Page 2 of Chasing Wildflowers
His mother is the very definition of a monster-in-law. She’s a cold, status-obsessed snob who measures worth in bloodlines.
She never thought I was good enough for her son, even though my family is just as wealthy and influential as theirs. To be fair, I don’t think any woman would be good enough for her ‘precious baby boy’.
She insists we have lunch once a week, and by insists she means they are mandatory. The one and only time I cancelled, Byron was furious and locked me in the house for a month. I learned my lesson and haven’t missed one since, no matter how fucking miserable they are.
She uses them as an opportunity to criticize me. This time it was the dress I wore. A dressshebought me for Christmas.
In the beginning I craved her approval, even switching to her hair salon and only wearing clothing she bought for me. It didn’t take me long to figure out that it didn’t matter what I did or how hard I tried, Bethany Knox would never like me.
“She said you had a noon reservation,” he says, his voice low and controlled even as his hands tighten on the wheel. “So tell me, Ceciley,whydid you leave the house at ten-thirty?”
I fold my hands on my lap, to keep them from shaking. I knew this was coming. I’ve learned to anticipate his questions before they even come. The exact reason there is a time stamped receipt sitting in the bottom of my clutch.
“I wanted to stop by a new boutique that just opened near the restaurant. I thought I might find something for your mother’s birthday,” I say, keeping my tone even and smooth as his favorite scotch.
If he knew where I went after my brief stop, he would kill me.
His jaw ticks. “You expect me to believe you spent an hour looking for a gift for a woman you don’t even like?”
“I know your mother and I have had our issues. That’s why I wanted to get her the perfect gift,” I lie, knowing his mother is his soft spot.
Fucking Mama’s boy.
“I should have asked first. I’m sorry,” I add quietly, lowering my head obediently, while on the inside, I’m flipping him the finger and calling him a dickless asshole.
He exhales sharply through his nose but says nothing. The silence between us hangs heavy in the air like smoke as he glides the car to a stop under the awning, while flashes from photographers go off around us. The bright lights bouncing off the windows.
Byron swings his door open, not waiting for the valet who has to jump back to miss being assaulted by the door. He slams it shut harder than necessary, and my spine stiffens. My eyes track him as he rounds the hood wearing a practiced smile that has my skin crawling.
When he pulls my door open I take his outstretched hand, because I have to, and let him help me from the car. He squeezes, just a little too hard, before letting go. A silent reminder.
His hand comes up, cupping my face. “You are a beautiful woman, Ceciley.”
Something about his words makes my skin crawl, but I manage a small smile. “Thank you.”
He trails his fingers down my arm, ghosting over bruises only I can feel, before slipping his arm around my waist, and steering me toward the flashing lights.
We stop to pose for a picture, and he leans in close, his hot breath fanning against my cheek. “We will talk about this when we get home, Ceciley,” he whispers, his grip tightening with each flash.
Pain shoots through my side where his fingers dig in, but I keep my face composed and my smile in place.
Inside, I whisper to myself: soon.
I picture the gun tucked beneath the mattress and the documents that are taped beneath my dresser drawer; my escape plan, my salvation.
Tonight, I’m his wife.
Soon, I’ll be a ghost.
One
Lane
A loud bang comes out of nowhere.
My body reacts before my brain catches up; the vodka bottle slips from my hand and crashes to the tile, the sharp crack echoing off the paneled walls. Shards scatter across the floor, and the sting of alcohol fills the air.
My breath catches, half scream, half sob, and for a heartbeat, I’m no longer atTheBroken Bottle.
