Chapter 2 It Was a Cold Smile
552 Words
Three days later, Randal's i********: exploded.
There were plated dishes from a three-Michelin-star restaurant, night views of the river snapped from a five-star hotel, plus a brand-new Rolex strapped around his wrist.
The captions were always the same. "Peggy, thanks for saving me from that miserable life. This is what living actually feels like."
A: [Where's your wife?]
Randal: [Ex-wife? You mean that penny-pinching Queenie? Ten years, and she never bought me one decent thing. Cold shoulder every single day. Then I met Peggy. Now I finally know what it's like to be loved by a woman.]
His cousin: [Always said Queenie wasn't good enough. Sour face 24/7. The whole house felt frigid the second Randal stepped through the front door.]
Relatives piled on, one after another. They turned me into some bitter, miserable housewife.
I watched it all with no expression, then took screenshots.
That night at eleven, my phone buzzed.
It was a photo.
There were two tangled bodies, which were half-covered by a sheet. The angle was deliberate. Everything was crystal clear.
Then a voice message popped up.
I tapped play—speaker on.
Peggy's voice came through, breathy and laughing. "Hey, Queenie, your husband works great. Too bad you'll never get to enjoy him."
I deleted the message and saved the photo to my encrypted folder.
One minute later, Randal called.
I picked up.
"Hey, Queenie. Did you see that?" His voice was excited. "You know what it's like being with Peggy? She throws me a Rolex like it's nothing. What did you ever give me? A hundred-dollar silver chain? With you, it was nothing but scraps. Who the hell do you think you are?"
I didn't say a word, just hit record.
Then I hung up and blocked him.
*****
The next morning at the office, the atmosphere was weird.
A couple of coworkers saw me and scattered.
I opened my computer. A screenshot was flying around the internal group chat.
It read:
Queenie sold her husband to a rich woman for ten grand and happily became a cuckold.
The person who posted it was Janet Tabor, my work rival.
Randal had paid her off. I didn't even have to guess.
At two in the afternoon, my director, Lance Bostic, called me into his office.
"Queenie, your personal life is seriously hurting the company's image." He slapped the screenshot on his desk. "You're off the Sealand Project. Hand it over to Janet."
I'd spent six months working relentlessly to build the Sealand Project from scratch and revised its presentation slides thirty-seven separate times.
I frowned. "Lance, this project is my—"
"I said, give it to Janet." He cut me off. "Get your own life straightened out first."
I stared at him for three seconds, then turned and walked out.
I went into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and buried my face in the cold water.
When I looked up, the woman in the mirror had red-rimmed eyes. But her lips were curling up, just a little.
It was a cold smile, a strange smile.
I pulled out a tissue and dried my face.
I squeezed the damp tissue tighter and tighter until it crumpled completely to pieces.
And just like that, I ground away that same fool named Queenie from the past ten years.
- Writer
