by Pam Godwin
My ex-husband’s thick head of black hair swivels left to right. I have an awful feeling he’s searching for me, despite the buxom brunette clinging to his arm. Doesn’t matter how many women are in his bed. He’s always looking for a new conquest, and why not? He’s classically handsome with millions of drooling female fans feeding his ego. Too bad they don’t know how cruel and self-absorbed he is.
“This is a charity for abuse victims.” Decker glares at Blake, who has yet to notice us on the other side of the ballroom. “His presence is fucking disgusting.”
Blake never acknowledged he’s an abuser. The irony of showing his face here is either lost on him or he just doesn’t give a damn.
When his eyes come to a stop on mine, I flash him a sickeningly fake smile. Decker goes rigid beside me. His breathing picks up, and the hand on my arm clenches.
“You have to behave yourself, Decker.” I pivot to face him, cupping his neck and drawing his gaze to mine. “Any kind of violence counteracts the purpose of this event. Please remember that.”
“Laynee.” His jaw sets, nostrils flaring as he briefly closes his eyes. “If he approaches you, I can’t promise—”
“He won’t talk to me.” Last time I saw him, I threatened him with a restraining order if he comes near me again. “Pretend he’s not here, okay?”
With a stiff nod, Decker leads me away from Blake and toward our table near the stage where I’ll be speaking.
Dinner passes in an aromatic haze of seared chicken, bacon-wrapped asparagus, and some sort of rice. I chew it but don’t taste it. I can barely maintain conversation amid the riot of my nerves. It’s not the speech I’m flipping out over. It’s the decision I’ve been putting off all night.
You’re going to make a sacrifice for someone else. You, Laynee.
I rest a hand over Decker’s on my lap and twine our fingers together. He glances at me with eyes of gilded brown. Eyes that caress me with the sensitivity and compassion of a man in love.
He hasn’t said the words, but he goes out of his way to express my importance to him, always touching me, humming tunes to my favorite songs, and leaving me random notes, like I love the sound of your laugh. You have a killer rack. I want you happy—and naked. You are my favorite scent. I choose you, and at the end of the agreement, I’ll keep choosing you.
I’m not big on labels, but I’m desperate to call this what it is. We’re in love, fiercely, completely, in an I-don’t-want-to-wake-up-beside-anyone-else-ever way. He’s the one. The one who will never hurt me. The one who will protect me from anyone who threatens me.
And he wants me to reveal my scars. Because he wants me to heal.
The thing is, if I do this, I’ll be doing it for him, not me.
It’s the little things, forfeiting tiny parts of yourself that have lesser value than the thing you’re trying to attain.
He’s what I’m trying to attain, and with him, I know I’ll heal. Without him, I have nothing.
When the lines of servers stream into the ballroom carrying trays of desserts, it’s my cue to step behind the podium. Adjusting the fur wrap around my upper arms, I move to stand.
Midway to my full height, I hesitate, bend at the waist, and touch my forehead to his temple. “I love you.”
My whisper brushes his ear before my brain catches up. Why did I just admit something so vulnerable in a crowded setting? My timing is horrible.
Flushed and uncertain, I turn toward the stage. His fingers catch mine and squeeze. I sigh at the flex of muscle in his hand. He’s an incredibly strong man, and his strength is amplified in the gentle yet indomitable way he cares for me. He’s my lifeline. Even if he’s not standing beside me on that stage, I’ll be connected to him at a depth in which I’ve never been connected to anyone.
Steadying my breaths, I don’t glance back at him until I reach the glass podium.
CHAPTER 22
LAYNEE
Decker sits twenty-feet away, forearms resting on the table, watching me with a complicated expression. He looks like I feel. Excited. Off-balance. Possessive. It’s as if we’ve discovered this huge incredible thing, and it’s so significant and rare that if I lose it, I fear I’ll never find it again. That horrible feeling, the torment that something or someone could steal him away, sucks the air from the lungs.
