That didn’t last. After months of wallowing, I took charge; Botox and a personal trainer have me looking better than ever, and when I show up at Loren’s front door wearing only an overcoat, he wastes no time in stripping me of it and taking me right there in harsh form up against the wall of his foyer.
I stay two days. I think the news that I’m sterile turns him on. His appetite is insatiable like he’s been starving for a meal only I can serve up for months. I’m on my way, my destiny back on track.
I throw up another middle finger to the universe as I pull away from his estate in a taxi. I’ll be back to stay someday. With a new last name. Or I’ll go down in flames trying.
Blackmail sounds so harsh
past
I’m thirty-three years old.
I’m successful beyond belief career-wise. I’m vice president of a tech company that’s increased its profits tenfold the past several years—all thanks to my direction and leadership. My reputation in the industry precedes me. I’ve constructed it with precision, an intricate master plan at work: money, titles, power.
I am fearless.
But more than that—I am feared.
My grandmother would be so proud.
The money is rolling in. My salary is exorbitant, though I always lobby for my next raise. I stash it all away in bank accounts and investments that Seamus doesn’t, and will never, know about. My day is coming, and when it does he’ll be sorry he was stupid enough to sign the prenup I insisted on all those years ago, stating that all of my future earnings would remain with me should there ever come a time we should split. Let him keep his measly forty grand a year. That shit’s gone the minute it goes into his account anyway, spent on utilities and food and insurance and his meager car payment and whatever the kids need. The thing about Seamus is, he’ll probably be okay when he’s living hand to mouth someday. Money doesn’t mean anything to him. He’s all about the kids, and helping people. Fool.
Despite my successes, I’m at a stalemate.
I’m still with Seamus. Still with the kids. The fa?ade intact.
I’m so fucking tired of the fa?ade.
I thought the fa?ade would sustain me. A good husband, two point five kids, and a white picket fence looks good. It’s the layer that society expects and grants you merit points based upon. Merit points, even fictitious ones, offset my ruthlessness. Even if people think I’m a bitch, they’ll say, “Oh, but her husband and children are lovely, she can’t be that bad.” It balances me out. And it worked until my eyes were opened to bigger and better. My destiny, it’s the fa?ade on steroids. Remove goodness and insert excess. Excess, what a magnificent word.
I need my destiny.
It’s long overdue.
Kira just turned four.
Loren still hasn’t met her. Acknowledged her.
I fly to Seattle a few times a month. We have sex like rabbits, and then I come home. Empty. Even while I’m with him, I’m empty, because I know I’ll just be cast out when it’s done. I don’t want to be cast out. I deserve to be there with him. The motherfucking queen to his king.
I used to think I loved Loren, the man, and I think to some degree I did, but what I love most is the idea of Loren, the things that make up Loren. I love his estate. I love his money. I love his power. I love his business prowess. I love his cold, calculating confidence. I love his winner-take-all attitude. He’s basically me with a penis. And who wouldn’t love that. Put us together. Combine our assets. It’s the wet dream of wet dreams, a fucking financial fantasy.
And it’s time to take it because it’s clear that Loren isn’t going to buy the cow when he gets the milk free.
It’s late, after eleven in the evening. This trip was last minute. Instead of going home from the office, I went to the airport and hopped a flight to Seattle. I’m in a taxi on my way to his estate to show him just how much this bitch’s milk is going to cost him.
The Louis Vuitton bag hanging from my shoulder contains the ticket to my future, my destiny. I’m tired of waiting. I need action. I’m bored with the lack of upward mobility. The documents housed in the files inside have been painstakingly crafted over the past few years, just in case I needed a firm hand to make him see things my way.
As the driver turns onto his street, I dial his cell phone from mine.
He answers on the third ring, “Miranda?”
“Open the gate. I’m here,” I tell him. He loves it when I give commands. He does the same to me. It’s a sparked, charged, battle of wills; a twisted mating ritual.
“You’re here?” he questions, though he doesn’t sound surprised. It’s Friday night, this happens often.
“Right out front,” I say as the driver pulls up to the gate.
“I’m just leaving a business dinner that ran late.” Business dinner means sex with a high-priced escort. I hired a private investigator to follow him. I know what he likes: dark hair, big tits, and kink. I have photographs. Unbeknownst to him, he also has a proclivity for underage girls. Though they look mid-twenties, a lot of them are under eighteen. He’s been a very, very naughty boy.
“Take your time,” I say with a smile.