Part 3He Starved Us Until I Owned Him
About 5,858 characters · Part 3 is the last of the three Parts printed here; Part 4 continues in the official app.
I moved every remaining trace of Toby into the guest bedroom at the end of the hall and turned the heavy deadbolt.
Sitting on the hardwood floor with my back against the locked door, I pulled my phone from my coat and dialed an eleven-digit number I hadn't used in five years.
It rang three times before an older, gravelly voice answered.
"Corinne?"
Arthur Fulton sounded stunned, then cautious. He was the founder and Chairman of Fulton Global, the most formidable private equity firm in the Midwest, and the man who had mentored me from an associate to his fiercest executive.
When I resigned to marry Trevor, Arthur had nearly thrown his crystal scotch decanter through his corner office window, swearing he was done wasting his time on proteges who threw their brilliance into the domestic meat grinder.
"Arthur," I said. My throat was so dry the name barely emerged.
The line went quiet for several long seconds. Then, a heavy, sorrowful sigh.
"Did that Mercer kid break you?"
"Toby is dead."
I thought I could deliver the news like a quarterly report. But the syllables splintered in my mouth, and the first tear since the hospital dropped onto the back of my hand.
On the other end of the line, the sharp sound of porcelain shattering against a desk rang out.
Arthur’s voice lowered, turning into a low, predatory growl. "When? Where was Mercer?"
"Two nights ago. He was celebrating at an upscale lounge with his assistant. He shut off my access to our accounts." I took a deep, jagged breath, forcing the venom into my spine. "Arthur... I want to come back. Does the offer you made me five years ago still stand?"
"Goddamned right it stands!" Arthur roared, slamming his fist down. "The North American Managing Director chair has had your name on it since the day you walked out. Come home, Corinne. Come back and show those blind, arrogant bastards what happens when they cross the best strategist this city ever produced."
I ended the call.
Outside the window, charcoal storm clouds rolled across the sky.
The woman who traded her ambition to play the quiet suburban wife had died in an emergency room waiting area. What walked out of that room was something built purely for demolition.
I opened the closet, took every soft pastel cashmere sweater, every modest A-line skirt Trevor had picked out for me, and threw them into the trash bin.
From the bottom of the cedar trunk, I pulled out a garment bag containing a bespoke charcoal-black wool suit from Savile Row.
It was the armor I had worn five years ago when I structured the forty-billion-dollar energy merger that made Fulton Global legendary.
I had just fastened the cuffs when heavy, impatient fists began pounding against the guest room door.
"Corinne! Open this damn door! Stop hiding like a coward!"
I turned the lock and swung the door open.
Trevor stood on the threshold, raising his hand to knock again. When his eyes swept over my tailored suit, he froze for a beat, his expression twisting into mockery.
"What is this? Dress-up? Going out to flirt with old contacts to borrow rent money?" He pushed past me into the room, tossing a fresh manila folder onto the vanity. "Let me remind you, you’re Mrs. Trevor Mercer. Don't go out in public embarrassing my brand."
He tapped the document.
"Your behavior this morning was unacceptable. Lindsay had an anxiety attack and couldn't even finish her matcha latte. Here are the updated terms. Sign them."
I looked down at the header: Domestic Behavioral Agreement & Remedial Protocol: Revised Edition.
The terms were psychotic:
Clause 1: The spouse shall prepare three balanced meals daily for Lindsay Ward to optimize her professional output.
Clause 2: Any passive-aggressive or uncooperative tone directed toward Ms. Ward will result in an immediate fifty-point penalty.
Clause 3: All discretionary monthly allowances are suspended indefinitely to offset Ms. Ward’s emotional distress.
I looked at the clauses, feeling an almost hysterical impulse to laugh.
"Trevor," I said, meeting his eyes. "Do you honestly believe I could never survive without you?"
He shifted under my stare, pulling his shoulders back to assert dominance.
"Let's be realistic, Corinne. You’ve been out of the market for half a decade. You’re an obsolete housewife. Without my financial backing, you couldn't afford Toby’s private kindergarten tuition for a single term. You’d be sleeping on park benches."
He was still using our dead son as leverage. He had no idea the boy he held over my head was already an urn of ash on the nightstand behind me.
"Oh, and one more thing," Trevor added, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Lindsay saw the vintage silver Tiffany pendant Toby wears. She likes it. Take it off him and give it to her. Her naturopath said wearing pure silver helps with her poor circulation."
That silver pendant was the only heirloom my mother had left me before she died of cancer.
It was around Toby’s neck when they wheeled him into the crematorium.
"Why don't you just ask for my lungs, Trevor?" I whispered.
"It’s an old piece of silver! Stop making an opera out of every little request!" Trevor tugged aggressively at his collar. "Hand it over before I tear this room apart looking for it. If you refuse, I’m cutting Toby’s private swim lessons tomorrow."
I closed my eyes, inhaling the scent of cedar and rain.
"The pendant is gone."
"Gone? Don't lie to me!" Trevor grabbed the lapels of my tailored jacket, yanking me forward. "You pawned it, didn't you? Hiding cash behind my back? I knew you were an ungrateful parasite!"
He raised his right hand, his palm flat and tense, ready to strike.
I didn't flinch. I didn't lean away. I looked straight into his pupils with the cold, unblinking detachment of someone watching a carcass rot.
"Do it," I said quietly. "Bring that hand down. And I promise you, by the time it hits my face, there will be nothing left of you on this earth."