“That’s what I pay a staff for.” Gentry rips off one of the tops of my dad’s muffins. From the container on the kitchen island, he pops it in his foul mouth, crumbs falling on the floor for me to sweep up later. “I pay them six hundred dollars a day to make sure that man eats, sleeps, and doesn’t shit himself or wander outside.” Tossing his bottle in the trash, he shows our recycling bin more respect than me. He doesn’t use it. “And that’s why I married his daughter, Miss South Carolina. Because my esteemed colleague, Senator Shane Turner, is a dumbass with his green initiatives, but he sure is a sucker for staring at your tits.”
Gentry laughs in my face. “Hell, I think that man would burn the Amazon Forest down just to fuck them.”
No, that’s my husband’s fetish, and he thinks every man shares it.
Maybe they do. I don’t care. I’m so angry and lonely and trapped in this hell; I’d let Senator Shane Turner fuck me and my tits if it would just get me out of this marriage.
“Then, on our way back from breakfast,” I reason, “before you drop me off here and go to the club, we can swing by and visit Dad real quick. It won’t take but half an hour.”
“You think I’m leaving three workers alone in my house?”
It is his house. They’re his cars, phones, bank accounts, and money—it’s all HIS property.
Including me.
He made sure of it.
My tone stays sweet. “This painting company comes highly recommended. Everyone at the club uses them. We can trust them to start on a few walls while we check on my dad real quick.”
“They’re doing beige again.” He ignores my logic. “That white you want is too modern. This is my home, not a goddamn museum.”
“The designer recommended white. She said it helps with resale value.”
“I don’t pay women to tell me what to do.” He slides his wallet into his back pocket. That’s where he keeps the only credit and debit cards he monitors and all the cash except for the one hundred dollars a week I get; he keeps it all on ice, freezing against his pancake ass. “I pay them to do what I say. Hell, the bitch is lucky I paid her. I’m not listening to some New York City dyke tell me how to decorate my Hilton Head home. It's an insult that you even invited her here.”
We stand at the same height, feet from each other, our hearts worlds apart.
I don’t know who is smaller; me, and how he can control me now; or him, for being the kind of man who gets off on it.
“The Turners used her,” I reply. “Their house is gorgeous, so I suggested her.”
“Exactly,” he scoffs. “The Turners. All their taste is in their liberal mouths. You’re not having lunch with Liz Turner anymore.”
“But she’s nice. She’s one of the few women at the club who doesn’t put a knife in my back.”
He grins, evil dripping from his narrow, chapped lips. Sin hardening the gel in the part of his thin, brown hair as vile thoughts coil in his beady blue eyes.
“That’s where knives belong,” he sneers.
And that’s his warning.
The man has never laid a violent hand on me... yet.
He doesn’t need to. He controls me, and I waltzed right into his prison wearing a Vera Wang wedding dress, carrying a bouquet of magnolia flowers, and smiling with naïve trust in my eyes. The picture of the day I was sentenced hangs in a portrait in our grand foyer.
Let me be your warning; some fairytale weddings become nightmare marriages.
I’m Gentry’s greatest prize. His proudest possession and most devious crime, and he didn’t even break the law to do it.
Prenuptial agreements are perfectly legal. Even the ones that leave you with nothing. After our first year of marriage, I had no money left in my name to take care of my dad. Gentry has all the money, all the control now.
“At the club,”—his chin jabs my way—“you sit with the wives of the men I play with, not the men I’m gonna fuck over.”
“Those women are not my friends. They hate me.” I know how people see me. Who knew when I won Miss South Carolina that I’d get the college scholarship I needed, a fake crown, and a legacy of women hating me for just breathing? “And TJ and Derek aren’t married. Who am I supposed to sit with when you play with them?”
I don’t know who’s more revolting. The greedy politicians and powerbrokers my husband sports with; it’s his official job. Or his twisted childhood best friend, TJ, and Gentry’s cousin, Derek. Those men are disgusting. They just fuck around, and I know it.
I’m not even mad about it.
Anything that keeps Gentry’s clammy, little hands off of me, have at it.
“You’re such a dumb bitch,” he sneers, stepping my way. The fog of his Abercrombie & Fitch Fierce cologne engulfs me, taking me back to nineteen when I thought he smelled sexy, choking me now on his repulsive stench. “Do I need to assign you a seat? Every tee time, do I have to tell you to ‘sit’ and ‘stay’ and ‘be quiet?’ That fucking blonde hair has gone to your brain because you know who to talk to, what to say, and that you are never to say those two names. TJ’s missing, and he and Derek are my family. Not you. Just look like a pretty piece of ass that’s been properly trained, and do your fucking job.”
Spittle gathers at the corner of his wicked mouth.
Most days, I can protect my heart from his cruelty, but it’s seeping in, eroding my confidence. It’s how abusers do it; drips of acid from an evil person’s mouth will slowly corrode anyone’s pride.
“Don’t say a word,” he keeps going. “Don’t get smart. Don’t get fat. Don’t get old. Don’t get ugly, and don’t embarrass me.” My fists clench. “It’s simple... like you. You do as I say, look how I like, fuck how I want, and you keep your fucking mouth shut.”
I hate him.
“Do you need a reminder?” The taunt thrills him. Jabbing his moist little finger into the cleavage of my Lululemon sports bra, his touch creeps over my skin. “Do you need me to relocate your dad to another facility where I’ll let him rot?”
“No,” I tremble, hating the fear quaking through my body at his threat.
He licks his lips. “You sure?” The small tent of his pathetic dick in khakis is getting a rise from my humiliation.
“Yes.”
The word tastes like vomit in my mouth. The burn of tears behind my eyes threatens as I push back the image of my dad, of how Gentry uses the care he requires like a sick pawn in the game he’ll always win.
I can’t bear the idea of my dad suffering. Who could?
All my dad ever did for me was make me the center of our humble world until he started to forget me. Until his mind got lost in our idyllic past, and the present became a hell only I live in.
“I think you need a reminder.” Gentry jerks down my bra strap as jagged rocks choke my throat. “You need to kneel and serve your husband this morning.” Coffee churns sour in my stomach. “And tonight.” His crooked bottom teeth bite his flaky lip. “My stupid whore of a wife is gonna do her job too.”
It makes me sick—what he likes me to do to him with the grip end of his golf clubs. If only his powerful friends knew. It’s gross and weird. I’d take a hidden video of it. I’ve been tempted before to do it, but where would I get the eight thousand dollars a month required to keep my dad safe and alive?