Enter The Black Oak: Chapter 6

FRIDAY.

My stomach lurches as we pull up to the Wall Street tower that Jack and I work at for the annual gala to raise money for research into heart disease. Eleven days have passed since I moved out of our place and five since I moved back in. The week has been traumatic, bizarrely cathartic and emotionally draining and at this point, I’m running on empty in every way.

Jack and I have an appointment booked with a clinical psychotherapist that Jack used to see a few years ago. I’ve met him a couple of times at various Manhattan functions and frankly, the guy has always given me the creeps. Jack likes him, so I’m willing to give him a try, although I strongly suspect that having a therapy session with him may feel a bit like having one with Hannibal Lecter when he’s in a particularly sour mood.

I’ve been sleeping in the guest bedroom since I got back. I still can’t lie next to Jack let alone sleep in the same bed as him. He’s tried to kiss me a few times, but I keep pushing him away. I can’t stomach his lips touching mine just yet, with the images of him screwing those women still whirling around my mind and causing paralyzing, just-below-the-surface rage that’s apparently set on enslaving my soul at the moment. Pushing away a man as devastatingly hot as Jack—a man that could once leave me ready for sex just by looking at me—feels ridiculously wrong. I keep wondering: if I can barely stand kissing him, how long will it be before I’m able to have sex with him again, if ever? The thought leaves me empty.

After going through security, we take a mirrored elevator up to the forty-third floor. Jack grips my hand tightly as we ascend, knowing how much persuading it took for me to be out in public with him so soon after everything that’s happened. The past week has left me feeling raw and bruised and light-years away from being ready to have the eyes of Manhattan on me.

At least the investment bank where Jack—and I, before my leave of absence—works at has cut ties with Lydia’s company and that cold bitch won’t be there to gloat over me or creep me out with her ever-piercing rat-like stare. It’s a minor relief, though I’m also praying that my former friend Cameron O’Neill won’t be there, or at least that I can navigate my way through the evening without bumping into him. His family is usually one of the sponsors of tonight’s event. I actually suspect they may own the entire building, which would make it just one of a dozen they own in downtown Manhattan. Cameron doesn’t usually attend this function, or at least I haven’t seen him the last two years I’ve been here. He hasn’t been very active on the Manhattan social scene since I last knew him at college. It’s just as well. Seeing one of my former best friends whom I fell out with so bitterly over Jack and whom I still resent for so many things is more than I can take right now.

After coat check on the forty-third floor, we enter the ballroom at the top of the tower. The room is as spectacular as ever—vast with marble walls and a lofty ceiling from which hang half a dozen ornate crystal chandeliers. Intricate white and mossy-green floral centerpieces adorn round tables draped in taupe tablecloths with silver trim. Towards the front of the room lie a dance floor and stage where a discreet band are playing sumptuous jazz numbers while a surprising number of brave souls dance. Ice cubes rattle in glasses atop silver trays carried by a dozen waiters dressed all in black, serving hors d’oeuvres and champagne to the rich and powerful of Manhattan.

Feeling uncharacteristically timid despite my confident-looking cream Oscar de la Renta corset top and loose-fitting black Ralph Lauren dress pants that hide the scar on my leg, I find my eyes shifting around the room in a feeble attempt to find someone I know that I can hide behind and avoid the stares I feel darting my way due to the big neon sign over my head saying Dumb betrayed wife this way. I can’t shake this paranoid feeling that everybody here knows about Jack’s extra-marital indulgences and our sham of a marriage. I feel paper-thin, as though someone could poke holes right through my skin with their fingers.

I think back to how confident and merry I felt being here this time last year and how good it felt to be walking in on the arm of this powerful, protective, hot-ass man that I loved so much and who adored me in equal measure. I recall people’s eyes lighting up as they saw us, some telling us how happy they were to see us there, others what a beautiful couple we were. Jack kept me close to him as we exchanged glances and amused smiles all night, navigating the evening with ease.

Cut to now: I feel like a socially awkward fraud who’s the laughing stock of the night, holding on to the cheating prick she’s trying to pass off as her faithful husband.

As if reading my mind, Jack squeezes my hand firmly, his wedding ring denting my flesh with a pinch as he does so.

“You look so fucking beautiful, baby,” he whispers, his lips finding my ear. “I want you badly.”

I feel like returning the compliment. In his tailored charcoal dress suit and with his freshly shaven face, the man is indecently hot. I guess that’s part of the problem…

I spot a few familiar faces and smile as warmly as I can as Jack leads me firmly by the hand towards the left side of the room where some of our colleagues mingle.

