The First Wives: An addictive domestic thriller, page 19
But most of all I cried because Matt offered to take the fall.
I don’t know what was going through his mind.
Aunt Tippy loaded me and my boxes in the farm truck the next morning before sunrise and drove me to Iowa State. All I wanted to do was crawl into my bed and rot—but then what would the lie about Matt be for? If I was going to carry this terrible secret around with me for the rest of my life, I had to make it a secret worth keeping. I had to make sure my life was worth something. A way to honor Matt.
What was a life worth, anyhow?
A million dollars?
A billion?
THIRTY-FOUR
Present day
I’m sitting on the edge of my bed with half-filled suitcases around me. Since I’ve come to the realization that I can’t take my kids and go off-grid, I need to come up with a new plan and fast.
“Come on, there’s got to be something,” I say to my phone screen as I scroll through online message boards of women going through divorces in Florida. “Anything! Someone’s got to know how to get rid of a lying, cheating prick like Court.”
That’s when I see a message thread called “Moral Fitness”. I click on it and start reading. Page after page of helpful tips from women who were able to prove to the judge that their ex-husbands did not have the moral fitness needed to raise children. Gambling. Drugs. Police records. The list of items goes on. I know Court isn’t exactly some drug-dealing criminal, but he has lied about who he is! He has another wife. And if he was willing to do that, to me, what else has he been willing to do? Maybe he really is a criminal mastermind. Maybe all his business trips are to drug factories. I just don’t know!
But I do know that if I can get some solid evidence to show a judge that my husband isn’t really who he says he is. Proof of his lies. It should be enough to show his moral fitness has been compromised. That’s the only chance in hell I’ve got to get full custody of the twins.
It’s not going to be easy.
I’ve spent the last five years living with Court and I had no idea he wasn’t who he said he was. I feel sick again. I have no idea how I can get my hands on hard evidence. I get up and pace around—pausing to look at the pictures of me and Court hanging on our bedroom wall.
“Why did you do this to me?” I ask one of the photographs. It’s breaking my heart to see the way Court is looking at me there—with what I thought was complete adoration. It was our first trip together, a little weekend jaunt to Mexico.
But the truth is, that look isn’t love.
It’s something sick and sinister. Because while he was looking at me like that, there was still another woman in his life—Sophia. Because they never split up… She told me the truth when we had our day of beauty, lying on my bed. Sophia said she couldn’t have children, so she basically gave him permission to go off and start a new family. What does that make me—their fucking broodmare?
I rip the frame off the wall. “You’re a greedy, selfish asshole,” I say to his image. I’m ready to smash the frame and burn the picture. Destroy any evidence that Court and I were ever together, purge him from my life. But wait—that gives me an idea. What if I take pictures of Court with Sophia? That could be the evidence against them I need!
Then I groan when I really start thinking about it. The likelihood of catching them together again is one in never million. The only reason I caught them this time was because they didn’t know I was coming home. I snuck up on them.
However… if I could orchestrate a time and place for Court and Sophia to be together, then I could follow them, like a private eye. I just wish I could find out if Sophia was really in Paris. That would be the perfect place for a stakeout—far away from the twins, who I’ll leave with Aunt Tippy on the farm. And I know Paris better than any other big city in the world. I was so enamored by the famed “City of Light” after Court proposed to me under the glittering Eiffel Tower, that I spent months obsessing over it.
That’s when I realize.
I do have a way to find out if Sophia’s in Paris.
Hey, can you do me a huge favor?
Who is this?
It’s Hannah. New number.
How do I know this is you and not your lookalike?
The phone rings once, twice, three times before he finally answers. “I promise, it’s really me,” I say when he picks up the line.
“Girl, you had me scared for a minute.” He laughs nervously.
“So, about that favor… Can you get ahold of Sophia and say you have a new dress she’ll love and you’d like to send it to her? I need to know where she’s staying in Paris.”
“What are you up to?” He clucks.
“Nothing. I just need to know…” Then I think of something. If I want to sneak around Paris and go unseen, I’m going to have to change my look. And who better to help me out than my personal stylist? “Sinclair…” I exaggerate his name. “Have I told you how amazing you are?”
He scoffs. “Why are you buttering me up? What else do you need?”
“Well, since you asked, it would be a huge help if you could send some clothes to Paris for me.”
“Honey, you aren’t going to confront Sophia on foreign soil, are you? Look, the girl has problems, but please don’t do anything you’ll regret. You’re not cut out for international jail.”
If he only knew what I’ve discovered about Sophia and Court, he’d be singing a different tune. But I can’t tell him anything. Or Cassie, for that matter. I cannot involve my friends in what I’m about to do—in case things go sideways. Plausible deniability.
“Will you help me or not?”
“I just worry—”
“I’m not asking for anything crazy. Just basic French clothes. I have to look like a local, not a tourist. I’m traveling light and won’t have time to shop.”
He lets out a long sigh.
