1

WILLOW

I hate the mirrors in this house.

Six of them line the thin foyer like something out of a carnival, reflecting whatever passes between them to infinity. As I pass down the hall, a million Willows splay out into the shimmering distance.

I try not to look. I don’t want to look. What’s the point, when I know exactly what I’ll see?

But I look anyway. And sure enough, I see it.

The misery in my eyes.

The defeated slump in my shoulders.

I see a broken woman.

So yes, I hate the mirrors in this house. Not just because they’re too big, too grand, too ostentatious.

But because they show too much of the truth.

Of course, when I voiced my opinion on the topic, Casey told me to stop talking and stick to my job, which is cleaning mirrors, not picking them out. Every time I see myself in them now, that’s what I hear: the sting of his voice in my head. Scowling. Belittling.

Every corner of this place and every little thing in it has a memory like that tied to it.

It’s why I like leaving the house whenever I can. Grocery shopping, for instance, which is where I’m coming back from. For one hour, I’m my own woman. I can put what I want in the basket. Mint chocolate chip ice cream, not vanilla. The pink detergent, not the yellow one.

For one hour, I’m me.

Although, technically speaking, I wasn’t even supposed to be at the grocery store. Casey scheduled a hair appointment for me this morning when we woke up. “It’s too long,” he said matter-of-factly. “You know I like it shorter. You’re getting it cut.”

But when the time came, all I wanted was that hour of freedom. So I blew off the appointment and went shopping instead.

I’ll pay for that choice soon enough. That’s okay, though. It was worth it.

I brace myself for his annoyance as I climb the stairs to our bedroom. He’ll expect to see my hair shorter tonight, and I’m already dreaming up what to say to calm him down—when I realize something: the bedroom door is open.

Casey is in bed.

And so is someone else.

I stop in shocked silence at the threshold. But my husband is so absorbed in the leggy blonde he’s fucking that he doesn’t even notice me standing there.

The woman, whoever she is, is on all fours, her massive breasts bouncing happily as he fucks her from behind. She doesn’t notice me, either. His body is slick with sweat and so is hers, which means they’ve been at it for a while.

It’s an odd feeling, watching your husband have sex with another woman. It gives you a strange kind of objectivity.

Does he always get this sweaty? Does he always make that face? Do his ass cheeks clench like that when I’m the one on the bed with my legs spread?

Is she faking, like I do?

Is she praying it’ll be over soon, like I do?

I want to back out of the room, but the thought of letting them finish while I wait quietly outside feels humiliating on a whole different level.

And I would know. I’m something of an expert in the subject of humiliation. A marriage to Casey Reeves does that to a person.

So I stand rooted in place, dumbstruck, and try to think about the best way to handle this situation, even as my mind circles aimlessly like an airplane trying to land in a storm.

In the end, it’s the woman that sees me first. She turns her head to the side just enough and her eyes go wide with shock. She lets out a high-pitched scream and falls against the bed, scrambling to wrap the sheets around her.

I frown when she grabs my Laura Ashley bed linens and tugs them across her naked breasts. All I can think is, She’s going to get her sex sweat all over them.

“Fucking hell, Willow!” Casey grunts, as though I’m the one who’s been caught doing something wrong.

The blonde swings her legs off the bed and scurries towards the wing-backed armchair sitting by the window. Her clothes are folded on the seat in a neat pile.

“You’re supposed to be at your hair appointment,” he adds.

I raise my eyebrows. “Is this why you were so insistent I cut my hair today?”

His eyes dart towards the blonde, like he’s trying to protect her. “Mabel, I think you should go.”

Mabel? I almost bark out laughing. This woman can’t be a Mabel. A Mabel is the old lady down the street who gives out toffees on Halloween. A Mabel is your mother’s bridge partner. A Mabel was born sixty years old and never looked back.

This dauntingly attractive blonde? No, can’t be. It doesn’t suit her at all.

But no one else seems to be laughing. Mabel grabs her clothes and nearly sprints toward the bathroom, dragging my expensive linens with her. The moment the bathroom door clicks shut, Casey saunters over to me. He’s got a carefully crafted expression of remorse on his face, but if that’s what he’s selling, I sure as hell ain’t buying.

