Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 115086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 115086 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 575(@200wpm)___ 460(@250wpm)___ 384(@300wpm)
“Okay, here’s the thirty-second tour through my life. I grew up poor as shit. Met my husband while I was working as a bagger in a grocery store. I was eighteen and dying for more than living as a nobody in a small town. He was ten years older, swept me off my feet, and dazzled me with a world I’d only seen in movies. Cliché, right? We were married within six months and before our one-year anniversary I realized the extent of my mistake.”
“Did he hit you?”
She huffed out a laugh. “No. That kind of behavior would be far too low class for him. His brand of abuse came in the form of control and psychological manipulation. Before I knew what had hit me, I’d dyed my hair bleach blond, lost twenty pounds, painted my face with gallons of make-up each morning, and wore clothing that wasn’t only uncomfortable but made me look like a clone of every other Stepford wife in his lavish world.”
Curly remained quiet, allowing her to process her thoughts and share her story on her terms. He’d met men like her husband. Wealthy assholes who viewed their wives as property. As a trophy to do with as they pleased. Polish it up and put it on a shelf to look pretty and remain silent and obedient until they were ready to play with their prize.
“I know it sounds like a poor little rich girl story, but—”
“It doesn’t,” he cut in. One thing she’d learn about him fast is that he held no judgment for other’s journeys. He hadn’t been the only innocent man in that prison. Everyone had a story. Some were luckier than others, but he hadn’t met a single soul who’d made it through life unscathed. “I’ve learned that damage you can’t see can be much more caustic than bruises or blood. And money and privilege can’t always save you. Especially when it doesn’t sound as though it was ever yours.”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Crazy as it sounds, I used to wish he’d just haul off and hit me. Then at least everyone would have been able to see what he was doing to me. Bit by bit, he stole me from me. He controlled all the finances and wouldn’t hear of me working. I wasn’t allowed to go to college or have friends outside his social circle. My way of doing anything was always incorrect. By the time I realized I was living in a gilded cage, I was trapped. I’d cut contact with my family and had no friends to confide in. He’d convinced me my low-class family would only drag us down. That no one would take him seriously if we associated with them. It sounds hard to believe now, but he had a way of twisting things and making me doubt myself that made all his bullshit believable.”
“A narcissist.”
“Yes,” she said with a nod. “I know that now. You know, he even complained about the way I answered the phone. Said that my ‘hello’ sounded too uneducated. Can you believe that?”
He believed it all right.
“The one time I tried to speak to a friend about how lonely and worthless I felt, Evan was waiting for me when I got home. He took my car keys, wallet, and phone. He also changed the Wifi password. For a week, I was his hostage. And it wasn’t the last time he pulled that trick. I lived in a bougie, very expensive prison.”
Evan. Now he had a name—what a piece of shit.
After she spoke, she sucked in a breath and covered her mouth. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have compared what I went through to being in prison. I know it can’t come close to what you went through.”
Curly stroked his thumb along the top of her foot. “Sweetheart,” he said, “your husband was a motherfucker who deserves to have his balls cut off. You may not have had steel bars, but it was a prison nonetheless.”
Though the circumstances were entirely different, they shared a bond born of powerlessness. She knew as he did what it meant to feel worthless and have no control over her life and how vital it was to cling to it once she’d regained autonomy. “I understand what it means to be at someone’s mercy and forced to live in a way I didn’t want to. In some ways, what you endured sounds even worse than being in jail. For me, the sentence was designed to be a punishment. You were supposed to have found your happily ever after.”
She bit her lower lip as she blinked rapidly. He didn’t call her out on the teary eyes. Quickly he was learning Brooke didn’t want to appear weak or helpless in front of anyone. Made sense considering what she’d suffered. Being criticized and insulted daily would stunt anyone’s emotional health. So he gave her a moment to collect herself while he sipped his beer and continued rubbing her foot.