AVA
My admittedly impressive blow job skills buy me two days with Link returning to the overbearing, overprotective, neanderthal of a husband that he was shortly after our marriage.
But then, as I hoped it wouldn’t, things go right back to the way they were. Link, finding any excuse to leave the penthouse. Me, wondering how I’m going to spend the rest of my life as his pretty little trophy wife, tucked out of sight until he decides to get serious about that heir of his.
Instead of spending time with me, he really amps up the gifts. It’s like he’s trying to use material things to make up for his distance. After the third package is handed off to me by one of him men, I finally tell Link over dinner that it’s too much.
Of course, his only answer is, “I’ve worked hard to be able to spoil my wife,” and I feel like a bitch for trying to stop him.
I don’t need to be spoiled, though. Even when we were two stupid eighteen-year-olds, playing house in a dump of an apartment, he would promise me that, one day, he’d have enough money to buy me whatever I wanted. He never understood that all I wanted was him.
Those days, when I had to bandage Link up after another brawl in the back alleys that brought in just enough for groceries for the week, I was happy if he found a flower for me in the concrete jungle we lived in.
Feeling vulnerable one night, I remind him of that. It’s not about the money. It’s about the thought. The effort.
The affection.
No surprise that he shuts down the conversation, using his masterful touch and claiming kiss to distract me from feeling like we’re miles apart, even when we were sitting on the same couch together. And whether he understood what I was trying to say or not, the packages stopped.
The flowers didn’t.
Every day, like clockwork, an elaborate bouquet arrives for me. There’s always a single card, written in a delicate script that has to belong to the florist. It says, To my wife and it’s signed Lincoln, with the florist’s logo—a place called Louise’s Florals in downtown Springfield—stamped on the bottom.
It’s a different bouquet every time. They each come with a glass vase, overflowing with every single type of flower you can think off… but there’s always one that looks like it’s been plucked from the local park. Whether it’s a dandelion or a different wildflower, it’s tucked inside, and though I know it has to be an order he gave to the florist, I can’t help but get butterflies in my belly whenever I find it.
I keep them. I keep all the flowers, with Mona beaming whenever I ask her to find a home for the latest vase, but the wildflowers? They’re special to me, and I keep them pressed between the pages of the first edition copy of Little Women Link bought for me.
Because of small things like that, I can look past a lot of things that Link does, blaming it on his position in the syndicate.
The late hours. How he seems to spend more time in meetings at the Devil’s Playground than with me. The way he insists on my having a bodyguard in the penthouse—and at least three when I want to step foot outside of it.
And then there’s the fact that he has two phones: a recent model, and a smartphone that looks like it’s a couple of years old. I only ever see him using the updated phone—and while his conversations around me are often short and in code, they’re still super frequent—but he keeps that second phone charged and ready at all times.
I brought it up once. As his wife, I was expected to hand my phone over to his tech guy so that he could put some apps on it. A tracker, Link admits without an ounce of shame, and one that would prevent someone from breaking into it if I ever lost it.
He doesn’t go through my messages—though there haven’t been many since I got whisked away to his world, and most of my teacher friends are too busy on summer break to know that my life has changed so drastically—so I can’t bring myself to go through his, but I’d be lying if I said I was dying to know what the purpose behind having two phones was.
All I get out of Link is that one’s for business, and one’s personal. I can’t imagine how—as far as I can tell, he doesn’t have a personal life apart from our stolen moments in the penthouse—and that tracks since I never see him use that phone.
He keeps it on him anyway, and I let it go.
I let a lot of things go… until I discover a second card tucked in my afternoon bouquet while searching for the wildflower hidden inside.
I know I shouldn’t have opened it. It came in an envelope addressed to Lincoln
“Just a note that we’ve started the process on your second arrangement, as requested.”
Blinking rapidly a few times, I make sure I read that right.
Second arrangement.
Who else is Link sending flowers to?
* * *
With the note from the florist in my pocket, I wait until Bobby hitches up his pants and heads for the bathroom to make my escape.
Bobby is my usual afternoon babysitter; after it all got out that the shaggy-haired Kyle had a bit of a crush on me, Link threatened his nuts if he acted on it, then banished him from the penthouse. I guess, since he’s in a committed relationship with Heidi, Bobby was safe enough to have around me, so he’s usually there.
One good thing about having the same guards over and over again? It’s easy to pick up on their routine. Around this time every day, Bobby takes a twenty-minute shit in the bathroom assigned to the men.
With Mona working on dinner prep, I grab my phone, my license, and my debit card, and slip into the elevator.
After that night at the Playground, Link insisted that I don’t leave without telling him. That way he can arrange for me to have a couple of bodyguards if he’s too busy to accompany me wherever I want to go. I never said I would do it; I just did as a courtesy to my husband and his position.
