My husband’s rules for me are ridiculous. Don’t get me wrong, I’m more comfortable than I have ever been in my life. I have all my material needs met and more. I have a staff of people who meet all my ridiculous demands. From the outside, everything in my life married to a billionaire is… perfect. Inside, it’s cold.
I must have been delusional or traumatized the night we first went to bed together, because I seriously thought it would be different between me and Padraic after that. Then he was cold. He dropped his list of rules off the next morning and I didn’t see him for three full days after that until he needed me for a public appearance.
Otherwise, I have a separate room from his and a separate life. My daily meetings revolve around what he thinks is important for me – with some time for myself, I’ll admit. I’m just not used to having to get up for tennis lessons, a workout that involves going upstairs, giving countless opinions on fashion, and for some reason, lessons in French and Gaelic.
I use my free time to work on oil painting. I’m working on a giant piece calledBlack Woman’s Freedom,which is sort of an abstract self-portrait based on some of the books I read incollege. Like I said, it’s not all bad. The staff has to meet all of my ridiculous demands, so I have all the most expensive art supplies that nobody in debt could even dream about, and I have ample space in my giant bedroom for painting.
It’s just lonely.
The staff don’t really talk to me and I think they report everything I say to Padraic, so I’m not interested in cutting up with them either. I wish the loneliness didn’t get to me. This is a pretty sweet gig all things considered.
After that first night, Padraic hasn’t touched me at all. I don’t think he wanted to hurt me, and maybe he wouldn’t have made love to me if it weren’t in the contract. Except… he didn’t have to do it without protection. He didn’t have to make it feel strangely emotional. He didn’t have to make me feel like he was doing this with the distinct purpose of…breeding me.
But he hasn’t touched me since, so maybe I’m imagining everything about our dynamic. Like I said, I’m lonely. Starved for affection. Is that howhefeels here? Is this the type of madness that led him to take on my student loan debt? I wonder…
Considering Padraic ignores me completely, I doubt there are any answers around the corner.
My boredom reaches its peak after a week. I work up the courage to march to Padraic’s office – which is on the other side of his excessive 30,000 square foot home, perched on the edge of his small town like Mr. Burns from The Simpsons brought to life. By the time I get over there, which is a haul, mind you, his assistant informs me that Padraic left on the jet this morning.
He doesn’t know when he’ll be back. Which is total bullshit since all his assistants know everything. It’s Friday night. He left on a jet. He’s probably on a date. Or seeing an escort. Or anything except spending time with me. I feel embarrassed for even wanting to confront him over it too.
I’m nothing more than another version of a whore to him. Why should it surprise me that he’s leaving me to go see one?
My chest feels tight. I don’t make a big deal out of it, but I hurry back to my bedroom and change into sweatpants, a gigantic hoodie, and an oversized black puffer jacket. It’s Canada Goose. I can’t even enjoy slipping on the $1,600 jacket I would never be able to afford in a million years because I feel so numb from loneliness that I’m about to disappear.
Why didn’t I expect that to be the hardest part of being here?
Padraic owns several acres of land on the edge of this small New Hampshire town called Keene. He’s a “self-made” billionaire, but before that, his family owned several factories on the East Coast that helped give Padraic his start. They were amongst the most successful Irish immigrants to America before he struck gold himself and turned a modest $2 million dollar portfolio into billions.
I could wander for hours without hitting the edge of Padraic’s private property and since I have nowhere else to go, I tell myself that I’ll just wander over to the orchard and sit there for a while until I feel less stupid and embarrassed about the fact that I was about to march over and beg my billionaire husband – who bought me – to spend time with me.
He can barely stomach the sight of me outside of that first night of contractually obligated sex.
My thoughts must be whirring. Before I know it, I’m surrounded by thick trees and the path I’m walking forks in one direction. Then another. And I swear that I know where I’m going except… I don’t. I walk for a while, convinced I’m heading back towards the house, but I think I’m getting deeper into the pine trees.
And further away from the house. Or any sound at all. I keep walking, retracing my steps to go back the way I came because I really don’t think I’m lost. I got just a little side-tracked by my thoughts, that’s all, and I’ll find the path soon enough.
The sun turns the sky orange with streaks of pink and purple. I think I’m either deeper in the woods, or I’ve gone in circles. I tap my pocket for my phone and… This has to be a joke. I have to be the first person in years to leave the house without their phone. Except, I haven’t really left the house in a while, so I’m not in the habit of using it anymore and that wouldn’t be a problem except that I really might be lost.
I don’t know if it’s better to stop walking or keep going. It’s New Hampshire in the late summer, so it gets pretty cold at night, but I’ll survive. There might be bears out here. Or wolves. I hear a loud howling sound that’s way too close. I shriek and run for a while, as if that’ll help me get away from the sound.It’s a coyote,I tell myself.Just a coyote.
I stop panicking enough to slow down and try looking foranyclues about how to get back to Padraic’s small town manor. Running into the actual downtown area or even the highway might be nice. But I think I’m out here alone. Lost. About to die in the woods, nothing more than a billionaire’s debt-ridden bride.
Chapter Nine
Padraic
Iexpect to find Cullen upstairs reading or painting when I get home. Instead, the house is empty except for Zack, who couldn’t have arrived much earlier than I did.
“Where’s Cullen?” Zack has to pop out his AirPods and make me repeat the question before he gives me some dumb ass non-answer.
“Good question,” he asks. “I assumed she was upstairs.”
“You haven’t checked on her?” I don’t know why I get so instantly defensive. I’ve barely seen Cullen… It’s starting to get painful to be away from her for this long. A feeling that I didn’t expect, along with this bristle of irritation.
“Why would I check on her?” Zack asks. “She’s your wife. I’m here to work.”
He infuriates me. I hired him to handle things tonight so that I could spend time with Cullen. Of course her whereabouts are my greatest concern.