A voice booms out from the crowd. “Wilder!”

I turn to see Robert Southern, Jack’s current—and my former—boss, the president of what’s now one of the fastest-growing investment banks in New York and a man who made Jack vice president within three years of him working there. A grin lights up his designer-stubbled face as he shakes Jack’s hand and pats him on the back with jock-on-steroid aplomb before turning his attention to me.

“Hey, Jess! How are you doing? How’s the recovery been?”

“Hey, Rob.” I lean over and he plants a kiss on my cheek. “It’s been… It’s not been too bad. Still some pain, but getting better.” As if to prove me wrong, an unexpected jolt stabs the leg that was operated on just a few weeks ago. It takes a concerted effort to stop myself flinching from the sting.

“You, um, ready to come back yet?” he asks, pulling an apologetic grin as if he knows he shouldn’t be pushing it.

“Um, I don’t think so, Rob. Keep trying,” I answer playfully. “To be honest, I’m still not feeling a hundred percent. I want to make sure I’m fully recovered before I commit to anything again. It’s probably still going to be September.”

“Well, don’t take too long. We’re counting the days till you return.”

Robert’s wife, Anne, pops up next to him and flashes her expensive teeth at me. “Don’t bother Jess, Bobby. She’s not here to talk business.” She leans forward to air-kiss me.

“Hey, Annie. It’s great to see you.”

Robert turns his attention to Jack who smiles at me with the briefest of winks. I’m relieved at not having to explain that I’m contemplating never going back to that banking job.

As for Anne, the woman is smoking in a bejeweled crimson dress that clings to her lithe frame like a second skin that’s been airbrushed on by a team of spray-paint virtuosos. Her shoulder-length chestnut hair has an impossibly graceful bounce that seems to be defying gravity.

“Wow, that dress is gorgeous,” I enthuse, grateful that I can muster up some small talk.

“And I love those pants on you,” she purrs, her angular face lighting up.

“Well, I figured I’d try something a bit different.”

“Well, it works, honey. Though I have a feeling you’d look gorgeous in an old garbage bag…”

And with that, Anne embarks on one of the monologues she’s well known for, and right now, if it means I don’t have to speak, I don’t mind one little bit. The more she recounts the same anodyne Manhattan gossip as usual, the more I tune out her words, managing to follow the conversation just enough to respond in appropriate places. At some point, I realize I’m focusing on her forehead which is so smooth it would put a baby’s ass to shame. She points one of her lacquered stiletto nails at someone across the room, which makes me glance down at my short bare ones and cringe. My aversion to looking overdone is not a virtue in a place like this, though with the week I’ve had, I’m going to be cutting myself some slack.

Being in Annie’s company is like watching an infomercial on how to live the “perfect” life. Everything in her shiny world always seems impeccable: her kids are always great; her marriage is always spot-on; her body looks a team of personal trainers have made it their personal project. She’s like a glitzy Carol Brady on crack. At least, that’s the image she’s going for. Knowing the hard-headed Robert as well as I do and hearing the familiar subtle slur in Anne’s voice that suggests she’s had something to take the edge off, I wonder if the reality comes close to the mirage…

A couple of other guests join us and yak for a few minutes. As I listen to them, I realize I am out of words. Out of my peripheral vision, I spot Jack surrounded by some of his pumped-up banker buddies and their partners and frustration starts to permeate my chest. As I watch my outgoing husband, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world as he charms the pants off every man and woman within earshot, the sight of the admiring smiles bestowed upon him leaves me frowning, allowing an unsettling chill to seep into me as I find myself wondering how the hell he can be so damn confident, so carefree, so freaking perfect after everything that’s happened between us this week.

All I know is that right now I’m struggling to understand why I agreed to play the part of the dutiful wife when all I want to do is run as far away from Jack and these people as possible. Jack glances over in my direction and I look back at him anxiously, unspeaking. As the minutes drag on and I hear guffaws from an adjacent table and listen to the same tired old jokes, it’s becoming apparent that my emotions are way too raw and that I’m way too hurt and irrational to pull off the role I’m supposed to be playing tonight. I’m sure I look the part, but right now these people who I once laughed and joked with so easily feel like strangers to me. More than strangers, they are aliens. If you told me that they’d just flown in from the planet Zog on a solar-powered interstellar bidet, I wouldn’t bat an eyelid.

