The Last Mrs. Parrish(81)

The absurdity of my life struck me, and I began to giggle uncontrollably. He was looking at me with increasing animosity, and all I could do was laugh. I tried to stop, felt the terror rise from my stomach. Stop laughing! I didn’t know what was wrong with me, even when I saw his eyes get dark with anger, I couldn’t stop—in fact, it made me laugh even harder. I was becoming hysterical.

He grabbed the bottle, twisted the top off, and poured it on my head.

“What are you doing?” I jumped back.

“Still think it’s funny? You stupid cow!” In a rage, he started pulling everything out and throwing things to the floor. I stood, transfixed, as I watched. When he got to the eggs, he began throwing them at me. I tried to shield my face but felt the sting on my cheeks as he whipped them at me as hard as he could. Within minutes, I was covered in fluids and food. He shut the refrigerator door and stared at me for a long moment.

“Why aren’t you laughing now, slob?”

I stood rooted to the spot, too afraid to speak. My lip trembled as I muttered an apology.

He nodded. “You should be sorry. Clean this shit up, and don’t even think of asking any of the staff for help. It’s your mess.” He walked over to the plate of cupcakes I’d been frosting and threw it on the floor. He unzipped his pants and urinated all over them. I started to cry out, but caught myself in time.

“You’ll have to tell Bella you were too lazy to make her cupcakes.” He wagged his finger at me. “Bad Mommy.”

Then he turned around and opened the drawer where I kept my keys and jangled them in his hands before throwing them at me. “And your keys were here the whole time, dummy. Next time, look harder. I’m so tired of having such a lazy, stupid wife.” He stormed from the kitchen and left me there, huddled in the corner, shaking.

It took me over an hour to clean everything up. In a numb haze, I threw away all the ruined food, mopped, wiped, and cleaned until all the surfaces shone again. I couldn’t let the staff see a mess when they arrived early tomorrow morning. I would have to stop at the bakery tomorrow and pick up cupcakes to replace the ones he’d ruined. I dreaded going upstairs, hoping he’d be asleep by the time I showered and got in bed—but I knew that it excited him to humiliate me. The lights were out when I finished drying my hair and walked over to my side of the bed. His breathing was even, and I heaved a sigh of relief that he was asleep. I pulled the covers up to my chin and was just about to drift off when I felt his hand on my thigh. I froze. Not tonight.

“Say it,” he commanded.

“Jackson—”

He squeezed harder. “Say it.”

I closed my eyes and forced the words out. “I want you. Make love to me.”

“Beg me.”

“I want you now. Please.” I knew he wanted me to say more, but that was all I could force out.

“You don’t sound very convincing. Show me.”

I pushed the covers back and lifted my nightgown off. Straddling him the way he liked, I positioned myself so that my breasts were in his face.

“You’re such a whore.” He thrust into me with no regard to my readiness. I gripped the sheets and made my mind blank until he finished.





Fifty-Three




The next day, as usual, there was a gift. This time it was a watch—a Vacheron Constantin worth upward of fifty grand. I didn’t need it, but of course I’d wear it, especially around his business associates and at the club, so everyone could see how generous my husband was. I knew how it would go. He would be charming for the next few weeks: compliment me, take me out to dinner, act solicitous. In truth, it was almost worse than his derision. At least when he was debasing me, I could feel justified in my hatred. But when he went for days on end masquerading as the compassionate man I fell in love with, it was confusing, even when I knew it was all an act.

He checked in with me every morning to go over what I had planned for the day. That morning I had decided to skip my Pilates class and get a massage and facial instead. He called me at ten, like he did every day.

“Good morning, Daphne. I’ve e-mailed you an article on the new exhibit at the Guggenheim. Make sure you take a look. I’d like to discuss it tonight.”

“Okay.”

“On your way to the gym?”

“Yes, see you later,” I lied. I wasn’t in a mood for a lecture on the importance of exercise.

Later that night, I was having a glass of wine in the sunroom and reading the damn Guggenheim article while the girls were being bathed. As soon as I saw his face, I knew something was wrong.

“Hello.” I made my voice bright.

He was holding a drink. “What are you doing?”

I lifted my iPad. “Reading the article you sent.”

“How was Pilates?”

“Fine. How was your day?”

He sat down across from me on the sofa and shook his head. “Not great. One of my managers lied to me.”

I looked up from the screen. “Oh?”

“Yeah. And about something really stupid. I asked him if he’d made a phone call, and he said yes.” He took a long swallow from his glass of bourbon. “Thing is, he hadn’t. All he had to do was tell me, say he’d planned to later.” He shrugged. “It would have been no big deal. But he lied.”