The Replacement Wife’s Vengeance

Chapter 2 The First Secret

I looked at my hand. The scissors were there, plain as day. Heavy and stupid.

"It's scissors," I said. My voice was flat.

"I can see that." Marcus didn't move from the doorway. The towel was tight around his waist. "Why do you have scissors?"

I turned them over in my hand. The metal caught the light from the bathroom. "I was looking for my nail file." The lie came out easy. Too easy. "They were in the way."

He stared at me. His eyes did that thing where they look at you like you're a problem he needs to solve. A bug in his code. "Put them away."

I opened the drawer and dropped them in. They landed with a thud on the wood.

"Get some sleep," he said. He turned and walked back into the bathroom. I heard the click of his electric toothbrush.

I got into bed. The sheets were cold. I laid on my back and stared at the ceiling. I could hear him moving around. The sink running. The closet door opening.

He got into bed on his side. He didn't touch me. He never does.

The room was dark. I listened to his breathing even out. It took about twenty minutes. Marcus sleeps like he does everything else. Efficiently.

My mind was going too fast. Cancer. Pregnant woman in the guest room. Scissors.

I got up slowly. The floor was cold under my feet. I walked out of the bedroom and down the hall. The apartment was dark and quiet. Everything in its place.

I stopped outside the guest room. The door was closed. I put my hand on the knob. I didn't turn it. I just stood there.

What was I doing? I didn't know. Maybe I wanted to see her. To look at the woman who was having my husband's baby. To make it real.

I let go of the knob. It wasn't her I was mad at. Not really.

I went to the kitchen instead. I got a glass of water. I stood by the big window and drank it. The city was still awake out there. Lights everywhere. People living lives that didn't look like this.

I thought about calling my mom. But what would I say? Hey mom, I have cancer and Marcus moved his girlfriend in today. She’d cry. She’d tell me to come home. But home was a thousand miles away and she was sick herself, with bills I helped pay using Marcus’s money. I was stuck.

The fridge hummed in the quiet.

I opened my laptop on the kitchen island. The screen glowed blue in the dark. I typed in a search.

Lymphoma. Stage three. Treatment options. Survival rates.

I read for an hour. My eyes hurt. The words started to blur together. Aggressive chemotherapy. Immunotherapy. Clinical trials. Five-year survival rate. Seventy percent with treatment.

Seventy percent. That was a C minus. A passing grade, but barely.

I could feel a panic starting in my chest. A tight, hot feeling. I closed my eyes.

I couldn't fall apart. Not here. Not with her in the next room and him in our bed.

I opened my eyes and did another search.

How to get a divorce quickly.

What are my financial rights?

The answers were complicated. They talked about marital assets and separation periods. They said it could take years. I didn't have years.

I heard a sound and snapped the laptop shut.

Anya was standing in the doorway of the kitchen. She was wearing a big t-shirt and her feet were bare. She looked even younger like that.

"Sorry," she whispered. "I was thirsty."

"It's fine." I waved at the fridge. "There's water. Juice. Whatever."

She padded over and opened the fridge. The light made her squint. She took out a bottle of water.

She looked at me. "Are you okay?"

The question surprised me. "Yeah. Why?"

"You're just. Sitting in the dark."

I shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

She nodded like she understood. She twisted the cap off her water but didn't drink. "Listen. About... all this. I want you to know. I didn't... It wasn't supposed to be like this."

"It never is," I said.

She flinched a little. "He said you had an understanding."

I almost laughed. An understanding. "He says a lot of things."

She looked down at her water bottle. "I don't have anywhere else to go. My family... they're not in the picture. And the pregnancy, it's been hard. He said this was the best place. That you were... kind."

The word hung between us. Kind. Was I kind? I didn't feel kind. I felt like a stone.

"He's using you," I said. It came out before I could stop it.

Her head shot up. "What?"

