Page 1 of Trophy
1
Allison Davies Collinszipped the last of her suitcases, swallowing over a brief wave of nausea.
She was now surrounded by packed luggage and a few taped boxes, all she had to show for eight years of her life.
She was taking her clothes, shoes, and handbags—as well as her jewelry-making materials. She would leave her precious jewelry, her car, and all of the furniture. Arthur could sell those. They were worth a lot of money, and they were his.
He’d bought her wardrobe too, but there was nothing much he could do with that now—so she was taking it with her when she walked out on him. What she’d heard at the cocktail party last night had been the last straw, painfully confirming she couldn’t stay his wife any longer.
He’d be home in about an hour, so she needed to get her belongings out of here right now.
After she’d called her best friend in tears this morning, Vicki had hired a couple of guys to help her move the boxes and luggage. Allison walked into the beautifully decorated living room and told the movers, “You can go ahead and bring this stuff down now.”
She stood out of the way as they carried her cases and boxes to the private elevator. She and Arthur had lived in the penthouse unit of an exclusive high-rise in downtown Charlotte for six years, but after today it wouldn’t be her home anymore.
In thirty minutes the guys had loaded up all her stuff and were driving it over to Vicki’s.
Allison was alone now. As tempting as it was to call Arthur instead of talking face to face, that felt cowardly to her. He’d never abused her. She wasn’t in danger from him. She’d been married to the man for eight years.
She could tell him she was leaving in person.
She grew sicker and sicker as she waited for his arrival. Arthur wouldn’t be expecting this. He thought she was under his thumb, willing to surrender to his will in all things. After all, he’d rescued her when she was eighteen years old and her parents had declared bankruptcy after losing their entire fortune in some very bad investments. Her choices had been to try to work her way through an inexpensive college or to maintain the privileged lifestyle she’d been raised in, keep her friends and her social circle, and marry forty-five-year-old Arthur Collins.
She’d married Arthur. He was an investment banker and had been a friend of her father’s. He’d started showing interest in her when her parents lost their money. He was attractive enough—smooth and sophisticated and successful—and she’d been very young and terrified of her life changing so completely.
She’d wanted to date him, and he could be charming when he wanted to be. They’d been married three months later. She’d been an eighteen-year-old trophy wife to a rich older man. She’d thought it would be tolerable.
The marriage had been fine in the beginning, but it had slowly declined until she couldn’t live with it anymore. Pretty soon, if she stayed, she would be tempted to anesthetize her deep unhappiness with alcohol or prescription drugs.
Today was the day. Today she was leaving—even knowing the consequences.
In an attempt to distract herself from her anxiety, she walked into the small room she’d turned into a workshop for making jewelry. Arthur had complained for weeks about the transformation, but he’d consoled himself with the fact that at least he wouldn’t be stepping on tiny stones or snips of wire all the time. The room was empty now, except for a chair, a worktable, and one shelf of the unit against the wall, on which were the stones, metals, and tools that were too expensive for her to take with her.
She’d gone to a jewelry-making seminar when she was twenty, and she’d kept on learning as much as she could. She was good now, and she had an eye for design, but Arthur had hated the time she’d spent on it. Eventually she’d told all her friends to give her materials and tools as gifts for Christmases and birthdays so Arthur wouldn’t have to pay for them.
One day she was going to open a little jewelry shop in Charlotte. She had the neighborhood picked out and the design of the interior. The dream of that shop was the only thing that had sustained her for the past year, keeping her going when she’d wanted to give up completely.
When she heard Arthur coming in the front door, her throat closed up so she momentarily couldn’t breathe. She willed her body to relax and her lungs to take in air, and eventually she could turn around and walk down the hall.
Arthur was pouring himself a glass of scotch at the bar in the living room when she walked in, as he always did when he came home. He was still attractive—distinguished, with silvering hair, broad shoulders, and an air of authority. He arched his eyebrows when he saw her. “We’re going to dinner tonight. Did you forget? You can’t wear that.”
She wore a light cashmere sweater, leggings, and soft leather boots. Her face was carefully made up, as it always was, and her dark brown hair was pulled back in a loose braid. But he still looked at her like she was dressed in denim overalls. “I’m not going out. I’m leaving.”
Very slowly he set his glass on a polished antique side table. “You’re not pouting again, are you? I thought you’d gotten past that.”
Pouting. That was what he had always called any attempt of hers to address their relationship or express her unhappiness.
“I’m leaving,” she said again. “For good.”
This time he understood what she was saying, but instead of getting angry or outraged, he actually smiled. “No, you’re not. If you leave now, you’ll get nothing from me. There’s no getting around our prenup. You’re not that stupid.”
“I don’t care about the prenup. I am leaving. I’ve packed my clothes and jewelry materials, but that’s all I’m taking with me. I know you paid for those too, though, so if you want me to leave them, I can bring them back.”
“I don’t want your damned clothes, and I don’t appreciate childish stunts like this. Is this about college again? I let you take classes.”
Very reluctantly he’d agreed she could start taking college classes last year—only online and only one at a time so it wouldn’t get in the way of what he considered her real responsibilities. He didn’t want his wife to be walking around a college campus with books and a notebook like an ordinary girl. Despite his deep snobbery, it didn’t bother him that she didn’t have a higher education. In fact, she was pretty sure he preferred it, since it kept her more dependent on him.
When she didn’t answer, he continued, “Or is this about your jewelry nonsense? I’ve let you fill our home with all that clutter.Surely you don’t expect me to throw away money by funding that fanciful business plan of?—”
