Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89840 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
I knew what it was like for someone to be cheated on through my own mother. All my father did was lie and cheat. It drove her crazy. It made her thin, depressed, but she couldn’t do much about it because he paid the bills while he was around. He ran the show. But for some odd reason she was still surprised to know he was leaving her for another woman. As if she hadn’t seen it coming. As if she weren’t aware that he was a total piece of shit who had no respect for her.
I refused to be the other woman—the homewrecker, the destructor, the manipulator. Did I want out of this poor life of mine? Yes. Did I want more for myself? Absolutely. But this wasn’t the way to do it. It felt dirty and lousy and cheap, and you don’t think about the consequences until you’re forced to face them.
What my mother went through was literally enough to kill her. She drank herself to death, choked on her own vomit. I found her body when I visited from college for winter break, and the only reason I visited is because she wasn’t answering her phone. No one had heard from her, so I bought the cheapest plane ticket I could find on such short notice and flew back.
Is it so bad to say I didn’t want to pass that energy to someone else if I didn’t have to? This Jo woman seemed nice, and I didn’t want her turning into a drunk and choking on vomit too.
Certain about what I had to do next, I turned to Dominic as he finished unbuttoning his shirt and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t do this.”
TWENTY-TWO
DOMINIC
Dominic doesn’t go back home that night. He’d received a notification that someone rang the doorbell and when he checked the doorbell camera, he saw a woman he couldn’t stand being around. His mother-in-law, Naomi Hart, in a big banana hat. He wasn’t sure what Jo’s mother was doing in North Carolina or what she wanted, but one thing was for certain. He did not want to see her.
Instead, he lied to Jolene and sent her a text saying he had business to finish and would likely be all night. He doesn’t, really, and instead goes to Fox Trot for some drinks and to read over his speech. He needs to decompress after the week he’s had. Fox Trot is the only place around that isn’t open to the general public. You must have a membership to join, so not many people here bother him. Most of the members venture into Fox Trot to do the same thing he does: drink and avoid socializing. That’s why he likes it.
He does have to go to Greensboro tomorrow afternoon to show his face for some marathon in support of heart disease, and for all Jo knows, he’s decided to leave tonight so that he can be better prepared tomorrow. He’s glad he at least keeps extra clothes stored at Executive Mansion. Might as well make use of the place somehow.
As he sits at a table sipping bourbon, he receives a text from Boaz: No face ID in NC. Will check NOLA.
Good thing Boaz is onto the witch. Comforted by the update, Dominic sinks into the back of the burgundy leather bench, taking another long sip of his liquor. He’d contemplated the idea of Boaz blackmailing him but realized it wouldn’t benefit Boaz at all. He was the one who’d done the dirty work, not him, and Dominic was willing to lie if it meant saving his own ass.
After replying OK to Boaz, Dominic opens the Instagram app and logs into the account he uses under a fake name. He doesn’t post on this account, and his other is his official governor account, but Melissa handles that more than he does so he doesn’t bother with it. His fake profile doesn’t even have a picture, but that’s perfect for when he needs to check things out, like the profile of that Eden woman. What did she say her username was again?
Dominic clears his throat as he types the name goddesswitch into the search bar. It yields some results but none of them are her. He taps a finger against the edge of the phone, thinking. Then he types in mysticgoddess. Still, none of the users show Eden.
“I’m on Instagram under the name mysticcgoddess. Two c’s.”
Eden’s voice runs through his mind again, and he types in the previous username, but with two c’s this time.
“There you are,” he murmurs under his breath. She’s the only person on the app with that username. He taps her profile, glad it’s public. The profile picture is an unsmiling, moody selfie. Her lips are a dark plum and her hair is a wild afro. Black eyeliner is heavy around her eyes.