"He's using you to get what he wants. An heir. A perfect picture. And he's using me to take care of the messy parts." I stood up. My legs were stiff. "He doesn't care about you. He cares about what you represent."

Her eyes got shiny. "You don't know that."

"I've been married to him for five years," I said. My voice was low. "I know exactly what he cares about."

I walked past her. I couldn't do this. Not tonight.

"Clara," she said to my back.

I stopped but didn't turn around.

"I'm scared," she said. Just a whisper.

I stood there for a second. Then I kept walking. "Join the club," I muttered.

Back in the bedroom, Marcus was still asleep. I climbed into bed and laid very still.

My heart was pounding. I’d said too much. If she told him...

But maybe I didn't care anymore.

A plan was forming in the back of my mind. It was hazy, just shapes and feelings. But it was there.

I needed money. Not the allowance he gave me. Real money. I needed to get my own treatment, away from him. I needed to disappear.

The first step was my mother's heirloom jewelry. The pieces her own mother gave her. They were in a safety deposit box at a bank downtown. They weren't worth a fortune, but they were something. They were mine.

I would go tomorrow. I would take them and sell them. It was a start.

I finally fell asleep just as the sky started to get light.

The next morning, Marcus was gone before I woke up. A text on my phone.

Marcus: At the office early. Have Anya seen by a doctor today. Use Dr. Shaw. I’ll arrange it.

I deleted the text. I got dressed in jeans and a sweater. Normal clothes.

Anya was in the kitchen, eating toast. She looked up when I came in.

"I have to go out," I said. "There’s food. The TV remote is on the coffee table."

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"Errands," I said.

I grabbed my purse and left.

The bank was on 5th Avenue. I walked in and gave the teller my key and ID. She led me to the little private room.

The box was small. Inside was a velvet pouch. I poured the contents into my hand. A pair of emerald earrings. A pearl necklace. A gold bracelet with a charm that said "Always."

My throat got tight. I put them back in the pouch and shoved it in my purse.

My next stop was a pawn shop I’d looked up. It was in a part of town Marcus would never go to. The bell jingled when I walked in.

The guy behind the counter looked bored. "Help you?"

I pulled out the pouch and dumped the jewelry on the glass counter.

He picked up the earrings, held them to the light. "Stones are decent. Setting's old fashioned." He looked at me. "How much you want?"

"How much will you give me?"

He named a price. It was low. Really low.

"I need more than that," I said.

He shrugged. "Take it or leave it, lady."

I thought about the doctor's bills. The treatment. Needing to get away. "Fine."

He counted out cash. I’d never held so much physical money. It felt dirty and powerful.

I shoved it in my purse next to the now-empty velvet pouch.

When I got back to the apartment, Anya was on the couch, watching TV. She muted it when I walked in.

"Dr. Shaw’s office called," she said. "My appointment is at three."

"Okay," I said. I started to walk past her.

"Clara." She paused. "Thank you. For not being... horrible to me."

I stopped. I looked at her. Really looked. She was just a kid. A scared kid sitting on my two-thousand-dollar sofa.

"It’s not you," I said again. And I meant it this time.

I went to my room—the extra bedroom I’d been using as a sort of studio. I locked the door. I took the cash out of my purse and counted it on the bed.

It wasn't enough. Not nearly.

But it was a start. It was my first secret. My first step out of this cage.

I hid the money in an old paint box, under tubes of dried-up acrylics. Then I just sat on the floor, my back against the bed.

I had a secret. I had a plan, however bad it was. And I had a disease I needed to fight.

The door handle jiggled.

"Clara?" It was Marcus. His voice was sharp on the other side of the door. "Why is this locked? Open the door. We need to talk about Anya's doctor visit."

I looked at the paint box at my feet. My escape hatch.

I took a deep breath and stood up. "Just a second," I called out, my voice strangely calm. I slid the paint box under the bed with my foot just as the door handle jiggled again, harder this time.