by Dylan Allen
Then, one day, she sent me an email. Lori, as she called herself, found the podcast, inadvertently. She asked me to tell her story because she’d been so maligned in the press. So, I did. That opened the floodgates. It turns out that since the trial, there’d been more complaints from women who no one cared about. I started getting emails from women, mostly sex workers, who’d been his patients at the free clinic he volunteered at, with stories very much like Lori’s.
They had dates, times, complaints they filed, officials who ignored them. I compiled them and used The Jezebel’s email address to forward them to a staff writer at the Houston Chronicle.
There was an outcry from Dr. Zimmerman’s powerful friends and patients. He was one of them. Their golf partner. Their campaign donor. Their museum patron.
They wrote op-eds, claiming he was being “framed, hustled, and schemed on by desperate, broken and deluded women who were angry that he’d spurned their advances.”
But, this time, it’s not his word against hers or one vulnerable prostitute who could be steamrolled. It’s a tidal wave of women who have come forward to stop this man from hurting one more person.
So far, no one has made the connection and noticed that the name of the podcast is the same as the name emblazoned on my back. But it wouldn’t take much for Marcel to figure it out. And I know he’ll use it as leverage.
With my reputation so tarnished by this picture that everyone has seen, being associated with me could cast doubt on their credibility, again.
Thankfully, I have a big stick of my own that I’m going to use to bind his tongue.
My hunch the possibility of a hidden camera behind that mirror paid off.
There were also cameras in our children’s rooms, and the small library I used for my monthly sit down with my accountant. I was livid.
Until Dina, brilliant woman that she is, called to say she’d struck gold. She hacked the Drop Box where the surveillance videos were stored. He recorded me in that library, but he also recorded himself.
What I saw made me sick, before it made me smile.
When Remi watched it, he insisted on representing me himself. He’s one of the country’s most decorated litigators. And as relieved as I am to have him on my side, I hate that it comes at the cost of that disappointment in his eyes.
I soften my posture and take his hand in mine.
“I know this is hard for you, too. Let’s not argue. I can’t change who I am or how I cope with things any more than you can. So, let’s just cut each other some slack. Once I have my children back under my roof, I’ll curl up in my huge bathtub with an entire bottle of champagne and cry myself dry, okay?”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I’m sorry all of this is happening. I’m sorry I didn’t see who he was,” he says, in a voice made rough from a week of shouting arguments and late nights, followed by mornings, so early it felt like we hadn’t slept at all.
“We only know of other people, what they let us see and you’re not a mind reader.” I nod at the phone. “Go on, let’s watch to the end.”
His finger hovers over the triangle on the screen. “You don’t have to. It’s not like you don’t already know what happens,” he says, in that way he has of being kind, but managing, at the same time.
I give his hand a resolute squeeze. “I want to watch it. The man in this video is who Marcel really is. I’ll need that reminder when I sit across from him today. Press play,” I say, with resolve.
The video resumes. I’m prepared for what comes next. But my throat still constricts as the worst day of my entire life replays on the screen.
My heart is tied into a million tiny knots. When we get to the worst of it, I close my eyes. And even with no volume, I can hear the sounds of mayhem and destruction from that day - my shouts, my daughter crying, Marcel’s thundering silence.
“What men?” I growl, the fear in my eyes morphing into rage that turns them into slits of fire and brimstone.
I hit pause and close my eyes. Sweat beads my upper lip, and my nails dig grooves into the palms of my curled hands.
I flatten them against my thighs and let the black wool soothe the hot stinging skin of my palms. But it doesn’t. Instead, it launches another round of memories that are as painful as the ones I just watched. It was a gift from my grandfather.
When my mother told him Chanel was too extravagant for a twenty-one-year old, he’d laughed.
“She’s a work of art. It’s my job to make sure she’s shown in the best frame and in the best light. And that suit is it.” He’d pointed at this black Chanel summer wool. “It’s a signal that this is a woman you should not underestimate.”
Every time I wear it, I stand a little taller, feel less vulnerable. So, even though my feelings for him are still so muddled, I put it on this morning, because I need to feel those things today. But thinking of him now, only adds to my agitation. I’m supposed to revile him. To hate him. And, I don’t. Yet, I can’t say I love him, when I didn’t even know him.
Like I didn’t know Marcel.
Like my mother didn’t know my father.
I don’t trust my judgment anymore…and as much as I miss Stone, there’s a part of me that’s glad things ended, before he could disappoint me, too.
“Hey, you okay? You growled.” Remi puts a hand on mine and squeezes.
The tenderness in his voice makes my undeserving heart ache. He’s done so much for me this week.
“Yes, I’m fine,” I say. And then, I proceed to fake it until I can make it true.
The door opens, and Sylvester Hadnott, the most unscrupulous family attorney in the city, sticks his head out. He’s wearing a huge grin. I’m going to enjoy wiping that smile off his face.
I get my focus back, put the smile Marcel isn’t expecting on, and walk in to face my fate.