I take a sip of champagne to steady my jangling nerves as it begins to dawn on me that I really can’t do this. And not in an I-don’t-like-this-but-I’ll-suck-it-up way, but like someone who is on the verge of losing it in public. Not to mention that I’m less than impressed at myself for the unusually bitchy places my mind is going to in an effort to distract me from my merciless thought merry-go-round. I feel petty and shallow and so damn unstable.

Before Anne has a chance to comment on my unusually quiet demeanor, I make my excuses politely and head towards the washroom near the entrance door. As I approach it, a firm hand grasps my arm and I spin round to see Jack’s concerned face zoom in on mine.

“Baby, can you make a bit more of an effort, please?” he whispers.

My eyes narrow, getting ready for a fight. “Come again?” I restrain myself from punctuating my sentence with the word asshole.

“Can you try and relax and enjoy yourself?”

My cheeks flush warm. “Enjoy myself? Is that some kind of joke? It’s not one of your best, Jack, I have to say.”

His deep breath irritates the hell out of me. “Jessie, these people are used to seeing you be the life and soul of the party. You’re not acting yourself. Just be a bit more sociable, please.”

“Sociable? Last week I found out that the man I’m married to has spent the year screwing one of the undead whores of Wall Street, and now you want me to be trophy wife of the year on crack?”

“I’m just asking you to try to be your usual charming self, okay?”

“Yeah, well, perhaps you should have married one of the pill-popping Stepford wives I see around here who look the other way when their coke-snorting husbands jump everything with a pulse.”

An exasperated breath rushes from his lungs. “No one’s asking you to do cartwheels and rap the national anthem, Jessynia. Just try and act like you usually do. Is that too much to ask?”

“You’re kidding me, right? Look, why don’t you go back to putting on whatever show you’re performing and charm the whole room enough for the both of us.”

As I pull away from him and burst into the ladies’ room, I pause in front of the mirror and stare momentarily at the reflection of a girl I barely recognize anymore before locking myself in a cubicle and sitting on the toilet seat lid in an effort to recompose myself.

How the hell is it that he can have hurt me so badly and yet to the whole oblivious world, he looks like the perfect adoring husband while tonight I’m perfecting the role of distant, moody bitch wife? I’ve witnessed more than my fair share of über-charming men with their insufferably cold wives who look like they want to garrote their husbands. I’m now wondering how many of those sullen, moody women were secretly screaming on the inside at seeing the men who’d cheated on them or neglected them or generally treated them like shit do the Prince Charming act in front of their friends.

My regular companion of late, that horrible nagging ache in the pit of my gut, joins me as I sit wondering what our relationship will be like now that it’s been ripped apart, chewed up and spat out and is lying like a mangled carcass in front of me. Will I go through life with selective amnesia, trying to repress the reality of his affairs until those moments when I least expect it when they all come flooding back like some I.O.U. I didn’t know I’d written?

Come on, Jess. You need to snap out of this.

Minutes pass before I manage to calm down, all the while hating this newly bitter, twisted, petty person, pricked by thorns with a festering pool of venom in the place of a brain. As I wash up, leave the washroom and walk back towards the group, I make the decision to do everything I can to snap out of my self-pity and enjoy the rest of the evening, for the sake of my crumpled soul if nothing else.

As I take a seat at a table next to Jack, he puts his hand onto mine and squeezes it, leaning towards me and whispering “I’m sorry, baby” into my ear. The contrition in his devastating eyes moves me despite myself and I realize how desperately I still love him and how vivid he makes every second of my life. And deep down, I hate that he still has this effect on me.

“Hey, Jess, come join me,” beckons Robert’s assistant Victoria, a tall plump brunette with horn-rimmed glasses and a bouffant up-do that looks like it belongs to a bygone era.

As I get up and join Victoria and another former colleague, Taylor, I watch a well-known Manhattan banker do high fives with my husband and another ape in a suit and try to suppress the urge to relieve myself of my stomach contents by going into autopilot and making the most inane small talk I can muster. As we chit chat about my hair, Taylor’s kids, our plans for the summer and other forgettable things, an eerie chill permeates my body and the hairs on my arms stick up. A frigid tingle radiates down my spine as I spot some shadowy figure looking in my direction out of the corner of my eye. Turning my head ever so slowly, my breathing quickens as I meet the unblinking stare of Vallen Markov, a ruthless, empathy-challenged corporate lawyer and primary beneficiary of a fortune that one of his multi-millionaire former clients inexplicably left him in her will. He smiles without moving his eyes as he contemplates me and I curse internally as he starts making his way over to us. The man can probably smell blood in the water…

I’ve been unfortunate enough to have spent time with Vallen at various functions and each encounter has left me with a mild suspicion that he may moonlight as a contract killer in his spare time. He’s tall—just an inch or so shorter than Jack—with almond-brown hair receding slightly at the front. He has one of those faces that, although classically handsome, seems to carry a permanent expression of wicked mockery, as though you’re the punch line to some joke that you’re not privy to.