I know he wants to tell me I’m being stupid and reckless—and maybe I am. But what else am I supposed to do? Post about Court’s behavior on my social page for the entire world to see? He’d sue me for defamation and probably still get joint custody. Or do nothing, and just keep living my life with my head in the sand as his happy little trad wife? I’m already sick from the stress… If I let my husband keep playing this twisted game, it will kill me.
“Please, Sinclair, I need your help.”
“Fine. Text me the address. I’ll make sure you look trѐs boring,” he concedes to my request. “And as soon as I hear from Sophia, I’ll let you know.”
“Thank you.”
“And girl, be careful.”
After bathing the children and putting them to bed early, I finish packing. It’s hard, walking around the house, trying to decide if anything is worth saving. Because as far as I’m concerned, once we leave for Iowa, I’m never coming back to this house again. It’s a house built on lies. The children’s things are the hardest to reconcile abandoning. Thankfully they seem to love the farm—and I’m hoping after some time and shopping to fix up their room, they’ll be okay with the fact that they are never coming home again. I know it won’t be easy for them to understand their daddy is gone. But someday, when they’re grown, I’ll tell them what really happened, if they want to know.
I still haven’t heard back from Sinclair about the hotel Sophia is staying at in Paris and I’m beginning to wonder if maybe that’s not where she went after all. The only thing I really know is that she took a private jet to Miami. She could have gone anywhere in the world.
There’s a pit in my stomach.
My entire plan rests on Sophia being in Paris. I can lure Court there, if he isn’t already, but I have to know that Sophia is there too.
To keep myself occupied I get online and find a hotel, but I realize that if I book it with my credit card, there will be proof I was in Paris—and I can’t tip off Court. Even if I use my influencer bank account, he might have access to it. He was able to turn track location on my phone. I can’t put anything past him.
Shit.
How the fuck am I going to manage this?
Maybe I’m just being paranoid. But all it will take is one loose end and he’ll know I’m up to something. I really didn’t want to do this, but the only person I know with the kind of money I need right now is Cassie.
It’s me. Court is stalking my phone. I had to get a burner. Call me.
She calls within seconds.
“Tell me everything now,” she demands.
An hour, a bottle of wine, and a box of tissues later, I’ve told Cassie every single tiny detail of what’s been going on since the last time I spoke to her when I was tearing the bathroom apart looking for Viagra.
“Oh, Hannah, honey. Look, I know it’s hard right now, but you can get through this,” she says in her most comforting voice. “I have people. If you want me to make Court or Blake or whatever the fuck his name is disappear, I can do that.”
“No, no, didn’t you hear a word I said. Plausible deniability,” I sob.
“Babes. You and that bottle of wine just spelled out your entire harebrained plan… and as far as I can tell, the only thing you’re guilty of is wanting to take pictures of your lying piece-of-shit husband so you have a chance at getting full custody of my godbabies.”
“Uh-huh,” I moan.
“You know, you’d make a really bad Bond villain.”
I start laugh-crying because she’s right. And I don’t want to be the villain, I want to be the hero of this story. I want to save my sweet Ruby and Rowen from growing up with a father they will never be able to trust. A man they can never truly know.
“Buuut… female Bond villains are always sexy as hell, so at least you’ve got that going for you,” Cassie says.
“Not sexy enough,” I complain.
“Oh please. Your husband is a billionaire narcissist. Even if your pussy was made out of pure gold, he was always going to stray. That’s what they do, Hannah.”
I whimper and sniffle again.
“Stop crying. I’m going to text you my black card. Whatever you need, it’s yours. Use my name everywhere you go, except for customs.”
“How do you know this stuff?” I wipe my nose and straighten up.
“Oh, honey, you don’t want to know what I’ve done for the sake of anonymity.”
“Someday I do, Cassie. I want to know all the things.”
“Well—then someday we’ll trade war stories. In the meantime, I hope you know how much I love you and I’m here for you and the twins… Would it make you feel better if I stayed with them in Iowa when you’re away?”
It would make me feel better knowing she was there at the farm. But—I can’t ask her for her credit card and to take care of my kids. Plus, Aunt Tippy might lose her mind if she walked in on Cassie working.
“You’re the best. I don’t deserve a friend like you. I’ll call you when I’m done collecting evidence and you can meet me at the farm. We’ll celebrate.” I offer up an alternative instead of turning her down outright.
“You’ve got yourself a date. Now, be a good little trad wife and go post on your social page—it’s been dark for thirty-six hours.”
“Shit.” I was so set earlier on my plan to abandon my influencer life for a life under the radar and off the grid, I’ve forgotten to keep up appearances. I’m about to log on to my new laptop, when I remember—I should use my other phone and laptop soon or Court might get suspicious, if he’s monitoring them.
“I’ll wait for your call, love you,” Cassie says her goodbye and hangs up.
It’s already so late, but in the influencer world that means nothing. Keeping a high-quality algorithm means posting throughout the day and night. I scramble—all the premade content I worked on is used up. I literally have nothing prepared—not to mention the way I’m looking these days is anything but glamorous.