Marcel looks every single one of his fifty-seven years. I take some comfort from the gray scruff on his cheeks. He dyes his hair, as regularly as he needs to, so he can hide all but a few wisps of gray at his temples. I haven’t seen him with stubble since our honeymoon. It’s gratifying to see him look like hell.
“Are you ready to discuss terms?” The mediator, sitting at the head of the table, speaks.
“Yes. We have ours ready,” Remi says.
Marcel huffs in indignation. “Terms? What terms could you have? I have you by those little hairs on your disloyal cunt.”
“This is a negotiation,” I return evenly.
“You don’t get to lecture me. You have broken rules, and now, you will learn the consequences. Cunt,” he enunciates.
“Mr. Landel, please. Remember that all oral exchanges will be part of the record I submit to the court. The petitioner can begin. I understand you have a list of terms.”
Marcel chuckles. “By all means, let me hear your terms... of surrender.”
Ignoring him, Remi pulls out the list we prepared and starts to read.
“Regan will continue to raise the children. You can have the summers, as you do now. Regan will retain her residence at the family home she has always lived in with the children. She’s willing to buy you out of any equity you’re deemed to be owed. She wants you to sign an NDA, agreeing to keep personal knowledge gained during your marriage private, and she is willing to do the same.”
“The fuck I will,” Marcel bellows. “You must think I’m insane,” he scoffs, flouncing back in his chair, affronted.
Marcel’s lawyer leans over and whispers something in his ear.
Remi looks at me and raises his eyebrows, his eyes clouded with worry. I smile reassuringly.
Nothing Marcel knows about me is more damaging than what’s on that video. Once he sees it, he’ll do whatever I say.
I nudge Remi under the table, and he clears his throat and looks back at the document. “Mr. Landel will agree to keep private any information he accessed when he breached Mrs. Landel’s account to steal the photograph that was originally printed in Aussi magazine.”
M
arcel yawns. “I didn’t steal that picture. Who would even believe that? Why would I want the world to know I’m a cuckold?” He points a self-righteous finger in my face.
“Further, Mr. Landel will agree to seek help for his anger issues and sex addiction in exchange for continued unsupervised summer visitation with his children.”
Marcel’s face turns red, his lips thin into furious white slash. “You have lost your mind,” he speaks in a muffled scream.
I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from laughing in his face.
“Like the rest of our terms this one is a non-negotiable and certainly more than you deserve.” Remi concludes stoically.
Marcel gapes, looking between Remi and me repeatedly, his rage easing into righteous indignation. “You are the one in violation of the prenuptial agreement. You are the one who made a whore of yourself for the whole world to see. You should be on your knees, begging me to take you back. Begging me to let you see your children. Instead you are wasting our time.”
I nod at Remi. “Send it now.”
He returns my nod and hits a button on his laptop. “I’ve sent you a video. Please watch it and then we will discuss,” he informs the three of them.
Then he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms almost leisurely, and gives Marcel a sinister smile. I love my big brother. He’s as flawed as anyone, but when he gets it right…he gets it right.
Their devices beep simultaneously, and they’re fingers moved in seemingly synchronized taps as they open the video.
I glance at Remi, and we share a silent high five. Then we both watch Marcel while my grenade blows up in his face.
It’s just a highlight reel. Him with Hanna. The conversation he had with the reporter of the magazine, after he’d sent him the picture, which he broke into my iCloud account to steal. Him getting a blowjob from the young man who I thought was his physical therapist. Him dragging me out of the room by my hair, while our ten-year-old daughter screamed and begged him to stop.
When everyone is finished watching, there’s an awkward beat of silence, before our mediator clears his throat and pushes his glasses up his nose. Marcel’s expression, when the tape ends, is nothing short of shell-shocked.
He came in here expecting me to ask him to take me back. To beg him to forgive me.
It didn’t occur to him, not once, that I might not stand down. I never minded that he didn’t think I was good for anything more than being a sparkly vessel to continue his line.
But I mind very much that he set me up and tried to ratfuck me out of my entire life. So, after more than ten years of being married, he’s finally getting a taste of the real me. And I can tell he doesn’t like my flavor—not one bit.
Marcel finally meets my eyes. He looks like he wants to rip my throat out with his bare teeth.
Or, maybe I’m projecting.
“You are out of your mind,” he snarls.
“How do you figure?”
“You want to blackmail me?” He bares his teeth like a rabid dog.
“Not at all. I’m just meeting you where you are. Now that I know you’re not naturally inclined toward doing what’s right, I’m incentivizing your behavior.”
“You wouldn’t show anyone those things.”
“Before you put that picture into the world, so our children could see it, that might have been true. You dragged my name through the mud. And you are completely crazy if you thought I’d stand by and let you ruin me and take my children. No.” I flare my nostrils and lean toward him. “And, I have one more term.”
Remi stiffens and puts a hand on my arm. “Regan, what is this?”
I ignore him and the guilt that tightens my throat and keep my eyes trained on Marcel, so he can see just how serious I am. “You will not try to identify or reveal anything you may have already learned about the man in that photo.”