But since I know damn well that Link would stop me, I decide it’s worth a little risk. I won’t be gone for long, and though I could’ve just called Louise’s and asked about the second arrangement, my gut tells me that this is a conversation I want to have in person.
The florist probably won’t tell me anything. With as much money as Link has got to be dropping with them, keeping me in roses, peonies, daisies, and more, it’s a pretty safe bet he’ll have her loyalty. But, you never know. Maybe Louise will take pity on one of her customer’s wives and give something away when I’m actually standing there on the other side of the counter.
My phone starts ringing when I’m halfway across town, riding in the Uber I hired. I had it on my lap, a safety measure in the case my driver was sketchy, and I notice him looking at my funny when it instantly starts ring again once it stops the first time.
Sparing a smile and a half-shrug, I glance at the unfamiliar number—it’s not Link’s, or anyone else I know—and slide it under my jeans to muffle the vibration.
After six calls, it finally stops. I pay my driver, thanking him and declining his offer to stick around. Something about him made me uneasy, and I’d rather walk home than climb back in his car.
I wait for him to leave me on the side of Main, just outside of Louise’s Florals. As soon as he disappears back into city traffic, I slip my phone into the back pocket of my jeans and glance up at the shop.
It’s cute. Its sign looks hand-painted, with the name of it drawn in a pretty sky blue script over a soft pink background. It’s a bright spot in the dingier part of Springfield, and I find myself smiling a little as I push open the door, a gentle ting announcing my entrance.
A curvy brunette is standing behind the counter, head bowed over some kind of ledger. She has a pencil in her hand, tapping it absently against the countertop, humming under her breath as she tucks a strand of her long, way brown hair behind her ear.
As she hears the ting, she glances up, revealing a lovely face and warm hazel eyes. “Hey, there. How are you? What can I do for you?”
Apart from the coolers full of flowers, the counter and its old-fashioned register, me and the woman, the shop is empty. Fingers crossed that she’s the owner, then, since I don’t see any other employees.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m actually looking for Louise.”
The brunette purses her lip, an apologetic look flashing across her face. “I’m sorry, but she’s not here. She’s actually on a well-deserved vacation for the next week.”
Damn it. “Oh.”
She folds her hand, the massive engagement ring and matching wedding band on her left hand clinking against the glass countertop with the motion. “I’m Angela. I manage the shop when Louise isn’t around. Maybe there’s something I can help you with?”
Maybe. I pull out the crumpled card I stowed in my front pocket. “I had a question about this.”
I have a question about who the hell else my husband is sending flowers to.
As though subtly showing off her rings—and making me almost want to flash the tattoo on my finger right back at her—she stretches out her left hand, waggling her fingers.
I pressed the card into her palm.
Angela takes it, running her gaze over the message. And then, to my surprise, she grins.
“Ah. So you’re the lucky lady.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Crewes, right? Lincoln’s wife.”
I nod. “I find this is the bouquet that arrived for me this morning.”
“Well, that was a mistake. The runner who picked up the bouquet today was supposed to hand that off to the housekeeper.”
My stomach goes tight. Mona knew, too?
It finally dawns on Angela that while she’s happily chatting away, my world is falling apart. Not only is Link is setting up a second floral arrangement for God knows who, but Mona has been helping him hide it from me.
She tilts her head, hair falling over her shoulder. “You know, I mentioned it to my husband. When we were planning our wedding, he knew better than to think about having any input when it came to the flowers. I’m somewhat of a hobby botanist, you know, and I had connections with Louise. He handled food, and I did flowers. I couldn’t understand a bride who didn’t want to have a say in her own floral arrangements.”
Um… what?
“Floral arrangements?” I echo.
“Right. That’s what the note was about. He had very explicit instructions about what kind of arrangements you two were going to have at your wedding in September.”
What wedding, I wonder. Because, as far as I know, we already had our quickie wedding back at Judge Callihan’s.
Angela realizes that I have no idea what she’s talking about a few seconds later. Gasping softly, wincing, she covers her mouth with her hand. “Whoops. I forgot. Lincoln said it was a surprise.”
“A surprise?” I echo weakly. “What do you mean, surprise?”
She shakes her head. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
Probably not, but now that she has… “What exactly did my husband say?”
I can see the war playing out on her features. Does she piss off the Devil of Springfield—or piss off his wife, and have to deal with him anyway?
“He might’ve mentioned something to my husband about giving you the big church wedding you missed out on by eloping. I guess, since me and Mace eloped, too, doing the courthouse thing, he wanted some advice on hosting a second wedding before God or something like that. He said it’s been taking up all his time, but it was worth it for his wife.”
Oh.
Oh.
Honestly, that is something we talked about. Not recently, but years ago. Even though we were “living in sin” at eighteen, Link was adamant that we’d get a priest to marry us when we finally said ‘I do’. Being the silly little girl I was, I wanted the poofy white dress, the pomp and circumstance—
—and the flowers.
Oh…