Reluctantly, I break our eye contact to focus on the tablet on the glass podium. The speech I prepared fills the tablet’s screen, and the words blur together as the weight of hundreds of eyes press against my skin.
You’re going to look fear in the face and make it your bitch.
When I finally speak, my voice is reedy and soft. I make it through the greeting, the thank yous, and the harrowing stats about abuse victims before I decide to abandon the script.
I shut off the tablet and set it to the side. Then I raise my head and find Decker in the audience. Back straight, shoulders squared, his entire bearing is at full attention. His gaze is so formidable and confident I mirror his posture, borrow his strength, and breathe a little easier.
No matter what happens, that man holds the banged-up pieces of my soul. He’ll hold all of me if I break down. He’ll catch me if I fall. And he’ll demand—in his surly, bossy tone—that I stand on my own feet again. I don’t have to do this alone.
“Domestic abuse can happen to anyone.” I scan the shadowy silhouettes in the crowd, wondering if there’s any women in the audience masking her own tragic story. “Money won’t protect you. Neither will prestige and fame. Abusers prey on those who love them, and their victims never escape the effects of the violence. It follows. It haunts. It never lets go.”
My fingers tremble as I touch the hooks on my shawl. “Violence comes in many forms—physical, sexual, psychological, emotional. The scars you can’t see are the ones that cut the deepest, hurt the most, and take the longest to heal.”
Sweat forms on my skin, and a feverish chill sweeps through me. I meet Decker’s dark eyes and unclasp the hooks on the fur wrap. Holding his steady gaze, I slip the shawl off and drape it over the podium. My heart races. My knees weaken, and a surge of panic spikes through me. I glance over my shoulder and find no one behind me or in the vicinity of the stage. No one can see my disfigurement.
Releasing a ragged breath, I lean closer to the microphone. “Victims of abuse are resilient. They learn how to adapt and self-edit to prevent the abuse. They learn how to hide their pain and alienate themselves to avoid judgment.”
My scarred skin itches beneath the spotlight behind me, and my voice quivers. “While these adaptations are coping mechanisms, they can be insidious and harmful. Abused women second-guess themselves so much they can lose themselves in a deep hole of self-hatred and hopelessness. They need a support system, friends, family, people who will inspire them to seek help. People who will support them through recovery.”
For the next ten minutes, I walk through the signs of abuse, what to look for, and how domestic violence hotlines can help. When I finish the final bullet point, I sway at the podium, wrestling with indecision and the urge to throw up.
It would be so easy to end the speech now, wrap the shawl around my back, and return to Decker. He’ll be disappointed, but he’ll still choose me. Because he loves me.
What will you give up for this man?
I look out into the crowd, instantly transfixed by the adoration shining in his eyes. He’s the best thing that ever happened to me, and there’s still so much I want to do with him. I want to hold his hand in a movie theater, wear his underwear to bed, laugh with him until my stomach stitches, make out in a public restroom, and fall hopelessly in love with him every day for the rest of my life.
I want to sacrifice for him. I would give him everything, give up all of it, just to wake beside him every morning.
With a shaky hand, I remove the wireless microphone from the stand and step to the side of the podium. “It’s easy to put on a ninety-thousand-dollar gown and strut through a fancy ballroom. But to expose your mista
kes, to wear your imperfections for all to see? That takes strength.” I pull in a deep breath. “Strength is a concept I’ve struggled with. What does it look like? Is it aggressive and ballsy? Does it have eight-pack abs?”
I aim a pointed look at Decker, and the crowd erupts in laughter. His expression remains neutral, intense.
“How is strength achieved?” I sweep my eyes through the room, trembling with nervous dread. “Can you grow strong through sheer force of will? I struggled with this concept because I haven’t been strong in a long time. I’ve been hiding. Afraid. Terrified my weaknesses will show through my designer clothes.” A flurry of emotion thickens my voice and burns through my sinuses. “I’ve recently learned I have the power to make myself feel strong and worthy.”
I can do this. I can do this. I know I can.
“I was a victim of abuse. I was beaten, violated, and disfigured.”
