Deception (Infidelity #3)

A migraine.

Scrunching my lids tighter, I forced all light from my eyes. The movement caused my face to ache. It didn’t matter. I knew from experience that even a smidgen of light could be all it took to send my body into a full-blown revolt. The way I felt, I wasn’t sure I could swim to the shore or find the attached bathroom. Everything was too far away. If only I could sink into my pillows as if they were clouds made of fluff, not hard, fiber-filled units.

With attention to my breathing, I exhaled twice for every inhale. Slowly the racing in my veins slowed and my body relaxed just a bit. I tried to listen to the room around me, praying that I was alone.

I hadn’t had a headache this bad in years, not since I’d started the preventive medication that I took religiously. I fought to recall the night before. The day before. Anything. It was a fog covered in dark smoke. My memory was a cool, damp spring morning and visibility was zero. I knew the terrain. I’d navigated it for what seemed like forever, but I couldn’t find a recognizable marker.

I slowly reached for the bed around me and patted it softly as I confirmed that I was indeed alone.

The breathing had helped.

Inch by inch, I moved toward the edge of the mattress, slowly as to not incite a stampede of hooves that waited upon the plain for the first rock to fall.

With my feet nearing the floor, I attempted to rise, to sit upward.

How could a woman who weighed less than one hundred and twenty pounds have a head that easily exceeded a ton?

It was so heavy, too heavy.

I bit my bottom lip as I pushed off from the bed.

Success.

I was sitting.

Slowly, I tried to open my eyes. Only one at first, allowing just the faintest of light to penetrate my darkened world.

Glaring.

Draperies that covered nearly two walls of our suite were opened, allowing the Georgia sun entrance as it streamed inside, blanketing the room in an assault of illumination.

Morning? Afternoon?

I had no reference other than I was certain it wasn’t night.

My phone and a clock were only a few feet away, but I knew that focusing on the little numbers would be that first rock, the one to start the avalanche, the one to incite the stampede through my body. Like Mufasa from the Lion King, I would certainly perish.

With my head held securely in my hands and my elbows on my knees, I worked to clear the fog. I recalled taking my medicine yesterday and the day before. I understood how it worked. Missing doses lessened its effect. The medication took nearly a month to reach its effective dose. I would never miss one, not even one.

Last night Alton and I had been to a dinner out near the coast. The eloquent seafood restaurant was refined and catered to Georgia’s elite. It had been our first time out in public with Bryce and Chelsea. Not only had she accompanied him to Evanston for another deposition, they’d made more than a few appearances around town. The locals were beginning to talk. Though I knew it was only a matter of time before Alexandria heard the rumors, I couldn’t bring myself to be the one to tell her unless it was in person.

That was one of the topics I’d planned to discuss when I visited New York City. My plans had been foiled as I waited for Alton to leave on one of his trips. They normally occurred frequently, yet lately he’d stayed in town. I wasn’t sure if it was because of the Chelsea thing, but he’d cancelled his last trip. It was the week I’d hoped to visit Alexandria. Jane had called and asked if we could reschedule.

Two weeks later and I was still waiting for Alton to leave.

It had become the story of my life.

The other thing that had happened since Chelsea had arrived was that my husband had been overly attentive. I assumed it had to do with appearances. Nevertheless, I couldn’t manage a one-day trip even if I tried.

Through it all, I’d stayed true to my plan of trying to prove that Alton was somehow involved in orchestrating Alexandria and Lennox’s meeting. Though I’d spoken to Natalie about it, nothing seemed to verify my suspicions. If anything, by Alton’s reaction to Chelsea, he was growing tired of the continued charade and ready to finalize Bryce and Alexandria’s nuptials.

It didn’t make sense.

Water was all I drank yesterday prior to dinnertime. I recalled Alton once again coming to our suite instead of staying downstairs, ever dutifully making us both before-dinner cocktails. Mine had been wine. My first glass of the day. And then in the limousine I had a second glass.

The restaurant was simply beautiful. Though she tried to hide it, Chelsea’s unease at being out of her element was glaringly obvious. If I didn’t hate the entire plan I may have felt a smidgen of pity for the poor girl. It appeared as though she was trying. It also made me wonder if none of Alexandria’s refinement had rubbed off on her during their years of living together.

How Chelsea was hired for this position was beyond me.

Looks. Sex.

Apparently she had a brain, but I’d yet to witness it. As the evening progressed, I got the feeling that even Bryce was losing patience with some of her uncouth ways. The looks that I saw exchanged between she and Bryce reinforced my belief that Alexandria should not be married to him.

Many wouldn’t recognize the warnings, but I’d lived with them for over twenty years. Chelsea’s trepidation was real. Even without the confirmation of physical bruising, I was most certain that Edward Bryce Carmichael Spencer was indeed his father’s son.

That was where the night began to fade away. Like a club illuminated by strobe lighting, there were flashes of memory. Nothing stood out. Nothing seemed out of place. The restaurant. Another drink on the veranda overlooking the ocean. A photo opportunity with the four of us. The limousine ride back to the manor. Waking in a shower of sunshine.

Hours were missing. There were large gaping holes.

Two glasses of wine before the restaurant and maybe two during dinner.

It was barely a luncheon’s worth of alcohol.

Maybe the memory loss had been caused by the onset of the migraine.

Slowly, I stood and made my way to the bathroom and opened the drawer of my vanity. Through squinted eyes, I caught a glimpse of the woman in the mirror. Surely she wasn’t me. Her hair was uncustomarily disheveled. And her eyes… I pushed against the bags that seemed to have grown beneath. Why were they so puffy?

What the hell?

Once this headache was gone, my plastic surgeon would be on speed dial.

It would only take a few of my Vicodin to ease the pain. After all, I hadn’t taken any for quite some time. I’d been saving them for another use. And then, Jane found them…

I rummaged around the drawer, pulling bottles out and throwing them onto the counter. The clatter tore at my nerves as one by one, large and small plastic containers littered the vanity. They were the same as any found at a common drugstore. Acetaminophen. Aspirin. Even ibuprofen. There wasn’t one prescription bottle, not one amber container with my name printed upon the label.

No Vicodin. No Percocet. Not even any codeine.

Damn Jane!

This was her doing. I knew it.

Not only had she taken the pills I’d had in the glass, she’d come into our suite, my room, my bathroom, and rid the drawers and cabinets of all my narcotics. Hadn’t she seen the progress I’d made since that night, since meeting with Stephen?

My body trembled as I imagined calling and yelling at her.

I’d call first and yell later. I wasn’t sure my head could take the volume. Even the thought of speaking above a whisper twisted my stomach and increased the throb in my temples.

A knock at the outer door of my suite echoed like a jackhammer off the marble tile of the bathroom.

Thank the sweet Lord. This had to be Jane.

Reaching for the doorjamb, I steadied myself, tightened the robe I’d found hanging near the shower, and made my way toward the outer door of our suite.

This would save me the trouble of calling.

I smoothed my hair as I trekked across the front sitting room.