Page 112 of The Last Mrs. Parrish

He pushed her, and she fell back on the bed.

“What the hell—”

“Shut up. I know all about your past.”

Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

He threw a file folder on the bed. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

The first thing she saw was a copy of a newspaper article with an old picture of her. She picked it up and quickly scanned it. “Where did you get this?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Jackson, I can explain. Please, you don’t understand.”

“Save it. No one makes a fool of me. I should turn you in, let you go to jail.”

“I’m the mother of your child. And I love you.”

“Do you, now? Like you loved him?”

“I... it wasn’t like that...”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone. It wouldn’t be good for my son to have a mother in jail.” He leaned closer to her, his face inches away. “But I own you now. So I will talk to you however I want. And you’ll take it, do you understand?”

She’d nodded, frantically calculating her next move. She thought he was just angry—that once she could come up with a believable story, he’d calm down and things would go back to the way they were.

But instead, things began to escalate. He put her on a strict allowance, making her account for every dime she spent. She was still trying to figure out how to fix that. Then he wanted to choose her clothes, her books, and her leisure activities. She had to go to the gym every day. He expected her to volunteer for that stuck-up garden club Daphne had been so involved in. She could tell that the women didn’t want her there, and she couldn’t give a crap about it. Why did she need to learn about gardening? Isn’t that what gardeners were for? And the journal—the damn food journal that he insisted she keep, along with her daily weight. It was humiliating. That was what put her over the edge and made her call his bluff. It was just last week.

“Are you crazy? I’m not reporting to you on what I eat every day. You can take that journal and stick it up your ass.” She’d thrown it on the floor.

His face had turned red, and he stood looking at her like he wanted to kill her. “Pick it up,” he’d said through clenched teeth.

“I will not.”

“I’m warning you, Amber.”

“Or what? You already said you weren’t going to turn me in. Stop threatening me. I’m not weak and malleable, like your first wife.”

At this he’d exploded. “You can’t hold a candle to Daphne, you low-class whore. You can read all you want, study all you want, and you’ll never be anything but poor white trash.”

Before she had time to think, her hand was around the crystal clock on the table next to her, and she’d thrown it at him. It crashed to the floor, missing him completely. She watched as he advanced toward her, a murderous look in his eyes.

“You crazy bitch. Don’t you ever try and hurt me.” He’d grabbed her wrists and squeezed until she yelled out in pain.

“Don’t threaten me, Jackson. I’ll take you down.” Inside she was trembling, but she knew she had to put on a brave face if she had any hope of keeping the upper hand.

He’d abruptly let go, turned, and left, and she thought she’d won.

***

When he came home that night, neither of them said a word about the fight. Amber had asked Margarita to prepare something French for dinner—coq au vin. She’d googled it, along with the right wine and dessert to serve. She’d show him who had class. He arrived home at seven and went straight to his study, where he stayed until she called him for dinner at eight.

“How do you like it?” she asked after he took a bite.

He gave her a droll look. “Why do you ask? It’s not as though you made it.”

She threw her napkin on the table. “I chose it. Look, Jackson, I’m trying to make peace here. I don’t want to fight. Don’t you want things to go back to the way they were between us?”

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