A ripple of energy stirs through the audience.
“The who, when, and how aren’t important. If you ask, I won’t disclose it. I’m not that victim anymore.” Tears gather in my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. “It took me a long time, but I see my strength now. I found it in the transition between hurting and healing, between hiding and surviving, between seeking acceptance and falling in love.” I find Decker’s eyes and imagine his raspy tone in my ear. “Sometimes you just need a shift in perspective, and everything on the outside will change with it. But more than that, you need the support from someone who cares.” I stand taller. “I’m a survivor, and I see strength in my scars.”
My heart pounds as I set the mic on the podium. The crowd explodes in applause, and my stomach hardens. I gulp down breaths, but the moment I meet Decker’s eyes, the dread loosens from my muscles. He believes in me. He loves me. I can do this.
Picking up the fur wrap, I hug it to my mid-section. Then slowly, wobbly, I turn, giving the audience a direct view of my exposed back.
The applause fades to a few claps. Then a single wavering clap. Then nothing.
Silence. Lots of it.
They’re in shock. Can’t blame them. I told them I had scars. I didn’t say twenty-six knife wounds.
The deafening hush continues, interrupted by the sound of a cough. The clink of utensils. Footsteps shuffling near the exit. Every little noise shivers goosebumps up my scarred spine. How long should I let them stare?
The tension-filled seconds feel like hours. Tremors ripple through my legs, threatening to knock me over. God, this is harder than I thought, but beneath the strangling fist of fear lurks a profound feeling. For the first time in six years, I feel liberated. Uninhibited by a mask. I finally feel free.
Turn around, Laynee. Turn around and face them.
Straightening my shoulders, I pivot toward the room.
Decker stands beside steps of the stage, hands clasped behind his back, and pride glowing on his face. My lungs fill with air, and a smile twitches my mouth.
I stride toward him, holding his gaze while raising my voice to the crowd. “Enjoy the rest of your meal. The auction will begin shortly.”
When I reach the stairs, he offers his hand. I curl my fingers around his, and he leads me down the steps. Near our table, he pulls me against his chest, and the moment I smell his skin, I know I’m home. It’s an earthy scent, natural and wild, like the air that breathes through my Savannah acreage. I press closer to him, savoring that nostalgic aroma.
Chatter and movement arises around us, but nothing can distract me from the scent of his skin, the palm resting on my cheek, and the soft kiss on my lips.
“I did it,” I say into his mouth.
“I never doubted.” He rests his forehead against mine and runs his hand up and down my bare spine. “I know I’m a horny bastard, but watching you up there made my slacks unbearably tight. We can leave now, right?”
I reverse out of his arms, shaking my head and grinning. “After the auction, I’m all yours.”
With a groan, he takes my hand and weaves us around the crowded tables. My gaze skips from face to face, and every pair of eyes averts from mine. If I made these superficial prima donnas uncomfortable, so be it. I’ll know soon enough who my friends are. No doubt news is already spreading outside this room. Good thing I didn’t bring my phone tonight. Violet is probably leaving me hate mail at this very moment.
I spot Reese standing against the far wall, glaring at the screen of his phone with a pained look on his face. My stomach plunges, and I squeeze Decker’s hand, veering us toward my best friend.
As we approach, Reese looks up, and a warm smile hijacks his lips.
“That was fucking amazing, Laynee.” He pockets the phone and pulls me in for a hug.
“Thank you. What were you scowling at?” I step back. “Has it hit the news feeds yet?”
“It’s still too early to gauge.” He takes the shawl from my hand. “I’ll go check this for you.”
I watch him damn near sprint away with a sinking feeling in my gut. “It must be bad.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.” Decker brushes a ringlet of hair away from my face. “But the woman who just gave a poignant speech on strength doesn’t give a flying fuck about gossip.”
I open my mouth to remind him that gossip can ruin my career, but I’m interrupted by the one person I’m anxious to see after my speech. “Mrs. Montague.”
