Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Her words rush over me, tempting, pulling. I fish Carolyn's card from my pocket — thick and cream, her number etched in gold-embossed script. "This is her number. I have until tomorrow to decide." My voice wavers, hesitation coiling tight in my gut, a voluptuous tug-of-war between fear's cool grip and desire's heated promise. But Emma's right; the pros outweigh the shadows. The Internet has literally sealed it like a kiss. The decision is inevitable, like honey dripping from a spoon, or the night deepening.
"Okay," I whisper, my hand trembling slightly as I pick up my phone. "I think... I think I'm in."
Emma nods, fierce and proud, scooting closer until our thighs press together, her presence a witness, a shield. "I'm here," she says softly. “I’m your backup. If anything goes wrong, we’ll handle it together. And we’ll keep records of everything.”
“Alright,” I reply.
It’s time. I key in Carolyn’s number, the ringtone trilling in the charged air. One ring. Two. My free hand twists in my lap, nails digging half-moons into my palm, the humid warmth making my skin slick. Three rings, and then—click.
"Carolyn Bessant." Her voice, smooth as ever, that upper-crust polish wrapping around the words like velvet.
"It's - it’s Juliet.”
I pause and hold my breath, scared all of a sudden that maybe she has changed her mind. Maybe it was all nothing but a sick joke from the very beginning. The room narrows to this moment—the fan's whir, Emma's steady gaze, the distant train rumble like fate rolling in.
"I... I’m calling about what you said earlier when we met at the coffee shop. Your proposition. Well, I… I accept."
Chapter Five
BLAKE
One Month Later
A light mist rises from the dew-kissed lawns, and the conservatory is bathed in the early September morning light. The breakfast table is spread with flaky pastries from the local artisanal bakery in Sands Point, bowls of ripe strawberries and sliced mangoes, and Freya's favorite—whole-grain toast slathered in almond butter, cut into neat triangles.
I sit at the head and watch them—my mother, her frail frame draped in a cashmere cardigan over a silk blouse, delicately sipping her Earl Grey tea; and Freya, my five-year-old whirlwind, a mess of tousled golden curls, kicking her legs under the table, and nibbling dreamily on her toast. It's peaceful here, the kind of quiet that sinks into your bones, broken only by the soft clink of silverware.
No raised voices, no tension humming like a live wire.
It's been this way for the past month, ever since Carolyn announced her need for some improvements—breast augmentation and a rhinoplasty—and checked into one of the opulent suites overlooking Central Park at The Pierre for recovery. I didn't question it; why would I? If she wants to carve herself into something new, let her.
Especially if it keeps her out of my hair.
My mother sets her cup down with a gentle clatter; her hands tremble slightly these days. The arthritis is creeping in. She glances at me, her sharp blue eyes narrowing just a fraction. "It's been a peaceful month, hasn't it?" Her voice is measured, but laced with that undercurrent of disapproval she reserves for Carolyn. There's a pause, the steam from her tea curls lazily in the sunlight.
"Yes," I agree quietly, my gaze drifting to Freya, who hums a little tune under her breath, oblivious and peaceful. No petty arguments, no cold shoulders, no pouting. Just us, the way it should be.
"But she's returning soon, isn't she?" my mother continues, her tone sharpening. She folds her napkin precisely with jerky movements. "And we'll have to deal with her again. All that... annoyance."
I feel a flicker of tension in my chest, but I push it down, focusing on the warmth of the coffee cup in my palm. Deal with her. That's what my marriage has become—a negotiation, a deliberate dance of indifference. I nod, spearing a strawberry and slipping it into my mouth, its juice bursts sweet and tart on my tongue.
"She is," I say evenly.
Frances sighs and leans back in her chair, the wicker creaking faintly. "Blake, I cannot understand why on earth you would let her do such a thing? As your wife, she represents you—us, this family." Her words hang in the still air, heavy with judgment. Her frail hands gesture vaguely, as if encompassing the estate, our legacy. The Bessants don't do frivolous; we build empires, we don’t belong on plastic surgeon’s tables. Her only saving grace was her looks, but now she'll join that growing army of ballooned-up plastic dolls. It’s beyond me why you would remain with such an unpleasant and manipulative character. You deserve better."
Her words carry truth. Unpleasant and manipulative. That's a good description of my wife. The fire of our marriage cooled some time ago. There is no affection left in it, but it suits me to remain attached. I don’t need the distraction of being single and available.