The man is inexplicably still considered to be an eligible Manhattan bachelor despite less-than-savory rumors surrounding him involving orgies, drugs, coerced abortions and blackmail. He is also well known for the ruthless way he treats the women he frequents, blackmailing the married ones he’s slept with and mercilessly pursuing those that don’t want him, allegedly resorting to extortion and threats to get what he wants.

The fact that Jack used to be friends with a piece of shit like Vallen has always been a source of confusion and consternation. Jack explained their past friendship on them being childhood friends, though he met Vallen when he was about fourteen years old to Vallen’s nineteen years, so I’m not quite sure what kind of friendship it was. Vallen is part of a group of multi-millionaire buddies that few wives would feel ecstatic about their husbands spending time with, including an oil heir and reputed sadist named Sebastian Gravier, and the woman I thought for a moment could have been the blonde in the picture with Jack—Alexandra Frost, wife of billionaire real estate mogul Steven Frost, as famous for his extra-marital dalliances as for his business exploits. Needless to say, when Jack drifted away from that whole group shortly after we got together, I breathed a sigh of relief.

As Vallen strides ever closer towards me, I prepare for the challenge of conversing with a guy so accurate a target-shooter that he knows how to inject a dart of torment into your mind whose effects linger for days. His energy is about as bad as it gets—devious and insincere. Inflicting pain is not something he reserves for enemies; it is dished out to anyone naïve or polite enough to not tell him to go to hell. Luckily for me, I’m not in the mood to play nice. As I meet his gleaming eyes, his mouth curls into a slow, deliberate, indecent smile, leaving me wishing I was carrying a shawl I could cover my bare arms with. I pull my loose hair over my shoulders to at least cover some of the skin on my upper chest. I could swear a cold fog has rolled into the room.

“Ladies,” he offers smoothly, addressing all three of us, but keeping his lifeless light-brown eyes riveted to mine. “Enjoying the evening?”

Victoria and Taylor respond enthusiastically as I smile half-heartedly, wishing he would take his damn eyes off my lips.

“And how about you, Jessynia?” He takes a step towards me in such a way that he manages to partly cut the other two women out of the conversation.

“Oh, you know. Same old.” I look around, trying to spot Jack in the crowd of people, wishing he would be a buffer between me and Vallen whom I doubt he would want me conversing with.

“And how’s the leg?” he asks, his tone verging on amused.

“It’s fine.”

“Much pain?”

I shrug. “Nothing a few crates of red wine and an opium habit won’t take care of.” With that, I thank a waiter for handing me a glass of champagne which I stop myself from downing in one gulp.

His lips twist into an unhealthy smile that doesn’t reach his eyes and his tongue hits the corner of his mouth. I don’t think I’d ever noticed how sharp the man’s teeth are. His canines almost look like fangs, and with his pale, lifeless grayish skin, I can’t help feeling like I’m talking to one of the undead.

“I hear you’ve been doing some journalism since you’ve been off work,” he says, contemplating me as though he can see right through my skin.

“I’ve been working with a couple of online magazines. I’m not sure if I’d call it journalism at this point, Vallen. I’m just writing about subjects that are important to me. You know, the kind of things that people like you can’t stand reading about: the environment, animal welfare, disability, women’s health issues—that kind of thing.”

“Well, be careful,” he says, his devious eyes narrowing. “Someone told me about one you wrote about social media censorship. You could make some powerful enemies on Wall Street with that kind of talk.”

“Well, I’ll take my chances,” I mutter absently.

“You always were a brave girl. And you’re not even a little tempted to get back into banking? The thrill, the hunt, the deals, the money…”

“I’ve never really been about the money, Vallen.”

“Well, at least Jack seems to be doing very well,” he says, playing with each word gleefully. “If he carries on like he’s doing, it’ll end up being one of the biggest new investment banks in the city. Though I’m guessing it makes it hard to get in enough time with you.”

I shrug.

“It must be hard for him, not getting to see his wife very much, especially when she’s such a breathtakingly beautiful woman…” He studies my face intently as I attempt to maintain my sang-froid, cursing myself inwardly for my inability to extricate myself from this conversation.

“Well, time’s a bit of a luxury in this industry.”

