Chapter 7: Stand and Defend: Chapter 7

My hands are pressed over my eyes as I sit hunched over on the white U-shaped sofa in our condo. The cushions aren’t even cushiony. It’s like poorly upholstered concrete. I never liked this couch.

After the bike ride, I gained some clarity about Bryan’s and my relationship. He wasted my time, my energy, I’ve defended his problematic behavior to our friends so many times, and he humiliated me at my own bachelorette party. When I hear the click of the deadbolt, I sit up and take a deep breath. This is it.

He saunters in, holding his keys in his fist over the kitchen island and opens his clenched palm to let them hit the marble with a harsh clank. He continues his slow stride until he’s standing at the edge of the living room and kitchen. He sighs. “I’m sorry for what happened.”

I came here to tell him one thing: We’re done. He’s not even taking full responsibility. He’s sorry for “what happened,” as if their affair was some act of God.

“I’ve already made an appointment for us to get financials sorted with the banks. I want our accounts separated. As far as the wedding⁠—”

“No.”

Excuse me? Blood fires through my veins. He doesn’t get to reject my breakup.

I pluck the engagement ring off the coffee table and meet him where he stands, toe to toe. “You made your choice in Vegas.” I hold the ring out for him to take.

His jaw tics. “No. We are going to work this out.” Smirking, he takes the ring from me, grabs me by the neck, and walks me to the dividing wall between the living room and bedroom hallway.

“You’re hurting me.”

“You’re hurting me,” he says. Alarm bells ring. His voice is monotone, but his actions are firm and calculating. Menacing. “Do not try me, Jordana. This marriage is happening. We are walking down the aisle in a month. And you’re going to do it with a smile on your fat fucking face.” He pulls my neck forward and slams my skull against drywall three times to punctuate his last words. “Understand?”

My vision blurs. I want to run, but I can’t move. The instant headache has me seeing stars. I roll my lips together and breathe through my nose, trying to stay calm. He’s got me standing on my tiptoes. I go into self-preservation mode and nod. Every inch of me is trembling. He moves his hand to the back of my neck.

“Now go get ready for the fundraiser. We’re showing up together, and you’re going to play nice with me, aren’t you?”

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

I nod again; he’s not giving me much range of motion. He encircles my shaking wrist and holds it up, offering me a bemused smile. His other hand releases my neck as he holds the ring. No, no, no. He shoves the ring back on my finger. It doesn’t fit, so he pushes until it scrapes harshly past the knuckle. My brows squish together as I plead with him. It’s not only excruciatingly painful, it’s like having my old collar put on again. My hand itches to yank it off.

“Obviously, the diet is back on.”

A tear escapes, I blink to stop the rest, but it only makes another one fall.

“Don’t be sad. Good wife, good life. Remember?” He swipes his thumb over my cheek, and my stomach turns. I resist slapping his hands away. The touch makes me squirm.

My answer is clipped. “Mm-hm.”

He smiles, tracking another tear as it cascades down my cheek. “You’re ugly when you cry.” His gaze returns to mine, and he waits to see if I’ll give him more tears.

Nothing. He releases me, and I suck in a breath.

“Get dressed. If you look fat in what I’ve laid out for you, find something else. Hair down.”

He always tells me to wear it up. He must have left marks.

This is the last time I will wear my hair for him. I just need to get through tonight. Wait until it’s safe.

A four-piece orchestra plays in the corner while people wander the Safehouse fundraiser for—get this—domestic violence victims. The irony makes me want to vomit. I’m such a fraud.

I didn’t even realize it was Camden Teller’s charity. I knew he was involved but didn’t grasp he was the founder. He tried to tell me at the coffee shop, and I dismissed him. I never thought it would escalate to this. Tonight was the first time he put his hands on me for more than a firm grab. I’m so lost and empty inside—ashamed I’ve put myself in this situation. When did I lose control of my life?

As Bryan parades me around, I put on a happy smile and make small talk. He didn’t let me out of his sight for the first hour and a half, or throughout the dinner I wasn’t allowed to eat. Now he’s lengthening my leash. I want to shove his hand away from my lower back. Every so often, it drifts to my ass, making my skin crawl.

Everything in me says to run, but it’s not so simple. Not yet.

I have to be smart. He can’t suspect anything. As I was getting ready tonight, I heard him tell his father over the phone that spouses can’t be forced to testify against one another. I think his words were in reference to me. I don’t know what he’s hiding. Does it matter?

For now, I need to focus on getting myself out of this mess.

Every conversation with our acquaintances is more dull than the last. Career successes, real estate, investments . . .

“. . . From what I heard, the initial investors did very well. Who have they chosen for the board?”

“. . . We summered in Deauville this year. Seychelles has become so overrun by tourists.”

“. . . Marnie got married in July. He’s an orthopedic surgeon. They just bought a beautiful home in Bearpath.”

“. . .Lorne had everyone out celebrating the merger. Cheers to building solid results in a challenging environment.”

Blah. Blah. Blah. Blah.

I want to get drunk, but my head’s still throbbing and I’ll regret it in the morning.

Scanning the room, my gaze catches on a gorgeous figure. My jaw nearly drops when the woman turns around—Jordan.

I haven’t heard from her since our ride the other day. I amble up to her with a smug grin. “Of all the gin joints . . .”

She startles, and I hold up both my palms.

“So it seems,” she answers.

Her eyes are . . . empty.

I nod to the shimmering floor-length gown she has on. She looks stunning in it.

“Not used to seeing you without the hoodie.”

She offers a tight smile. “Hm.” Her eyes convey nothing remotely close to happiness.

“So, which is the real Jordan? The one in the couture gown”—I nod to her dress—“or the one with apple scone crumbs on her baggy sweatshirt?”

She levels me with a hollow stare. “Both and neither.”

Out of nowhere, Bryan comes from behind and places his arm around her.

The fuck?

I don’t let my eyes react.

“Hey, man. Great turn out. Lots of money to raise tonight, eh?” he says.

I nod. “Hopefully, lots of new sponsors this year.”

What the hell is going on?

“Well, it’s for a good cause,” he replies.

“Excuse me,” Jordan interjects, handing Bryan her champagne flute and picking up the hem of her dress. When she reaches down, my eye catches on her diamond ring—the one I removed. Is her finger bruised? She pulls away before I can get a good look.

“Good to see you, Jordana,” I say, making sure to use her full first name. Something about this situation is fucked.

I scoff. “What’s wrong with her?”

“She’s not feeling well.”

“Shit, I tried out a new caterer. I hope it’s not the food.”

“No, no. Nothing like that. She’s just stressed. Finalizing the last of the wedding plans and all, she’s been working herself ragged. Everything’s gotta be perfect, you know how it is.”

He’s lying. He’s lying right to my fucking face.

“Oh, things are going well, then? I’m glad it all worked out. I’m guessing Veronica isn’t in the wedding anymore, is there someone else I’ll be walking down the aisle with?”

“Yeah, we’re still working on a few things. I’ve got a cousin that’s willing to stand in for her. You probably met her in Vegas—Georgina?”

He’s acting like nothing ever happened. I nod. “I’m impressed. She took you back that easily, huh?”

“It’s still a work in progress. But she knows what’s best for her. Jordana’s very reasonable.”