by Britney King
* * *
A timeless, perfect couple waltzes into the small coffee shop where Izzy Lewis works. Instantly enamored, she does what she always does in situations like these: she searches them out on social media.
* * *
Just like that—with the tap of a screen— she’s given a front row seat to the Dunns’ picturesque life. This time, she’s certain she’s found what she’s been searching for. This time, she'll go to whatever lengths it takes to ensure she gets it right—even if this means doing the unthinkable.
* * *
Intense and original, The Social Affair is a disturbing psychological thriller that explores what can happen when privacy is traded for convenience.
What readers are saying:
* * *
"Another amazingly well-written novel by Britney King. It's every bit as dark, twisted and mind twisting as Water Under The Bridge...maybe even a little more so."
* * *
"Hands down- best book by Britney King. Yet. She has delivered a difficult writing style so perfectly and effortlessly, that you just want to worship the book for the writing. The author has managed to make murder/assassination/accidental- gunshot- to-the-head- look easy. Necessary."
* * *
"Having fallen completely head over heels for these characters and this author with the first book in the series, I've been pretty much salivating over the thought of this book for months now. You'll be glad to know that it did not disappoint!"
* * *
Praise
* * *
"If Tarantino were a woman and wrote novels... they might read a bit like this."
* * *
"Fans of Gillian Flynn and Paula Hawkins meet your next obsession."
* * *
"Provocative and scary."
* * *
"A dark and edgy page-turner. What every good thriller is made of."
* * *
"I devoured this novel in a single sitting, absolutely enthralled by the storyline. The suspense was clever and unrelenting!"
* * *
"Completely original and complex."
* * *
"Compulsive and fun."
* * *
"No-holds-barred villains. Fine storytelling full of mystery and suspense."
* * *
"Fresh and breathtaking insight into the darkest corners of the human psyche."
THE SOCIAL AFFAIR
BRITNEY KING
COPYRIGHT
THE SOCIAL AFFAIR is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, images, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author's intellectual property. No part of this publication may be used, shared or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact https://britneyking.com/contact/
Thank you for your support of the author's rights
* * *
Hot Banana Press
Cover Design by Britney King LLC
Cover Image by Mario Azzi
Copy Editing by Librum Artis Editorial Services
Proofread by Proofreading by the Page
* * *
Copyright © 2018 by Britney King LLC. All Rights Reserved.
* * *
First Edition: 2018
ISBN 13: 978-1979057455
ISBN 10: 1979057451
* * *
britneyking.com
To those who’ve walked into our lives without first asking permission...
PROLOGUE
Attachment is an awfully hard thing to break. I should know. I surface from the depths of sleep to complete and utter darkness. I don’t want to open my eyes. I have to. “I warned you, and I warned you,” I hear his voice say. It’s not the first time. He called out to me, speaking from the edge of consciousness, back when I thought this all might have been a dream. It’s too late for wishful thinking now. This is his angry voice, the one I best try to avoid. My mind places it immediately. This one is reserved for special occasions, the worst of times.
I hear water running in the background. Or at least I think I do. For my sake, I hope I'm wrong. I try to recall what I was doing before, but this isn't that kind of sleep. It's the heavy kind, the kind you wake from and hardly know what year you’re in, much less anything else. I consider how much time might have passed since I dozed off. Then it hits me.
“You really shouldn’t have done that,” he says, and his eyes come into focus. Those eyes, there’s so much history in them; it’s all still there now. I see it reflected back to me. I read a quote once that said… a true mark of maturity is when someone hurts you, and you try to understand their situation instead of trying to hurt them back. This seems idealistic now. I wish someone had warned me. Enough of that kind of thinking will get you killed.
“Please,” I murmur, but the rest of what I want to say won’t come. It’s probably better this way. I glance toward the door, thinking about what’s at stake if I don’t make it out of here alive, wondering whether or not I can make a break for it. It’s so dark out—a clear night, a moonless sky. The power is out, I gather, and it’s a fair assumption. This has always been one of his favorite ways to show me what true suffering is like. That alone would make an escape difficult. I would have to set out on foot and then where would I go? Who would believe me?
“You have it too easy,” he says, as though he wants to confirm my suspicions. “That’s the problem nowadays. People consume everything, appreciate nothing.”
He lifts me by the hair and drags me across the bedroom. I don’t have to ask why. He doesn’t like to argue where he sleeps, where we make love. It’s one of our safe spaces, but like many things, this too is a facade. Nothing with him is safe.
“You like your comforts, but you forget nothing good comes without sacrifice.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I assure him, and that much is true. Sacrifice is something I know well.
He shakes his head, careful to exaggerate his movements. He wants the message he sends to sink in. “I don’t know why you have to make me so angry.”
I glance toward the window, thinking I see headlights, but it’s wishful thinking. Then I reach up and touch the wet spot at the crown of my head. I pull my hand away, regretful I felt the need for confirmation. Instinct is enough. If only I’d realized this sooner. I didn’t have to put my fingers to it to know there would be blood; the coppery scent fills the air. “It’s not too bad,” he huffs as he slides one hand under my armpit and hauls me up. “Come on,” he presses, his fingertips digging into my skin. “Let’s get you stitched up.”
I follow his lead. There isn’t another option. Head wounds bleed a lot, and someone’s going to have to clean his mess up. If I live, that someone will be me. This is how you stop the bleeding. “What time is it?”
“Oh,” he says, half-chuckling. “There’s no need to worry about that. She’s already come and gone.”
I don’t ask who he’s referring to. I know. Everything in me sinks to the pit of my stomach. It rests there and I let it. I don’t want him to see how deeply I am affected by what he’s done. It’s more dangerous if I let it show. But what I want to happen and what actually does, are two very different things. I know because my body tenses, as it gives over to emotion until eventually it seizes up completely. I don’t mean for it to happen. It has a habit of betraying me, particularly where he is concerned. Your mind may know when something's bad for you. But the body can take a little longer. He knows where to touch me. He knows what to say. Automatic response is powerful, and like I said before, attachment is hard to break.
He
shoves me hard into the wall. I guess I wasn’t listening. I shouldn’t have made a habit of that either. I don’t feel the pain. I don’t feel anything. “Ah, now look what you made me do,” he huffs, running his fingers through his hair. He’s staring at me as though this is the first time he’s seeing me. His face is twisted. He wants me to think he's trying to work out his next move. He isn’t. He’s a planner, through and through.
Still, he’s good at concealing what he doesn’t want anyone to know. If only I’d been more like that. I wasn't. That's why I don’t know if this is it, if this is the end. I only know where it began.
“We had an agreement,” he reminds me. And he’s right.
We did have an agreement.
That’s how this all started.
* * *
READ MORE HERE…
