didn’t return his sly, slow smiles. I pretended not to notice the way he watched me. I had my eyes on a different prize. Wellesley College - the all-women’s liberal arts college all the way in Massachusetts was my dream school.
My family groomed my brothers, Remington and Tyson, to take over the family business. They groomed me to marry well.
I’d first seen Desiree Rogers in an interview just after she’d become the CEO of Johnson Publishing and it changed my whole world. She credited her time at Wellesley for giving her the confidence to pursue career opportunities in spaces that had traditionally been the domain of men.
Seeing her, someone who looked like me, say what my heart had always felt, changed my entire life horizon.
Highly competitive, Wellesley only accepted 5 % of applicants. So, I kept my head down and busted my ass. And I have a perfect GPA and near perfect SAT score to show for it.
When my admission letter from Wellesley arrived, I went to my mother expecting to be congratulated.
Instead, she handed me an envelope with my name scrawled on the back in her strident, slashing handwriting. Inside was an acceptance letter and the offer of a full ride from Southern Methodist University. A small yellow sticky note clung to the first page. On it, she’d written, “I know better.”
My grandfather, who usually took my side, wouldn’t intervene. The year before he exhausted any credit he had with my mother when he helped my twin brother, Remington, in his bid to attend a college she didn’t approve of.
They’d had the element of surprise on their side, then. Remi applied without telling a soul and got our grandfather’s buy in before they told my mother.
After losing that showdown, she’d been ready for me. The roots of her opposition ran deep and were fed by a constant supply of pride and resentment.
I was on my own.
I applied for a scholarship. But a school like Wellesley, that only takes the best and brightest, didn’t offer incoming freshman academic scholarships. All awards were based on financial need. And with a family fortune in the billions behind me, there was no chance of that. With my dream crushed under the heel of my mother’s will, I vowed to never ask for permission again.
If they wouldn’t give me my due, I’d just take it. I mailed in my acceptance form to SMU that very day.
Then, I pulled out my old yearbook and found the phone number Weston scribbled over his senior picture and called him.
I drove out to his house the next day after school and let him take my virginity.
Brief and not as painful as my mother swore it would be, the thrill of knowing that I was breaking one of my mother’s cardinal rules made it feel delicious.
I’m aware of what a cliché I am - the poor little rich girl dating the bad boy to stick it to her mother. But after a lifetime of glass towers and short leashes, the afternoons with him left me high on the rush of rebellion.
When my mother became suspicious about my disappearances after school, she started inventing errands for me to run that ate into all of my free time during the day.
After two weeks of that, I saw a sign in our bakery window for a kitchen prep position that went from 8pm to midnight.
I went to my grandfather and offered to take this position and let him sample the ginger lemon scones I wanted to bake exclusively for our bakery.
He was ecstatic and made a call to the division that oversaw our stores and in a matter of minutes the job was mine. I love to bake, am a night owl by nature, and this gave me the perfect cover to see Weston. He’s set to come at 10 which will give me plenty of time to do my work.
I unlock the bakery and catch the glow of a light on in the back. Curious, more than worried, I head for the kitchen.
“Hello? Is someone here?” I call and push open the double doors that lead to the back rooms. There’s no response, but the snick of a door closing, is all the answer I need.
My heart skips a beat. Marlene, the bakery manager, told me that the lock on the back door was broken but no one was worried about break-ins in Rivers Wilde.
Nevertheless, I pull out my keys and fumble for the small bottle of mace on it. I hold it in front of me and hold my breath as I yank the door open and step into the cavernous room where we store our dry supplies.
The room is completely empty. I scan the space and notice one of the huge cabinets that line the walls is slightly ajar. The sound of sharp, shallow breathing as I get closer confirms my fear.
Whoever is in there can’t be a big person. But danger comes in all shapes and sizes. At this time of night, nothing good could be lurking here.
“I know you’re there, so you might as well come out.” I nudge the door with my foot again and hold my breath.
Nothing happens.
“I’m gonna count to three and then I’m opening this door… I’ve got a gun.” I add that lie in hopes that they’ll come out slowly enough to give me a chance to bolt if I need to.
“One…two…” The cabinet door swings open and a small, pale hand reaches out from the dark recess of the industrial sized cabinet. I stop counting. The hand is joined by a skinny, freckled arm. A head, topped by a thick, unruly, wavy mop of sandy brown hair appears next and I come face to face with my trespasser.
He’s just a boy, doesn’t appear to be any older than seven or eight, dressed in a school uniform I recognize.
A few months ago, when I was still keeping up appearances, I dated a boy who attends the prestigious all boys boarding school, Blackwell Academy. I remember him mentioning a ten-year boy enrolling in ninth grade at the start of this school year. This kid looks younger than that, but this has to be him.
His face is pointed at the floor, his shoulders hunched in on himself. His little body is rigid, the hands he shoves into the pockets of his navy-blue uniform pants, ball into fists.
“What are you doing here?” I make my voice as calm as possible.
“Hiding,” comes his disgruntled, sarcastic reply.
“I got that part,” I return with the same snark.
“Then, why’d you ask?” The defiance in his voice belies his posture.
But I recognize little boy bravado when I see it. He’s hiding from someone, or something, or both.
Unfortunately, he can’t do it here. Not with Weston coming and not when putting a foot wrong could jeopardize this last vestige of freedom I’ve managed to carve out for myself.
“Okay, how about I don’t ask you anything else? How about I just call the police and let them ask you all the questions they want?” I ask, bluffing in hopes that he’ll scurry away.
�
�Wait,” he cries. His head snaps up, revealing a tear streaked, freckled face, red rimmed dark eyes magnified behind thick, black plastic framed glasses. They magnify the dark smudges under his eye. I scan the rest of his face and gasp at the fresh split in his lower lip and a smear of blood on the tip of his nose.
His eyes narrow as he takes me in, too. “You don’t have a gun.”
I raise my eyebrows at his indignant, accusing glare. “And you have no business being here.”
His swollen mouth tightens, and he winces, his tongue prods his raw lower lip and my annoyance transfers from him to whoever hurt and scared him.
“What happened to your face?” I ask him
“I got punched, Captain Obvious,” he says with a roll of his big eyes.
I smother the urge to chuckle at his precociousness and frown instead. “I can’t imagine why. You’re so polite.”
“I thought you were calling the police.”
“Thanks for the reminder.” I pull out my phone and dial the number Remi set up as a prank and pray it's still in service.
He smirks and leans against the cabinet and crosses his legs at the ankle. He watches me with an ennui that’s so convincing I almost believe that he doesn’t care.
“It’s ringing.” I lift my eyebrows in exaggerated excitement and give my brothers a mental high five.
“Yeah right, you’re probably calling your bestie or something,” he says with a churlish little laugh.
I hit the speaker button just as the call connects, “911, do you need police, medical or fire?”
His eyes nearly bug out of his head at the recorded voice. “Stop,” he bellows and then springs off the cabinet and races to me, hands straining ahead of him, his eyes trained on my phone.
I hightail it out of the storage room and out into the kitchen, racing to put the huge marble top prep surface between us.
I hold the phone up over my head. “Don’t come any closer, and I’ll hang up.”
He screeches to a stop across from me. His dark, tear damp eyes are blazing, his flushed nostrils flare. He’s so small, but if he was the same size as his anger, he’d fill this entire room.
