The Sinful Lives of Trophy Wives: A Novel

CHAPTER ONE

GEORGIA

PRESENT DAY

The day after the accident

St. Mary’s Medical Center

Pain is the first thing I remember. One moment I’m sleeping the soundest sleep anyone has ever slept. In the next, pain bites at the tips of my toes. Sharp, piercing sensations crawl up my body, slinking over my skin, torturing every nerve ending until I’m paralyzed. I try to suck in a jagged breath, but lead sheets crush my chest. I’m flattened against a firm mattress. I’m cold. So unbelievably cold.

Panic lashes through my veins.

I can’t open my eyes or my lips. I can’t speak or move. My strength is gone, completely sapped from my muscles.

Beep.

Knives pierce my eardrums as the sound goes off again. Swallowing is an effort. A jagged-edged rock has taken up residence in the back of my throat. I’m so thirsty. My lips are unbelievably chapped.

Beep.

Without warning, the nightmare floods back in violent, vivid color. Flashing lights and blood and screams create a chaotic painting against the backs of my eyelids. Agony follows, and grief too.

The accident.

Something terrible happened. I—I didn’t stop it. I could have—God, I should have—but I didn’t. What have I done?

It strikes again—that cold, wretched feeling that sours my gut. Guilt. I could’ve done something, opened my mouth and changed the sequence of events that catapulted me into this dark place. I could’ve changed everything. I held the future in the palm of my hand. But I didn’t act, didn’t try hard enough.

This is my fault.

Beep.

The annoying bleat morphs from something intrusive and foreign into something familiar. A machine I’ve heard before, when my first husband, Eli, slipped and tumbled down our spiral staircase. He landed on the bottom, arms and legs broken in awkward angles like a demented starfish. His head had hit the tile hard and oozed blood from the crack in his skull all over our Grecian tile. An ambulance rushed him to St. Mary’s Medical Center. The doctors tried all they could to save him, but their efforts were in vain. The following year, Andrew, my second husband, had been dead on arrival. Not much the doctors could do after he swallowed that bullet. I found him in our office, his brains staining the back of an Italian leather chair I’d given him for Christmas.

Beep.

I know that noise. I’m in the hospital. The knowledge only increases the adrenaline surging hot through me.

Open those curtains, would you, Sheree? someone says from beside me.

I’m here! I can hear you! I want to scream. But I can’t. My lips might as well be stapled shut.

There, that’s better, the same nurse says after another shrill chirp from the machine. She’s still really pale, though.

Do you think her color is off because of blood loss? someone asks from the other side of me. This voice is softer. Sweeter. Or lack of sunlight from being stuck indoors? Look at her nails, Karen. She’s definitely not the outdoorsy type. Maybe she’s always this pasty white.

Pasty? Have I truly lost that much blood? My pulse races at the thought.

Beep…beep…beep.

Something tugs on my arm. It’s an IV. They’re upping my medication.

How long have I been here? It could be hours after my wedding reception, or a month later. There’s no way for me to know. It feels as if I’ve been sleeping my entire life. Consciousness slips away as blobs of inky darkness threaten to pull me under. My thoughts knock together clumsily like shapes in a kaleidoscope, changing and smearing until time and dream and reality are inconsequential. Is he here too? Tucked away in the room next door in the same situation? Too many questions swirl through my brain at once and I can’t make sense of any of them.

You know, Karen says, she kind of looks like that woman.

Which one?

The woman all over the news, Karen says, the IV jerking in my vein. The one who killed her husband, married another guy right after, and then killed him too. I think it’s her.

Beep.

Oh, I’d almost forgotten about her, Sheree says. They say she pushed one down the stairs and shot the other one while he was working in his office. She’s beside me now. The side of my bed slumps as if she’s leaning over to get a closer look at me. Yeah, she kind of does look like her, doesn’t she? What were they calling her?

The Black Widow.

That’s right. Hard to tell what she looks like with those bandages on her face.

Oh, for the love of all that is holy, please don’t let my face be covered with scars. I wouldn’t want to live if I’ve become disfigured.

Did you hear if the other woman made it? Karen asks. The one who was hit by their car?

There was no way that poor woman could’ve survived. They had to have been going fast. Sheree’s voice lowers. When they brought her in, she was really messed up. Did you see her? The officer said she flew thirty feet. Cracked her head open on the asphalt.

What was she doing in the middle of the road?

No one knows. Sheree sighs heavily, as if whatever she’s thinking has taken a physical toll on her. But that’s not the worst of it. I’ve heard that the woman’s husband—the one driving—was killed on impact when they veered into a tree.

Oh my God, Karen says as she pats my hand. She’s going to be devastated when she finds out.

Denial flares in my gut. That’s not right. They’re mistaken. I’m not—we hadn’t—Robert couldn’t have died. That’s not possible…

Beepbeep…beepbeep.

It gets worse, Sheree retorts. I overheard the officer outside her door talking to a detective last night. They’re going to have a lot of questions for her when she wakes up, and who knows? They might try to arrest her for murder.

