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JOLENE
Dominic didn’t come to bed last night. I waited until well after midnight for him before shutting off the nightstand lamp and forcing myself to sleep. I hoped he would come. Knowing someone was trying to break into the house was terrifying, however the police were around, and we made sure to lock up tight. With that in mind, I eventually dozed off.
When I wake up and prepare myself for the day, I venture down the hallway to take a peek inside the guestroom Dominic sleeps in when we’re at odds. He’s there, sprawled out on the bed, one leg hanging off as if he’d thrown himself down after more late-night shenanigans.
I don’t know what he did last night after the attempted burglary. He said he had to make a call after speaking to Frank, but to who? And why so late? He has so many secrets and it’s boggling my mind. It’s like I don’t know my husband at all. Perhaps I never have.
I leave him be and go to the kitchen to start breakfast: whole grain toast, a freshly juiced fruit, and possibly a scrambled egg or two. I start with getting the fruit ready, slicing into oranges and lemons, and taking turmeric capsules to reduce some of my inflammation. I felt the effects of the croissant all night. I bloated like a whale and tried covering up with baggy silk pajamas. Fortunately, today is a new day and I can cleanse it away.
It’s as I’m cracking eggs when Dominic enters the kitchen. I toss the eggshells in the trash bin as he approaches the island counter.
“Wow. You look awful,” I say, picking up the whisk.
“Yeah, thanks,” he grumbles. “I feel it too.”
I look him over in his button-down shirt and creaseless black pants. “Why don’t you sleep in?”
His head shakes before I even complete my sentence. “Can’t. Lots of work to do at the mansion.”
Oh, right. Executive Mansion. He goes there at least three times a week, signing executive orders, for meetings, or to deal with people face-to-face. We were asked if we wanted to reside in Executive Mansion and that was a big hell-to-the-no. I refused to live in a place that reminded me of The Shining. Not to mention the mansion was so public. Besides there being days scheduled for tours, anyone could stand on the streets beyond the wrought iron gates watching us work out, eat, sleep—hell, even have sex.
Staying there would’ve made me feel like a zoo animal, and it was enough being the wife of a governor and literally no one taking me seriously, despite how hard I work for everything I have. A lot of people like to think that because my dad was rich, I didn’t work for a single penny I have when the truth is my father didn’t give me access to a trust fund he’d created for me until I was twenty-six. And prior to that, while in college, I worked a part-time job at a donut shop while studying because he wanted me to have a grasp on the “real world”. He didn’t want everything handed to me, and that was fine. I wanted it that way too. I didn’t want to be like my mother, who sat around with her hand out and her bottom lip in a pout if she had to lift a pinky.
When my dad died, he left my mom five and half million dollars plus the house, all their cars, and a few hundred shares from True Oil Co. As for me, he left ten million dollars, on top of my two-million-dollar trust fund and double her shares of the company. I was also left with a major stake in the company, in case all else fails.
Dad died a year after I’d received the trust, and only four months prior to my wedding day. My mom has been pretty pissed ever since and she has not let me live it down. It wasn’t my fault daddy had little respect for her. She’d made it that way by being so materialistic and sleeping with every man she could whenever he was away. To this day, I don’t understand why my dad left her anything in his will. All she did was use him, lie to him. But I suppose she produced me, and I was his most prized creation, so he felt he owed her something.
I’d worked hard, unlike my mom. I didn’t sit around judging people or calling them names. I worked. I was now owner of a beautiful tea boutique called Regal Tea Boutique. It’s a high-end tea shop dedicated to the English tea traditions. We offer afternoon tea sessions every day, and we have a serving counter open just in case someone decides to pop in for a tea to-go. So many people think it’s not a real gig, but my business generates hundreds of thousands of dollars. The storefront itself isn’t the cash cow, though. We also have a subscription box featuring monthly tea selections with a combination of chocolate, desserts, and recipes.
And when I’m not working at Regal Tea Boutique, I’m attending business seminars and meetings at True Oil Co., my father’s company. It was part of the requirements in his will, in order for me to inherit the money. Despite me not having interest in the company, he still wanted me to have a hand in it, make sure things ran smoothly. I visit True Oil in Texas once a month and give them three days of my time. I have an accountant I share with Dominic, who keeps all of our books clean.
“What’s wrong with you?” Dominic’s voice catches me off guard, and I realize I’m whisking the eggs a little too hard.
I swing my gaze up and he’s frowning, switching glances from my face to the hard scrambled bowl of eggs. “Nothing. Sorry.” I clear my throat, turning for the stove to heat the frying pan. I need to stop thinking about my mom, the inheritance, all of it.
Dominic sits at the table, scrolling through his phone. I make the eggs, pop some bread into the toaster, and when breakfast is ready, I prepare a plate for both of us and place his in front of him. When I pour juice into his glass, he frowns.
“What?” I ask.
“A little tired of juice. Do we have any coffee?”
“You told me not to get any for a while. You said it’s making you crash too hard.”
He continues a frown. “Tea, then?”
I nod, getting up to start the kettle. I check the tea cabinet and pull down the tea from the woman at the rally. He seemed to really like it last night.
I pluck out a bag and drop it into a mug. Dominic eats quietly, staring out of the window as I wait for the water to boil. There are bags beneath his eyes. He looks completely wiped out.
“I was thinking about stopping by the mansion today and changing the flowers,” I say, and his head whips up.
“You don’t have to do that,” he tells me without so much as a generous smile. “We have volunteers who come in to decorate each season.”
“Yeah, I know but I kind of want to. I saw this beautiful fall bouquet at one of the shops I passed. I can grab some there. You know this Tuesday the mansion is open to the public. The flowers would add a nice touch.”
He contemplates that, chewing quickly. “Okay, sure. Swing by on Monday then.”
“I have to work Monday,” I inform him. And he’d know that if he actually cared about my business.
