07BarteredPainThe BillionairesWifeARE (4 page)

"Yes," I
said. "That's what I have to tell you. He is
not
a
bad husband. I know you wante me to be happy with the man I marry, and right
now I'm feeling okay with the way things are going."

My mother sat back,
somewhat mollified, but clearly unwilling to let this go. "I don't
know," she said. "I don't like the changes I see in you."

I frowned. "What
do you mean?"

Waving a hand she
attempted to encompass all of me. "Your clothes. Your attitude. I haven't
seen you do your art the whole time I've been here."

I shifted,
uncomfortable. I knew what she was saying, because I had the same feelings. Misgivings,
really. But I tamped them down. I depended on Anton to keep her alive. I leaned
on him when I felt weak. Which was more and more often.

I stared at the fire.
Before I knew Anton, I'd lived alone. I'd worked hard. I'd been my own person.
A messy, unkempt person that my mother always lamented of ever learning
glamorous personal grooming, but my own person all the same. Now I was falling
into Anton, fading into the force of his personality, of his dominance. It
sheltered me. But shelter can be an awfully small space.

I couldn't let my
mother worry about me, though. "I'm fine," I said. "I'm just
stressed out. When this whole wedding thing is over, I'll go back to working on
my art and stuff."

With a sigh, my
mother deflated. "Felicia," she said again, "please, take this
seriously, and answer me honestly: why did you marry this man?"

I couldn't tell her
it was for the money, and I certainly couldn't tell her it was for love. What
could I say to the woman who gave me life, and now feared I was throwing that
life away?

I gave her a wan
smile. "For the right reasons," I said. "Trust me."

She held my eyes for
a long time in the dancing light of the fire. "I will trust you," she
said. "And I hope you are right."

*

The fallout of the
tabloid pictures wasn't half as bad as I'd feared. Most people just acted
faintly embarrassed when they recognized me, but my blog saw a huge uptick in
traffic and, true to Anton's predictions, I sold everything that was for sale
in my storefront. Unfortunately, I couldn't find time to go down to my old
apartment to package everything up and send it out because wedding preparations—and
Anton—took up all of my time.

Dress shopping, gift
registry, gift
bags,
decorations, catering, drinks,
bridesmaids, colors, flowers, silverware patterns, and getting tied up and
fucked each night and most of the days took up a lot of time. Getting married,
it seemed, was a full time job that did a lot to alleviate any obsessing I
might have done. Besides, after a few days the embarrassment of being photographed
in intimate positions wore off, especially when tourists from out of town
stopped me on the street and asked to take a picture with me. Of course, they
never asked while Anton was there. Anton gave off a forbidding vibe.

By the time the week
was up, I was feeling better about the world, but I was still looking forward
to fresh tabloids so my picture would get off the cover. Sadie and I were
walking to the nearest drug store so I could grab myself some Midol—my period
was coming up and the beginnings of crankiness and cramps were making
themselves felt—and discussing how to get
her
picture in the tabloids so she could sell
some of
her
work.

"We should
kiss," she said. "The next time you see a papparazo, you have to tell
me so I can mack on you."

"I'm not kissing
you to get you into the
National
Enquirer,"
I said.
"Why don't I just advertise your shit on my website?"

"Because,"
Sadie whined, "I want to get autograph requests, too!"

I laughed. She didn't
really
want this kind of scrutiny, and besides, there was no
telling what Anton would do if he found out someone had touched his property,
for publicity or not.

Ducking out of the
rapidly chilling autumn air—now creeping into winter—we browsed the aisles in
the Rite Aid.

"Do you need
enemas?" Sadie asked loudly from two aisles over as I looked for the
Midol.

"Sadie!"

"Just asking.
You never know. What about laxatives. Laxatives and enemas?"

I groaned and put my
head down as she rounded the corner, grinning.

"Hey," she
said. "Those tabloids are going off the shelves. Someone has to keep you
humble."

"I'm plenty
humble," I said.

Unzipping her hoodie,
Sadie bared her chest to me. "Really? Then I dare you not to sign
these."

"No
problem," I told her as we headed toward the checkout. "I don't have
a pen with me."

"God, Lis, you
are absolutely no fun at all." She zipped back up and followed me.
"Come on, let's see which poor sucker is on the front page of the
Star
now
that it's not you in a dog collar and leash.

"Sadie!"

"What? Everyone
knows!"

Cheeks burning, I
tried to pretend I didn't know her as I approached the checkout. I let my eyes
pass over the colorful tabloids next to the counter as I neared, and a pang of
relief lanced through me when I realized that none of the pictures there were mine.
Thank
god.

Then something caught
my eye.

I frowned, puzzled,
and reached out, plucking an
Examiner
from its spot. The story on the front was
something about celebrity plastic surgery gone horribly wrong, but in the upper
left corner was a familiar face.

My mother.

I read the words next
to her and dropped my box of Midol from nerveless fingers.

"Oh my
god," I said. "Oh my god." I swayed on my feet and Sadie hurried
over.

"What's
wrong?" she said. "Did you get caught screwing your husband
again?"

Numb, I shook my head
and held the paper out to her. She took it from me. I saw the blood leave her
face when she recognized my mother there, and in a shaking voice she read the
headline aloud.

"SEX, DRUGS, AND
REHAB: THE BILLIONAIRE'S MOTHER-IN-LAW SOBERS UP."

