Islid into a less-than-gallant habit.
The habit included watching Dallas throughout my workday via my home security cameras and employing a security detail on retainer to trail her whenever she left the house.
Seeing as my contentious industry made me a walking target, I could’ve given myself excuses about worrying for her safety.
But deep down, I knew I had her shadowed because I wanted to be sure she wasn’t doing anything I forbade her to do.
Which, in my defense, was one thing and one thing only—other men.
In the weeks since I’d moved back in, my delicate flower of a wife had managed to do quite a bit, including but not limited to officially dropping out of her Emory degree program, single-handedly funding a SIDS awareness month gala, paying off existing medical debt at no less than three regional children’s hospitals, and sampling every Michelin-guide restaurant within driving distance.
She spent her days reading books, bullying big corps into donating to SIDS research, and playing board games with Hettie and Vernon.
At night, she binge-watched garbage on Netflix and pined over other people’s babies on social media.
Personally, I didn’t see the appeal in children. That she wanted one so bad—let alone multiple—suggested she was in desperate need of a hobby.
And no, eating was not a recreational activity, as she attempted to convince me many a times.
She also took it upon herself to rearrange my entire home, pushing furniture into areas they had no business being. Not to piss me off, I didn’t think. But rather, because she couldn’t restrain her desire to make her environment as chaotic as her.
One morning, I found her in my office, perched on my wheeled wing-backed chair. Hettie sat on the armrest, separating white Oreo filling from its shell.
I strode to my desk and collected my laptop. “What are you doing?”
Shortbread licked the inside of an Oreo. “Hanging up our wedding portrait.”
“In my office?”
“Where else would I hang it?” She nodded for Vernon to hike up the left edge, then signaled for him to stop with a raised cookie. “Perfect.”
I studied the image, noting one important fact. “I’m not in this.”
She beamed. “I know. Isn’t it perfect?”
I left the portrait in place, unsure why. But her image haunted me every time I stepped into my office.
My stock portfolio, like my net worth, had nose-dived since my marriage, which my friends enjoyed bringing up at every opportunity.
OLLIE VB
Looks like you’re on your way to becoming a millionaire.
Congratulations.
ZACH SUN
At this rate, you’ll burn through your net worth quicker than Bankman-Fried.
OLLIE VB
Whoever thought it’d be a good idea to fork over money to someone whose name, backwards, is Fried Bank Man?
ROMEO COSTA
Coming from the guy who invested in the Chicago Bulls because, flipped upside down, the logo resembles a robot fucking a crab…
OLLIE VB
Actually, it’s an altar-boy alien reading from the Bible.
And you call me a heathen.
ZACH SUN
Heathen is too weak a word for what you are.
How about pagan?
Infidel?
The prime symbol for the fall from grace of polite civilization?
For the most part, Dallas and I coexisted in peace by not acknowledging one another’s presence.
Shortbread ruined the streak when she barreled into my study, days later, drenched in sweat, interrupting my virtual meeting. I exited out, not nearly as irritated as I should be.
Rather than greet me, which would be too mannered for my banshee wife, she planted her knuckles on my desk, sending my mouse flying into my lap.
“I need your help.”
I inventoried Dallas, taking in the remote clenched in her fist and the angry flush decorating her cheeks.
Leave it to her to get so worked up over an episode of Cheaters.
I reclined in my chair and laced my fingers together, already debating what I’d bargain for. “If this is about selling tanks to your high school buddy as props for his bachelor party, I already told you, my hands are tied.”
“Help me form a political lobbying group for infant product safety.” She wiped sweat off her brow. “I know you have connections in D.C.”
At this point, her obsession with children made me wary of her kidnapping one to call her own.
I returned my mouse to its rightful place, opening an email from Cara. “While I support the cause, Costa Industries does not engage in politics beyond defense lobbying. It’s our corporate policy to maintain bipartisan support.”
“Costa Industries won’t be doing a darn thing.” She jabbed her thumb into her chest. “I will work for the lobby.
“You are my wife and, therefore, an extension of Costa Industries. Word of advice, lobbying is an impossible job in general, let alone a suitable first occupation. Try walking before you run.” I eyed the sweat beaded on her temple. “Just the journey from the couch to my study seems to have taxed you.”
“I’ve had a job.”
“Operating the kiss cam for your college basketball team doesn’t count. Especially since you were fired.”
“Unjustly.”
“You turned the kiss cam into a baby cam.”
“Your point?” She set the remote down and rounded the desk to my side, standing before me. “The news said there’s a bill to repeal the ban on crib bumpers. They increase the risk of SIDS.”
What was with her and SIDS?
Already, I’d found dozens of charges on her credit card to more SIDS charities than I knew existed.
“I cannot risk any weaknesses for Bruce and Senior to pick apart.” I forwarded a document for proofing, moving on to an email from a financial analyst. “This includes breaking a long-standing company policy.”
“Rom.”
“My answer won’t change.”
She hesitated a moment, edging back before inching closer. Her eyes fluttered shut.
Slowly—so, so slowly—she sank to her knees.
For a moment, she didn’t breathe.
Neither did I.
Finally, her eyes popped open.
She rested a white-knuckled fist on each knee, staring so deep into me I wondered if she saw a soul. “I am literally begging you, Romeo.”
“And I am literally answering your request in the most pragmatic, logical wa—”
“Fuck your pragmatism!” Her breaths escaped in heavy, erratic jerks, her eyes breathing fire into the room, hiking up the temperature. “Have you ever wondered why I care so much?”
I did.
All the time.
But I said nothing, waiting for her to continue.
“When I was six, Frankie and I finally got our wish. A sibling. A sister. A beautiful baby girl. Momma let us name her. Victoria.” Her throat bobbed.
She was looking at me but not really.
I turned rigid in my seat. For the first time in ages, panic wrapped around me, lacing through my bones with startling familiarity.
Shit.
“She was lovely. So sweet and chubby-cheeked and happy. Healthy. She was healthy, Rom.” Still on her knees, Dallas pinched her delicate brows together, as she collected the memory between trembling fingers, weaving together her past. “I remember the day I found her. A Sunday. I woke up extra early to pick matching dresses for church. Victoria—Tory—was only four months old.”
She paused, running a hand down her shirt as if she could soothe away the pain. “I found her blue and stiff. She still looked asleep. Angelic and comfy. Just…blue.”
Her sister died of SIDS.
It made sense now.
Her fascination with the subject. Her tunnel focus on infants. The first death she’d ever witnessed—a tragedy of magnificent proportions—carved a different person out of her.
And she begged me to help fight this demon.
But I had my own ghosts to slay.
“Romeo.” She perched her hands in my lap, gazing at me with defiance, with pain, with rawness—but, I noticed, not with tears. “Please. Help me do this for Victoria. She passed away, but her legacy can still live on.”
It killed me to do this to her.
To deny her something so profound and important.
So uniquely Shortbread.
I fingered her jawline, tilting her chin up, pushing through the lodge in my throat. “You may donate another wing to whatever children’s hospital you’d like. Money’s no issue. But forming a lobbyist group is out of the question.”
Dallas rose slowly, inch by inch.
I held my breath.
“You’re a coward.” She spoke with a voice void of emotions, her expression blank. “Luckily, you’re my coward. I know your weakness now, Romeo. And I fully intend on using it.”
