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Anger took hold of me with a vice grip. It was hot and throbbing and uncontrollable. I could’ve cried, could’ve wept, could’ve begged him not to make me sign those stupid papers just to get my purse back, but I was livid. And I couldn’t just walk out of there without my purse. Say I did go to the cops and tell them everything, he could hide it, lie about it. My purse had my phone inside it, my wallet, my ID, my credit and debit cards—hell, even my car and apartment keys. And he was keeping my belongings hostage, just so he wouldn’t get in trouble for being an accessory to rape.
Why couldn’t he just let me leave? Why didn’t he have sympathy for me? Why did he drug me before I even had the chance to refuse? How many women had he done this to, just so he could walk away squeaky clean and like a saint?
My rage was hot and unfiltered, and it was with my rage that I rushed toward him to fight for my purse.
“What the hell are you doing?” he snapped, trying to push me off as I struggled for the bag. I slapped him with one hand, and it stung my palm, but I was glad because if it hurt me, it definitely hurt him.
That seemed to piss him off. His eyes locked on mine and were on fire. His lips were tight as he fumed. How dare I slap his delicate, handsome face? The asshole.
I gripped the strap of my bag, but he held on tighter. He managed to stand up, tower over me, but I kept fighting, kept hitting. I even landed a punch to his chest.
“Stop fucking hitting me, Brynn!”
“Fuck you!” I screamed, and he snatched me up, cupping a hand around my mouth.
“Just sign the fucking papers!” he growled, but I kept kicking and trying to scream because making a scene and getting the police here somehow was better than signing those damn papers. Perhaps someone would be walking by and could hear me? Sure the neighborhood was big, but it was also quiet. All I knew was signing that nondisclosure would’ve been like giving my soul to the devil, and I refused. This man, once a childhood love, had drugged me, let a man rape me, manipulated me, and I was not about to go down without a fight. I didn’t have much to live for, but I damn sure wasn’t letting him steal my dignity.
I bit the hand he had cupped around my mouth, and he hissed and cursed beneath his breath. “You stupid bitch!” he hollered, and he shoved me away with so much force, my forehead slammed into something sharp and hard.
I wish I could say I got back up and fought harder, but instead, everything went black again.
TWENTY-SEVEN
JOLENE
I jump in my seat when a door slams.
I’m sitting in the living room with a glass of wine in hand. Papers are on the table with all my proof to blast Dominic for what he’s done. I want to be calm, collected, but of course the slam of the door catches me by surprise, and I spring out of my seat.
I peer around the corner and spot Dominic in the foyer, furiously flipping through the mail. He tosses the envelopes on the table and shrugs out of his blazer. I stand and wait for him to notice me, and when he does, he frowns, then shakes his head and ventures to the kitchen.
Fine. We’ll have this discussion in the kitchen.
I collect the papers from the coffee table and walk down the hallway in my bedroom shoes. Dominic’s head is buried in the fridge as he asks, “Why didn’t you cook?”
“Because I didn’t know what time you’d be home. You never got back to my text from earlier.”
He retrieves a sparkling water and shuts the fridge. “Busy day.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
He cracks the drink open, eyes slightly narrowed at me. I place the papers on the table as he gulps down some of the bubbly water. “We need to talk, Dominic.”
His eyes shift to the papers briefly before sliding up to me again. Then he turns for the fridge once more, opens it, and takes out leftover chicken and green beans. He opens the microwave and it’s now that I’ve realized my error.
He pauses, staring at the box in the microwave—donuts from Sal’s Donuts. Wendy, the florist at BeeKeep Flowers, gave the donuts to me. She wanted to thank me for choosing her shop to select flowers for the mansion and I took the box out of kindness. I didn’t eat a single one . . . not that I didn’t want to. And I suppose that’s why I’d left them in the microwave—because maybe I would indulge in one just for the hell of it. The donuts were the least of my concerns when I got home though. I literally threw them into the microwave so I could run to my office and print off the information about the accounts Anita sent me.
My heart beats faster as Dominic takes out the box and turns with it in his hand. “What is this?”
I wet my lips with my tongue, searching for words, but they all fail me.
He steps around the island counter, and I know when his switch goes off. It wasn’t this way when we first met. I didn’t see this switch go off until after we were married, when we lived in a condo in downtown Raleigh together.
The signs are all here right now.
His eyes darken.
His nostrils flare at the edges.