“Darling.” She accepts my offered hand and holds it between us. “Let me just say I’ve always been impressed by your poise and gentility, but now I’m… Well, I’m happy you finally see your strength. Thank you for sharing it with us.” She tightens her grip and releases my fingers. “You’re an inspiration, Miss Somerset.”
“Thank you.” I press a hand to my chest, feeling lighter, relieved.
“Mr. Gabrielli?” She looks at Decker. “You’ll be in touch?”
“Count on it.” He winks.
“Wonderful.” She lifts her chin. “I wish you both the best of luck.”
With that, she glides through the ballroom and slips out the exit.
For the next hour, Decker and I watch the auction from a table in the corner of the ballroom. Other than Adelaide, no one approaches me or makes eye contact. I know I said not to ask questions about my scars, but I expected some kind of reaction—censure, pity, approval. Something.
A few forced smiles are thrown my way, but I have the distinct feeling I’m being snubbed. These people are nothing if not two-faced. I don’t put it past them to pretend I don’t exist then talk viciously behind my back. Most of them are entitled shallow snobs, more concerned about image and money than raising proceeds for an honorable cause. After all, it’s out of concern for their public image that brings them here. The press coverage tonight is huge. What better way to make a positive public appearance than to be caught on camera at a charity event?
As the bids close out on each item in the auction, my suspicions progress into panic.
“The auction usually brings in more money than this.” I grip Decker’s hand on my thigh. “The bids are a fraction of what they’ve been in prior years.”
“You know what I think?” He waits until I look at him before leaning in and baring his teeth. “Fuck. Them.”
I liquefy in the chair, because dammit, the way he says fuck, all cocky and belligerent, turns me into butter.
“You, in a tux, should be censored.” I tilt my head at the dwindling crowd, the majority of which is female. “I bet most of these socialites are only lingering with the hope to steal a few minutes alone with you.”
“Now that you mention it, I’ve needed to take a piss for a while now.” His sexy lips slant into an infectious smile.
“Are you babysitting me?”
“No, I’m staring at your hard nipples, waiting for them to poke through the fabric of your dress.”
He has, in fact, paid a lot of attention to my chest tonight.
“Go to the bathroom, you ass.” I give his jaw a playful shove and stand. “The auction’s almost finished. I’m go
ing to step out onto the veranda.”
“I’ll find you.” He leaves me with a scorching kiss and prowls out of the ballroom.
Since I’ve only had two glasses of champagne tonight, I grab another from a passing waiter and wander toward the outside balcony. In prior years, the ballroom remained packed several hours after the auction. This year, the crowd has already thinned out so much I don’t encounter a single person on my way to the French doors.
Apprehension sits heavy in my stomach. Did everyone leave because of me? Maybe it’s arrogant to assume such a thing, but the attendees seem to be avoiding me like a plague. Are my scars really so hideous they make people uneasy? It’s not like they’re contagious.
As I reach the open doors to the veranda, a familiar voice stops me in my tracks.
“She’s still whining.” Blake huffs an empty laugh. “Seriously, I had to listen to that through two years of marriage. I couldn’t get away from her pathetic sniveling fast enough.”
The tips of my ears catch fire, and my teeth slam together. Sniveling? I never did that. I never said a goddamn word to him about my scars. I’m not without shortcomings, but whining isn’t one of them.
I back up and press against the wall around the corner before Blake and his audience of five women sees me. My hand trembles so badly I put the full flute of champagne on the tray stand beside me.
“You have to tell us, Blake,” one of the women says. “How did she get the scars?”
“She hid it from me, like some big dirty secret.” His voice lowers. “I think she did it to herself. You know, like one of those cutters. She’s messed up in the head.”
The women on the patio burst into laughter, and I cover my mouth to stifle my horrified gasp. I can’t stop the moisture from burning my eyes, and I hate myself for it. He doesn’t have power over me anymore. I need to walk away and not react. I’m stronger than this.
“Can you believe that performance tonight?” Blake chuckles. “Flashing her old butchered body has got to be the most vulgar, look-at-me, attention-seeking stunts in the history of the movie business.”
