Chapter 2: Eighteen Months Later

Brooke:

The sight of my porcelain sink fills my vision as I pop in my contacts. Avoiding the mirror, I go through my morning routine. I dread going downstairs to breakfast. Every day for the last eighteen months has been the same. Landon and I sit silently through a stilted breakfast before he leaves for work. He does not come back until I am fast asleep.

The smell of coffee fills my senses as I round the corner to the kitchen. Landon's head is buried in a newspaper as he sips his coffee. Sitting across from him, I butter some toast and spread some raspberry jam across it. Sinking my teeth into the tartness, I close my eyes and hold in a small moan. The past eighteen months have been like heaven. I have tried so many foods, but so far, nothing has been better than this raspberry jam Landon's chef makes homemade.

After twenty minutes of silence, Landon folds up his newspaper. "I'm heading to Italy for some business tomorrow morning."

I nod my head even though inside my heart is racing. Landon's business trips are a common occurrence. They also happen to be the only time he ever touches me. Usually late at night and in the dark. I make a mental note to leave my contacts in. Blindness and hands are not a good combination for me. Without any more conversation, Landon leaves for work.

As much as I hate it, a thrill rushes through me in anticipation of tonight. I know he does not love me—or even find me attractive—but the thought of making love to him tonight has tingles spreading all the way to my toes. Cursing myself for doing it, I pick up my phone and schedule an appointment with my usual spa lady.

That is another thing I have discovered since my marriage: pampering. I had never been able to go for a massage or have a mani-pedi before due to the constant bruising and burns. Though my skin is still always tender and my arms still tend to be bruised, it is much easier to hide. The bruises are always a softer color, not as angry.

I am scheduled for a full pampering session at one. I'm talking massage, waxing, mani-pedi, a hair treatment. The works. My other appointment does not start until ten.

Glancing at the clock, I see it's only seven-thirty. I decide to head to the basement, where my makeshift art room is set up. Although it is a windowless room and can be very stuffy, I love my studio. It's got a large closet that I can use as my darkroom for developing photos, but the rest of the room I have lit up with LED bulbs and twinkling lights (when I want a softer glow). I have bright, teal-colored walls I painted myself, and one wall is entirely made up of bookshelves filled with my portfolios. Each book has a theme. Some are based on seasons, others on animals. Some are drawn, painted, or photographs. Eighteen months of commitment to filling out as many as I possibly could.

In the center of the room is a large circular table where I do all my projects. I have a dresser along another wall filled with supplies, bins full of wood to carve and wield into small figurines. I curl up on the couch, which is full of throw pillows and blankets, with my sketch pad.

I start to draw yet another portrait of Landon. I always start with his eyes. They are a stormy grey, bordered by long, thick black lashes. Then, I move to his bold dark eyebrows. His slightly crooked nose. His strong, square chiseled jaw, covered in a five o'clock shadow. His soft plump lips. I run my finger along the line of his lips. Knowing those lips will be pressed against mine tonight or dragged down the length of my neck...my heart rate picks up and my panties dampen.

I can feel tingling in the tips of my breasts even though he has never touched them. Never explored beyond what was needed for the act itself. Sometimes I wonder why he even bothers. He clearly has no desire for intimacy. At least not with me.

The stupid voice in the back of my mind echoes my cousin's words. "Brooke's such an ugly fat thing. Good luck getting that bitch pregnant. Of course, you could always turn off all the lights if you were desperate. Which, if you ever wanted to unshackle yourself—"

That was the last I heard of his sentence because my eavesdropping was interrupted by a server passing by. Unshackled? From me? If he did not want me as his wife, why did he marry me? What did it have to do with a pregnancy?

My alarm goes off, reminding me that my appointment's in a half hour. I put my incomplete drawing in the dresser drawer that holds an album dedicated to Landon. I keep it separated from my other work in case Landon comes down here one day. Not that he ever has. In a year and a half of marriage, Landon has never sought me out. Never touched me unnecessarily. Hell, we do not even talk more than absolutely necessary. Mostly we stick to polite table etiquette, such as "please pass the butter," during our breakfast and dinner on the weekends.

Landon owns a multibillion-dollar company in software. He is so tech-savvy it is unreal. He started the company from the ground up, and everyone thought he would fail. Closing the door on my thoughts of Landon, I get into my Buick and head to my appointment, ignoring the nagging guilt I feel for keeping it a secret.