Chapter 7

Chapter 7

LINA

"Damien Whitmore, CEO of Whitmore Industries, was photographed this afternoon carrying  our very own socialite Adora Cavendish into the Pemberton Medical Centre following a reported ankle injury at a private event involving the two of them, we are not yet sure of how the injury came to be, but from the panicked look on Damien's face, we can conclude that it was a grave injury. 

This is not the first or third time we have seen something involving this couple, after all Whitmore and Cavendish have long been subjects of public fascination given their past history as childhood friends and past lovers before Whitmore arranged marriage to his wife Selina Rodriquez two years ago, following the death of her parents after they saved his life.

Sources close to the pair, reporting from inside  say Whitmore stayed with Cavendish for several hours, personally ensuring she was seen by a specialist, that had been flown in from another city and this has ended up raising questions about the current state of his marriage and whether audiences are watching the early chapters of a great love story finally finding its—

I turned the television off, breathing heavily, the words keep playing like a loop in my head. I stood in the silence with the remote still in my hand and looked at the blank screen for a long moment, staring at nothing in particular but my mind was filled with turmoil as I processed the words.

He had stayed. He had carried her. He had sat beside her hospital bed for hours, holding her hand probably, making sure that she knew that he was present and was not leaving, saying all the right kind of things every woman wants to hear at that moment, he was actually being the version of himself that I had spent over two years trying to reach but never succeeding to get.

The war, attentive and caring version, the one who looked at you like you were the only thing worth it.

I had twisted my wrist on the kitchen counter three weeks ago, reaching for something on the top shelf that I couldn't reach but kept trying because the alternative was to ask him for help- and I did not want to bother him and he had been home when it happened, and he had glanced up from his phone and said to put ice on it and then returned to his emails. Not sparing me another glance at all.

This sudden fleeting memory that flashed quickly in my head made me grip the remote tightly as I thought about throwing the remote at the blank television screen. I thought about it seriously, thinking about  the satisfying crack it would make against the screen.

I set the remote down on the coffee table.

He would see it. He would ask what happened. And I would have to stand there and explain myself and he would look at me like I was unhinged and crazy and I would have to watch him come to the conclusion that once again I was the problem and he was such a martyr for trying to manage someone like me.

 I pressed my hands together, fingers laced, and squeezed until the knuckle ached from too much force but I didn't let go, the pain cleared all the fog in my head, removing all the love that had blinded me towards him for so long.

Then I made a decision.

I was not going to wait for his talk. I was not going to sit in this house and wait for him to come home and sit me down with that careful expression on his face as he would try to explain my situation to me, like I had not been living in for two years.

 I was going to leave. Tonight, if I could manage it. Not after I'd planned it perfectly, waiting for him or waiting to talk to his grandmother first. No, I was going to leave right now.

I went upstairs and pulled my old travel bag from the top of the closet. It was a worn canvas duffel, one of the few things I'd kept from my life before the Whitmores. 

I set it open on the bed and stood in front of it for a moment, trying to decide what a person took when they were running away. I focused on taking the practical things first, my documents.

 I found my passport in the drawer of my bedside table and laid it on top of the bag. My old identification card. The small envelope of photographs I kept tucked inside a book I'd brought from my childhood bedroom, photos of my parents and one of myself at ten years old, squinting into a bright sun. I couldn't leave those.

I started going through the wardrobe, pulling out pieces that were mine, clothes I'd bought with my own money before Damien PR had brought a stylist that had been working on selecting the clothes that best suited me as a CEO wife  and I'd gone along with because I hadn't known how to say no politely. I went for the older things that I owned before my life with Damien.

 A pair of jeans that fit perfectly. A sweater my mother had chosen on a shopping trip when I was fifteen. A dress I'd bought with my first tutoring paycheck, years ago, that I still loved even though Damien had glanced at it once and said something about it being a bit casual for their social calendar.

I folded them. I placed them in the bag. Then I opened the banking app on my phone.

I had my own account. I'd had it since I was eighteen, a student account that I'd opened myself and maintained through university, and after the wedding I'd stopped paying much attention to it because there had been no income to put into it and no reason to think about it. 

The balance loaded and I looked at it.

Negative forty-three dollars and seventeen cents. [-$43.17c]

I stared at the number for long enough that the screen dimmed from inactivity and I had to tap it again to keep it awake.

Negative. Not zero. Not a small number I could work with. Negative.  I sat down on the edge of the bed.

Forty-three dollars. Negative forty-three dollars. That was my independence.

I looked at the other card in my wallet. The black one. Damien's card, technically, though his grandmother had said it was mine, as his wife and I had the right to use it, but it was in Damien's name and he had the right to see what the card had purchased at his convenience.

 

I had not touched it for anything personal. Not once. I'd used it for household things, groceries, the occasional household repair when staff flagged something, that was bad and needed attention drawn to it, I had taken care of it, with his card instead of calling him and bothering him with things that were not worth his time.

If I withdrew cash, a significant amount, it would flag immediately. He would know within hours. And he would keep a close tab on me, to see what I was going to do with such large amount of money.

I set my phone face-down on the bed and looked at the half-packed bag.

The plan, to run away was already dissolving.