We stared at one
another while the clerk behind the counter tried to act nonchalant. Then Sadie
leafed frantically through the tabloid, searching for the story. There, in the
middle of the Rite Aid, she read it out to me.

"Selene Dare, 56 and mother of the
recently exposed Felicia Waters, has been attending a court-ordered twelve-step
program for narcotics abuse, the Examiner has learned. While billionaire mogul
Anton Waters and his newly wedded wife, Felicia Waters, swan about town
shopping for their upcoming wedding celebration, Selene sneaks off to daily
meetings to maintain her sobriety. The wife of millionaire businessman Jonathan
Dare, Mrs. Dare lives in California, where she was recently arrested for
driving under the influence of illegally obtained Xanax."

My mouth was dry.
"Is that it?" I said.

Ashen-faced, Sadie
nodded.

"Nothing
about... about cancer treatment?"

She shook her head.
"It's just a little bit of gossip," she said. "You should ask
your mom."

But I didn't need to.
In my chest, my heart crumpled.

My father tricked me,
I thought. And, under it, a terrible
thought I could barely face.

Did Anton know?

*

I found my father in
the room he shared with my mother in my house, reading
The Wall Street Journal
. My whole body was numb. I shook with years of pent-up
rage.

"I want you out
of this house," I said. I didn't tell him why. He only had to look at my
face, and he knew that I knew.

Curiously, he seemed
almost relieved. The stress he had been living under hadn't been my mother's
fake illness, but his own terrible lie. He had coerced me and sold me, all to
save his shitty business from his own incompetence.

I hated him so much
in that moment, more than I had ever hated him in my entire life. If Anton had
kept a gun in the house, I don't know what I would have done.

But he didn't, and I
watched, trembling, as he packed up his things—not many—and prepared to leave.
It didn't take long. When he was done at last, he stood before me.

"Felicia..."
he said.

"Don't ever talk
to me again," I told him. "I never want to see your face ever again.
Get the fuck out of here."

He swallowed and
nodded. I stepped aside to let him pass by, the very thought of touching him
making my stomach churn. Nauseated, I followed him to the staircase.

His stooped back was
to me, his thinning hair sticking out at angles. He'd lost more weight.

It would be easy,
a little voice whispered in my head, and
for a hot, dizzy moment I contemplated reaching out and giving him a push.

Then he moved beyond
my reach, heading down the steps, and the moment passed, leaving me afraid of
my own anger.

I could have shoved him down the
stairs,
I thought. And I
wouldn't have felt sorry about it at all.

I followed him down
to the foyer. He didn't look at me as he left, and when the door closed behind
him, I locked it.

I didn't know what to
do. I floated from room to room, feeling useless. I had been such a sucker,
such an
idiot.
I should have talked to my mom. I should have done something—
anything—
other
than trust my father. But who would have thought he would lie about such a
thing? Who
does
that?

This place wasn't my
home. Every room was cold and devoid of my own touches. I sold myself for my
father, and this is what it had bought me.

I looked down at my clothes. I
wore a long heavy skirt and high-heeled boots. No underwear.
My ass was cold.

I went up to my room.
All my things were still there, neatly packed in boxes by hands that weren't
mine. I dug through them until I found an old hoodie and a pair of jeans. I put
them on, then hunted through my shoes until I found my working sneakers. The
chime of the downstairs door told me someone was home, and I went down to greet
whoever it was.

My mother stood in
the foyer, divesting herself of her coat.

"Felicia,"
she said, looking at me with surprise. "What's wrong?"

Wordlessly I picked
up the tabloid from the entryway table and handed it to her. She took one look
at it.

"Let me explain—"
she began, but I held up my hand. She didn't have anything to explain.

I told her
everything.

When I was done,
there was such disappointment on her face that I couldn't stand it.

"Felicia,"
she said, reaching out to me, and I let her enfold me in an embrace. She pulled
back after a moment. "Did Anton know that your father lied to you?"

I didn't want to
think about it. There was a good chance he hadn't. Except... except it was in
the contract that my mother's medical expenses be covered. I had spoken to him
about my mother's 'illness'. And he had encouraged me to talk to her.

Had
he known?

"I don't
know," I said. "I think you should go find a hotel."

For a long moment my
mother watched me, and I had to suppress the urge to hug her again, to start
crying into her cashmere sweater. I'd known for
years
that my father couldn't be
trusted. How had I let him trick me like that? How stupid
was
I?

Don't talk to your mother. She doesn't
want you to know.
Fucking
idiot.

My mother packed up
her things from her room, then kissed me and wished me luck before departing. I
knew she would go find my father and rip him to shreds, but no amount of
vengeance could mend this.

I went up stairs, lay
down on Anton's pristine white bed, and stared at the ceiling.

*

I was wide awake when
he came home later that night. When he entered the room, he paused in the
doorway, taking me in. I sat up and looked at him.

He watched me with
hooded eyes. His shoulders hunched in a wary posture.

My father had surely
told him what I had discovered. Now it was his turn to tell me what he'd known.

"Why did you
marry me?" I asked him. I'd asked him this question before. Now I wanted a
real answer.

But all he said was,
"I wanted a wife."

"Did my father
tell you he was lying to me to get me to marry you?" I asked. "Which
one of you decided I should be the sacrifice? Was it him or you?"