So I run to the kitchen, film a few shots of my hands setting out ingredients, and hack those together with a couple videos I never posted when I was baking cupcakes. I layer it with a voice over—teasing some new cooking concepts I’ve been working on. Which obviously I haven’t, but it will make it look like I’ve been a busy, little housewife.
Just as I’m about to go to bed, I get a text from Sinclair.
She’s in Paris, staying at the Ritz.
You’re an angel. I’ll text you my hotel info tomorrow. I’ll be staying under the name Cassie Bronovich.
Be safe.
When I finally crawl into bed in a worn-off wine daze, I feel like I could sleep for days, but I know I have a million things to do if this is gonna work. What is it they say? No rest for the weary. Or is it the wicked? Either way, I vow to myself a week of bedrest when all of this is over.
My alarm is chirping before my mind has even quieted for the night.
Using Cassie’s card and name, I book myself a hotel in Paris across the street from the Ritz. I want to be close to Sophia and Court, but not under-the-same-roof close. Then I text Sinclair the address.
Now, the only thing left to do is guarantee my husband will be there.
“Mommy, you’re so pretty,” Ruby says. She’s come into my bathroom after I’ve showered, fixed my hair and makeup, and put on a pink sundress.
“Thanks, sweetheart.” I smile and boop her on the nose. She giggles and runs off. I gaze at my reflection. It’s been a long time since I put this much time and effort into my appearance.
I’m nearly ready to set my trap. I contemplated filming a video to send to Court, but I was worried if the twins heard me speaking, they wouldn’t understand the lie.
The lie I intend to tell my husband is cruel.
Not as cruel as the lies he’s told me.
But it’s the only thing I can think of that will catch Court off guard and force him right into the arms of Sophia in Paris. If he isn’t already there.
I attach my phone to the ring-light stand in the kitchen. The room is sunny and bright. Which is what I’m going for. It takes twelve attempts to get the right smile—flirtatious, with a glimmer of tears in my eyes. In my hand, I’m holding up a pregnancy test I’ve doctored with a pink marker to indicate positive. I came across an old box of them when I was tearing apart the bathroom on the hunt for bottles of Viagra to explain away my husband’s sudden sex obsession.
Before I can change my mind, I text Court the picture.
I was going to wait until you got home, but I’m too excited!
The phone rings. My heart is pounding. It’s time to see if I can lie to my husband as well as he’s been lying to me.
“You’re gonna be a daddy again!” I exclaim as soon as I answer the phone.
“Hannah, I’m in shock. I don’t know what to say.” His voice sounds both strained and excited.
“Are you happy? Tell me you’re happy.”
“Yes, of course I’m happy, I just…” He pauses. “I didn’t think we were planning on having more children, so this comes as a surprise, is all… How are you feeling? Have you been to the doctor yet? You look incredible—glowing already.”
“Thank you, babe.” I smile. He bought the lie. Hook, line, and sinker. “No, I haven’t gone to the doctor yet. I just found out last night.”
“I’ll cut the rest of my business trip short to be there with you,” he says.
“You would do that for me?”
“Of course, you’re my wife. Nothing is more important than being there to support you and our new baby.”
If only that was true.
My fist clenches at my side.
“Actually, I have an idea. I want to do a babymoon.”
“A baby what?” he asks.
I laugh. “Everyone does it now. It’s like a honeymoon. For the soon-to-be mommy and daddy, before the bundle of joy arrives.”
“Can’t that wait?”
“No, I mean yes, but the twins won’t stop begging to go back to the farm, and I’m feeling great right now. You remember the morning sickness I had last time—through most of the pregnancy?”
“I suppose we could go somewhere next month,” he hesitantly agrees.
“No. I want to go now. I miss you and I need you. Just me and you. I’ve got it all worked out—I’ll take the kids to the farm, get them settled in for a few days, then we can meet up in Paris. Just like when you proposed. It will be so romantic. Pleeaaase!” I beg.
“Really? Paris?” He sounds surprised.
“Well, we did just have our anniversary… So being in Paris to celebrate this new baby, well, it seems… perfect.”
“Yes… new baby… Paris… perfect,” he mumbles. He doesn’t know that I know Sophia is in Paris. Which makes his hesitation all that much sweeter.
“Yay!” I exclaim. “Book us a suite, oooh… or better yet, a château, and send me the reservation. I’ll take the twins to Aunt Tippy’s house and meet you there.”
He exhales before asking, “How long will you need to get them settled before you can meet me here?”
Here.
He said meet me here. So that bastard is in Paris. I can’t let on that I know.
“Hmmm…” I pretend to consider it. “Well, today is Tuesday, so how about I meet you in Paris on Saturday? Does that give you enough time to finish your work and fly out?”
“Oh, um, yes. Well, that sounds doable.”
“Twins need me, babe, I’d better run. I love you.” I muster all the fake excitement I can.
“I love you too, Hannah.” He says it the same way he always does. Until this very moment, I’d never noticed the sadness, verging on contempt, in the way he says it. I always took that tone for sincerity from a man who’d not spent much time with a woman. But now that I know the truth, everything is unraveling.
THIRTY-FIVE