His lips twitch, and if looks could kill, I’d be taking my last breath. But his glare makes this all even more satisfying. “You know, of course, that’s just a trailer, right?” I point at the phone in his hand. “You will do everything I just asked, or I’ll send the full feature film to TMZ, and anyone else who wants it.”
His face grows pale. “But…it would ruin me,” he cries, in disbelief.
I shake my head and make my smile regretful. “Yes, it would. But as you know, when you break the rules, you’ve got to live with the consequences.”
His eyes go black with rage, and he lunges across the table at me. “Fuck you, Regan. You can’t do this. I am going to bury you.”
Remi is on his feet so fast, he knocks his chair over. He steps in front of me and leans forward, towering over Marcel like an angry god. “You’re lucky I have people who depend on me. Otherwise, I’d tie you to this table and beat you with my shoe for what you did to my sister. And I’d go to jail with a smile on my face,” he spits.
Marcel may be burning with outrage, but he’s not crazy. He pales and wilts back into his seat. His expression is pleading now. “Remi, you are a man of integrity. This is a shakedown.”
Remi scoffs and sits, his gaze burning with loathing and still on Marcel’s pallid face. “This is a negotiation. You have choices.”
The next few seconds pass in tense silence.
“This is a waste of time,” Marcel hisses.
“So, it seems,” his lawyer’s response is flat and unemotional.
They gather their papers and briefcases. Marcel’s expression is stony and frigid, as he stands, buttons his suit jacket and leaves the table, without another word or glance in my direction.
I know I’ve got him by the short hairs, but I came here with a very specific goal, and I won’t let him leave without giving it to me.
“You have until tomorrow afternoon to leave my house. Consider this your heads up,” I call to him.
“Fine,” he snaps, and then the door slams so hard the windows rattle.
Remi and I walk to his car in tense, stoic silence. I know he’s waiting for us to be alone to unleash on me. As soon as I climb inside the cool, dark interior of his car, I let loose the breath I’ve been holding for the last few days, in a long sigh of relief.
“I’m exhausted,” I groan, letting my head loll to rest on the seat.
“That went better than I hoped.” Remi’s voice is tight with unspoken annoyance.
I cast him a sidelong glance. “Then why do you sound like we lost.”
“I don’t like surprises.” His voice is quiet but seething with anger.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t want to talk to you about it because I knew you’d press me for more.”
“Yes, I would.” He leans back against his door, his disappointed glare, unrelenting, as he rails at me. “I want to know why, if you care about him enough to protect him from your husband, why the fuck doesn’t he care enough to not let you?”
I drop my head into my hands. “Because he doesn’t know what’s happened.”
“How? That picture was in every single tabloid, including the ones in Mexico. Or does he live on the moon?”
A wave of despair washes over me. “He might as well,” I say. Stone is only one month into his three-month trip, and I feel sick to think of what he’ll say when he gets back and finds everything so different.
“Then why do you feel the need to protect him?” he snaps, and my heart trembles because, Lord, I hate hurting him.
“Because he’s not the one who broke his wedding vows. He didn’t do anything wrong, and Marcel would completely dismantle his life. I don’t want that on my conscience. It was a fling. And I just want it done.” The words leave a bitter aftertaste in their wake. But they do the trick.
“Fine. You’re entitled to your privacy, Regan. I just hate the idea of him walking around scot-free, while your name is being dragged through the mud.”
“I’m fine, Remi. I’ll have to stop some of the bleeding and try to salvage Venus Rising, but that meeting was a huge hurdle, and I just want to look forward.” I grab
his hand and give him my best little sister puppy dog eyes.
“Fine,” he sighs and pulls me into a hug. “Besides, you got everything you wanted today. I’m proud of you.”
“Not everything.” My insatiable, unflagging longing for Stone Rivers growls… I’ve been hearing it a lot lately.
The sweetness of any victories I’ve had in the last few days is tinged with the acrid reminder that Stone isn’t part of my life anymore. I’ve been grateful for the distraction of disaster.
But no matter how I starve the beast, it won’t ever stop growling. Thank God Stone’s a whole continent away or I’d be in real trouble.
2 Months Later
Pamplona, Norte de Santander
COLOMBIA
Move
Stone
I stumble into my apartment and drop everything where I stand. Without stopping, I stride straight into my bedroom and put my phone on its charger. I grab the stack of mail that my neighbor bundled and left on my kitchen table along with his copy of my spare key.
I’m dying for a hot shower and for the soft mattress on my bed. But I need to check my messages, open my mail and call my woman.
I grab my phone from the drawer in my bedside table and plug it in. Three months of lying dormant has left it completely dead and it takes forever for it to even register that it’s charging. I stare at it, willing it to turn on.
When I knew I couldn’t use it, I didn’t once yearn for it. Now that I’m seconds away from being able to communicate again, each minute that I stare at that black dead screen for what feels like eons. I know a watched pot never boils, so I turn away from the phone and walk over to the stack of mail. I see the big envelope at the bottom and recognize Regan’s handwriting in the corner reserved for return sender’s information.
I’ve been writing to her every day, sending the letters whenever we crossed paths with a courier or stopped in a village that had a post office.
