The Last Mrs. Parrish(102)

He had no idea what private detective she had used or how many fail-safes she had set up. The detective had all the information, for one, and if anything were to happen to Daphne, he’d go to the police. She’d also told her mother everything and given her copies of Amber’s file.

“Do you have the papers with you?”

She opened her purse and took out the envelope. “Have your attorney review them. There’s a place for his signature. They need to be notarized. There’s also a statement from you that you made up all the charges against me with the Department of Children and Families.”

“Why would I sign that?”

“Because if you don’t, I’ll call the police. I’m not letting you have any more leverage over my life. Sign it, and no one will ever see it unless you try and come after the kids.”

He sighed. “Fine. You can have your life back, Daphne. I was tired of you anyway. You’re old and used up.” His eyes traveled up and down her body. “At least I got your youth.”

She shook her head, unaffected by his words. “I almost feel sorry for you. I don’t know if you were born this way or if your parents screwed you up, but you’re a miserable son of a bitch. You’re never going to be happy. But the truth is, I can’t even regret being with you. Because if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have the two most amazing gifts in my life. So I’ll trade those horrible years with you for my children. And I have plenty of love and life left in me.”

He yawned. “Are you finished?”

“I was finished years ago.” She stood. “And by the way, you’re a terrible lover.”

He exploded with fury and flew from his chair toward her.

She opened the door and retreated.

“I’ll expect those papers tomorrow,” she said as she left.





Seventy-One




Amber’s happiness was short-lived. After the baby was born, Amber and Jackson had gone on a belated honeymoon to Bora Bora. He’d been everything she could have hoped for in a husband. All she had to do was ask for whatever she wanted, and it was hers. Round-the-clock nurse care for their son, unlimited shopping allowance, and all the pampering she desired. She loved the way everyone in the stores and the spas kowtowed to her, and she enjoyed being able to be as rude as she wanted with no repercussions. No one would dare insult Mrs. Jackson Parrish, especially with the kind of money she threw around.

Amber didn’t have to worry about having those little monsters around since Daphne had moved with them to California. Jackson told her he would visit them there.

So when she woke that morning to Jackson standing over the bed, staring at her, she had no idea what was to come. She rubbed her eyes and sat up.

“What are you doing?”

He was scowling. “Wondering if you’re ever going to get your lazy ass out of bed.”

She thought at first he was joking.

Laughing, she answered. “You love this ass.”

“It’s getting a little fat for my taste. When’s the last time you went to the gym?”

She was pissed now. Throwing off the covers, she jumped up. “You may have been able to talk to Daphne that way. But not me.”

He pushed her, and she fell back on the bed.

“What the hell—”

“Shut up. I know all about your past.”

Her eyes widened. “What are you talking about?”

He threw a file folder on the bed. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

The first thing she saw was a copy of a newspaper article with an old picture of her. She picked it up and quickly scanned it. “Where did you get this?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Jackson, I can explain. Please, you don’t understand.”

“Save it. No one makes a fool of me. I should turn you in, let you go to jail.”

“I’m the mother of your child. And I love you.”

“Do you, now? Like you loved him?”

“I . . . it wasn’t like that . . .”

“Don’t worry. I’m not going to tell anyone. It wouldn’t be good for my son to have a mother in jail.” He leaned closer to her, his face inches away. “But I own you now. So I will talk to you however I want. And you’ll take it, do you understand?”

She’d nodded, frantically calculating her next move. She thought he was just angry—that once she could come up with a believable story, he’d calm down and things would go back to the way they were.

But instead, things began to escalate. He put her on a strict allowance, making her account for every dime she spent. She was still trying to figure out how to fix that. Then he wanted to choose her clothes, her books, and her leisure activities. She had to go to the gym every day. He expected her to volunteer for that stuck-up garden club Daphne had been so involved in. She could tell that the women didn’t want her there, and she couldn’t give a crap about it. Why did she need to learn about gardening? Isn’t that what gardeners were for? And the journal—the damn food journal that he insisted she keep, along with her daily weight. It was humiliating. That was what put her over the edge and made her call his bluff. It was just last week.

“Are you crazy? I’m not reporting to you on what I eat every day. You can take that journal and stick it up your ass.” She’d thrown it on the floor.