“Baby, listen, I’m sorry. That was… that was… a moment of weakness on my part.”

“A moment of weakness?” I scoff. “How many ‘moments of weakness’ have you had with her?”

“It’s not important,” he croons, reaching out to touch me.

I cringe back. “Don’t.”

Casey drops his arm and his face sours. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” he says, as though somehow showing up early to my own home is my fault.

I suppose, in a way, it is.

“But look, it’s fine. I forgive you. And I promise it’ll never happen again.”

“You realize you’re still naked, right?”

He looks down, but seems unconcerned with his state of undress. “Willow, my Willow… you’re my everything. You know that, right?”

I jut my chin at his stumpy little dick. “As a matter of fact, you’re still hard.”

“Jesus!” he snaps angrily. He throws his hands up as he walks back to the bed and snatches up his clothes from the floor. “I’m trying to talk to you, for fuck’s sake.”

He gets dressed in a huff. I stay in my spot. A second later, the bathroom door opens and Mabel walks out. She’s wearing a white dress that hugs her curves and displays her ample cleavage.

She glances at Casey. “I’m, uh… gonna go now.”

Casey doesn’t say a word, so she circles around me and hurries out the door. I turn and watch her go. She trips on the staircase, which gives me a strange, petty sense of satisfaction.

“Baby,” Casey says for the billionth time, grabbing my hand and forcing me to look at him.

There was a time when I used to run my fingers through his blonde hair and marvel at the fact that this man was mine. A time when I would stare into his dark amber eyes and feel grateful that someone like Casey Reeves could ever be interested in a girl like me.

You wanna know the really sad part?

Even now, I still feel it.

It’s a much smaller feeling. Much less all-consuming than it used to be. But it’s still there. Along with the rest of my regrets.

I used to have friends.

I used to have dreams.

I used to have parents.

Now, I have a wardrobe full of pretty clothes and expensive shoes. I have a beautiful and lonely house. I have a husband who pets me like a dog in public and fucks other women when I’m not at home.

I gave my soul away—and in return, I got… this.

Casey’s sweat is melting into the shirt he just tugged on, turning the armpits into dark circles. I look down at the way he’s holding my hand. Possessive. Tight.

“Baby, let’s forget all about this, okay? You can make me dinner and later, I’ll show you just how much I love you.”

I raise my eyes to his face and stare at the sudden stranger in front of me. Is he really suggesting that we have sex the same day I walked in on him fucking some random woman? I don’t even want to go down the road of untangling that supremely fucked-up fantasy.

“Who is she?” I ask instead.

He sighs tiredly, as though he’s annoyed that I haven’t gotten over this already. “Does it matter?”

“Tell me.”

“Mabel Sheridan.”

“Was she named after her grandmother or something?”

“I understand you’re upset, but she means nothing to me. She’s just someone I work with.”

“So you’re going to see her tomorrow at work?”

“She’s heading the department in Chicago. She’s only here for a few more weeks.”

I notice how deftly he avoids answering the question. Which of course is all the answer I need. “How long has it been going on?”

“Baby,” he says, an edge of steel entering his tone. Usually, that would set off a warning bell: red alert, go no further, Casey Explosion imminent!

But I don’t care. I’m getting really fucking sick of that word.

“I’m leaving.”

He arches a brow. “And where’re you gonna go?” he scoffs. “You don’t have anyone else, Willow. You have only me.”

“I’ll find a motel or something.”

“And how’re you gonna pay for it?” he asks in sadistic amusement. “You don’t have a job. You haven’t worked a day in your life.”

Everything he’s saying is true, but it’s missing nuance. It’s missing context. Like the fact that the only reason I don’t have a job is because he insisted that he didn’t want me to work. Demanded it, really.

“You’re my queen,” he always told me. “And I’m going to take care of you.”

Now, I understand what he really meant: You’re my property, and I want to control you.

“I… I’ll get a job,” I stammer, fighting back angry tears. “I don’t need you.”

He laughs, and it makes me feel like throwing up on the fluffy white carpet he bought for me on our first wedding anniversary six years ago.

“Go ahead, baby,” he tells me. “It’ll be fun watching you try.”

Still laughing, he walks out of the room.

And I’m left to make the bed he was just fucking another woman on.