The Wife Upstairs(70)

32





I really should’ve fucking known it.

My head ached, and as I opened my eyes, it seemed like they might explode out of my skull. There was a thick, heavy feeling in my stomach, and I turned my head to the side, suddenly afraid I was going to puke, but nothing happened. I just coughed and retched and wondered how the hell I didn’t see this coming.

Bea was always too smart for this to be a permanent solution. Hell, I was too smart for this to be a permanent solution. But that first night, I’d been freaking out and panicking, and this had seemed … okay, it had seemed insane even then, but I was improvising. It’s what I’d always done, made things up on the spot, adapted to my circumstances.

Usually it worked.

But this was Bea. This was my wife.

Of course it ended up like this, me on the floor, bleeding, missing several teeth—and Bea out there, somewhere, with Jane.

The thought caused a quick surge of panic, and I tried to sit up, but that wasn’t happening. I collapsed to the floor in the fetal position, staring blurrily at my own blood as somewhere downstairs, my wife and my fiancée … what, called the cops? Shared a glass of celebratory champagne?

Christ, I hoped it was one of those options, because anything else scared the fuck out of me.



* * *



It’s not like I went to Hawaii with the express purpose of seducing and marrying Bea Mason. I hadn’t known she’d be there—I’m not a stalker, for fuck’s sake. But I’d gotten good at spotting opportunities over the years, and that’s what seeing Bea Mason on that beach was.

Not just an opportunity.

The opportunity.

I hadn’t known who she was, initially. I didn’t exactly keep up with the home décor industry, but the girl I was traveling with, Charlie, did.

“Holy shit,” she’d said as we’d been sitting by the pool.

I’d looked up from my phone to see a woman walking by in a deep purple one-piece, a flowered sarong around her waist. She was pretty and petite, and even from a distance, I caught the sparkle of diamonds in her ears, but I didn’t think anything about her really warranted a “Holy shit.”

“What?” I’d asked, and Charlie had thumped me with a rolled-up magazine.

“That’s Bea Mason,” she’d said, and when I’d just stared at her, she’d rolled her eyes and said, “She owns Southern Manors? It’s, like, huge? I got that gingham skirt you like so much from there.”

I had no idea what skirt she was talking about, but I smiled and nodded. “Oh, right. So, she’s a big deal?”

“To women, yeah,” Charlie said, then wrinkled her nose. “But I wonder why she’s staying here? This isn’t even the nicest resort on the island. If I had her money, I’d be at the Lanai.”

And that’s when Bea Mason suddenly got a lot more interesting to me.

Charlie had money. Lots of it. None of it was really hers, I guess, more her family’s, but she was still comfortably loaded. Which meant that Bea Mason must have even more.

“It’s her company?” I asked, looking back at my phone, keeping my tone casual.

“Oh yeah,” Charlie said as she reached to pick her daiquiri up off the nearby table. I could smell the sugary strawberry scent of it from my chair. “She’s super inspiring. Built it up from this little internet business to a massive thing in like five years. Self-made multimillionaire. There was an interview with her in Fortune that my dad sent to me, and I was like, ‘Goals.’”

I’d looked up from my phone then, and caught a glimpse of Bea walking away.

It wasn’t just the money. The money was a big part of it, sure, but I liked that idea—that she’d made something out of nothing. And while Charlie ordered another drink and went back to her magazine, I’d done some googling.

The Southern Manors website had been charming, if a little cloying, and the pictures of Bea had proven that she was as attractive as I’d guessed. Not in the same showy way Charlie was, forever Instagram ready, but in a subtler, classier way.

Learning her net worth added a certain sheen to things, too, of course.

Two hundred million dollars. That’s what Google said, although I knew those things weren’t always accurate. Charlie’s dad was supposed to be worth fifty million, but most of that was tied up in real estate and trusts. Charlie was even on an allowance. A generous one, definitely, but it wasn’t exactly carte blanche.

“I’m gonna go up to the room for a bit,” I’d told her, standing up from my chair and stretching, letting her gaze slide over my bare chest, my abs. I’d been up early to hit the gym, a chore, but a necessary one.

“Want company?” she’d purred, and I’d been sure to grin at her, chucking her underneath her chin.

“No, because I’m gonna nap, and I won’t sleep if you’re around.”

She’d liked that, and caught my hand, pressing a kiss to the tips of my fingers before shooing me off. “I’ll be up in a bit, then. Rest up.”

I’d gone back to the room, but I hadn’t napped. Instead, I’d thrown most of my things back in my bag.

I was good with people, figuring them out, predicting what they’d do, and I had a hunch Charlie was on to something with the Lanai. Bea Mason hadn’t stopped to sit at our pool, after all, just walked through.