“Must be hard—not having him around much, I mean.” His words of concern are undermined by the distinct lack of compassion in his face. In fact, the scumbag looks borderline gleeful, a fact which is making me want to rearrange his face.

“Well, it’s the world of banking. It comes with the territory. He’s good at delegating. He starts work early so he can be home early most nights.” I let out a sigh of irritation. “I’m sure it must be boring hearing about our banal domestic arrangements.”

“I’m never bored listening to you, Jessynia.”

I don’t bother smiling at the compliment.

“I’ve been working with Jack’s firm recently,” he carries on.

His words take me aback and I swallow hard. “Mmm, Jack told me,” I lie, wondering why he didn’t.

“He seems to have a good team around him—Robert, Alan, Victoria… Lydia.”

I feel the blood draining out of me like sand from an hourglass as a flicker of a smile spreads across Vallen’s face. His eyes widen in delight as he watches my composure start to crack. His gaze is always far too intimate. Far too insightful.

“Do you know Lydia?” he asks.

My cheeks flush as he repeats her name. I try to speak but my mouth is suddenly too dry. Vallen couldn’t possibly know about Jack’s affair with Lydia, could he? But if he doesn’t, what’s with that God-awful smirk? Resisting the urge to suggest that he go say hello to the front of a moving bus, I try to compose myself. Vallen couldn’t possibly know. I’m just being paranoid. In any case, losing my cool will be giving him exactly what he wants—to see me upset.

“Yeah, I… I know her.” A deep breath escapes me. “Listen, Vallen. I need to go speak to someone,” I manage, scanning the room for Jack.

“Of course. I also have some friends I came with… over there.” He gestures towards a group of people to my right and I turn to find two sets of riveted eyes watching us from across the room. An icy chill creeps up the pale skin on my bare arms as I spot Sebastian Gravier and Alexandra Frost, her arm looped into his.

Alex Frost is in her late thirties and absolutely stunning, with tight shoulder-length blond curls, tanned skin which glistens like warm caramel, and an athlete’s figure. She’s a couple of inches shorter than me, but I somehow always feel tiny when I’m near her, though I suspect a lot of people feel that way in her powerful presence. Her husband is, as usual, conspicuously absent from her side. I stand transfixed, watching her wicked smile, stiffening under the weight of her silent communication. Her features are strong and angular and her face can be harsh in some lights, but there is something unique and beautiful about it despite the fact that she’s watching me with all the warmth of a white shark tracking a fur seal.

As I stand caught in the web of her composed, predatory stare, the letters of her name spell themselves out in front of my eyes until they float on my field of vision like lights blazing across a night sky.

I start to feel light-headed as the thought I’d once dismissed ensnares me once again—the thought that Alexandra Frost could be AAA, the blonde in the picture on Jack’s phone. I think back to that image and try to compare every last detail to the poised woman watching me from the other side of the room.

It can’t be. Jack wouldn’t cheat on me with a woman almost ten years older than him—a woman who is married to a man he considers a friend and a mentor. Would he?

My skin turns clammy as that familiar breathless malaise I can’t seem to shake off these days wraps its fingers around my body. Without further apology, I place my champagne flute on a nearby table and turn and head towards the ladies’ room, a.k.a. my refuge for the night. I make the mistake of turning back, only to see Vallen’s enthralled eyes trailed on mine above a twisted, toothy grin.

As I start walking towards the washroom, I suddenly know that I need to get the hell out of this place and veer off course and head for the exit door. As I approach the elevator, the sight of merry revelers milling around the landing leaves me making a beeline for the stairwell in the hopes of getting a few moments alone in there. I open the stairwell door in a rush, close it behind me and press my back against the cool concrete wall, closing my eyes tightly as I take challenging breaths in an attempt to try to escape the claustrophobia crushing me.

The sound of raucous laughter just behind the stairwell door jolts me out of the comfort of my safe haven. The easy small talk and light laughter takes me back to this time last year when navigating these soirées felt like such a breeze.

“I need to get out of here,” I whisper.

As I contemplate getting the elevator down the forty or so floors, I glance upwards at the stairwell and it dawns on me that I have Jack’s office keys—including the master key card for the roof and other typically off-bounds areas—that he asked me to keep in my purse on the ride over here. I dig his keychain out of the vintage clutch Kevin bought me a few weeks ago for my twenty-fourth birthday as I head up a flight of stairs to the roof door.

After swiping the card through the card reader, to my surprise, a little green light appears and a buzz emanates from the door.

Relief rushes through me as I push the door firmly and find myself on the roof… alone.