Murder? No—this can’t be happening. As a heavy dose of medication deluges my blood, I fall into a deep, coma-like sleep—one plagued with nightmares of shattered glass and blood-soaked skin and screams bubbling from the pit of hell.

CHAPTER TWO

BROOKE

SIX DAYS BEFORE THE ACCIDENT

Sunday

The area is an architectural dream, with Italian Renaissance, Elizabethan, and Mediterranean influences, the real estate agent says. There are only forty homes in Presidio Terrace, all located around one street that makes the shape of a lasso.

Or a noose, I think, though I don’t dare speak.

There is a twenty-four-hour guard at the front gate, and anyone using the pedestrian entrance must show proper identification. The agent leads us through the formal dining room, featuring a table that could easily seat thirty. Not even Google Earth can get in here. The community association negotiated for this area to remain unseen from all maps. There is a security system on the home as well, of course. It features cameras for every door, sensors on every window, and a panic button in each bedroom. It was created by the Secret Service.

Really? Jack says, finally acknowledging the agent’s presence. It’s as if she’d been beneath him all this time and not worth speaking to. Interesting.

She nods excitedly. The level of security here is quite extraordinary.

Jack lets his arm fall heavily around my shoulder, and I’m not sure why but it feels fatherly. As if I’m a child he’s trying to shield from something heinous. At fifty, Jack is twenty-two years older than I am, though he’s aged incredibly well. I gaze up at him, admiring how smooth and tight his skin is, even though he doesn’t do anything special to maintain it. He’s clean-shaven, with one of those hardened jawlines that must’ve manifested after years of clenching his back teeth. He takes care of his body too. I’ve dated twenty-year-olds who didn’t have the muscles he’s got. But his hair and eyes give his true age away. We’ve been together only a year—and married for ten of those months—so of course I didn’t know him when he had a full head of dark hair, but to me, his silver hair only enhances his sex appeal. And his eyes—they’re crisp blue and full of light and vitality, but when he smiles, which he doesn’t do often, tiny lines splinter from the corners. I won’t mention the size of his—ahem—wallet, but that’s impressive too.

Top-level security is what we’re looking for. Isn’t it? He squeezes me against him, indicating that I’m not supposed to answer that. Stand silent and smile. I do as I’ve been previously instructed. I anticipate I’ll be spending most of my time at work—that’s why we moved here. To be closer to the hub of innovation. I need to make sure my wife is protected when I’m spending long hours away from home. This place is hers.

Lucky lady. The agent smiles at me. I return the gesture without showing my teeth. This way, she sings, to the kitchen.

My stilettos click-clack over the tile and echo through the cavernous kitchen. I won’t be cooking, so I’m not interested in this room. The counters are quartz and the appliances are all stainless steel. It’s pretty, in a simple way. The sink’s faucet is hooked like a swan’s neck, and the cabinetry above the stove is beautifully detailed. Actually, the entire thing resembles the kitchen in Jack’s Virginia Beach home.

His previous home is gorgeous and while his business is based in tech—he’s the CEO and principal engineer of a major search engine company—and he could technically run it from anywhere in the world, Jack says it’s time to move to the city where his headquarters are. I thought it wouldn’t hurt to own two homes, one on the East Coast, one on the West, but he insists on selling it. Reminds him too much of his ex-wife, I think. They divorced a year and a half ago after twenty years of marriage. He’s looking to put their loveless marriage and nasty divorce behind him. I’m completely onboard with that idea. Last week I mentioned something about taking a trip to California, to blow off steam. Being an army brat means I lived in half a dozen states growing up, and California has always been my favorite. I’ve visited two times in the last five years, though both trips had been more for business than for pleasure.

A single mention of how much I missed the Northern California ocean air, and here we are, one private jet ride later, seriously looking at homes. He says the timing lines up perfectly with his desire to expand the company. I can’t argue. I wouldn’t dare.

All of this will have to be redone. Obviously, Jack adds, skimming his hand along the counters. The colors aren’t to our taste.

Aren’t they?

That’s the great thing about this place, the agent says. There’s enough room in your budget for you to make all the changes you want. This way. Follow me.

Jack said he would hire a full-time staff for whichever California home we choose, if that’s what I want. But everywhere we go people recognize Jack. He’s been featured on the covers of Wired, Popular Mechanics, PC Magazine, and Computerworld. He’s also been featured on a few select Forbes lists, but since those were based on net worth, rather than the empire he’s built himself, he didn’t pay much attention. Jack doesn’t like to acknowledge the fortune he received from his parents—they invested early and smartly in Apple, Amazon, and Time Warner—but it must be on everyone’s mind when they meet him. People don’t forget your name when the word billion is attached.

Because of his wealth and prestige in the tech world, we always have to smile and wave and speak enthusiastically, as if we’ve been waiting all day to have a ten-minute-long conversation about who-cares-what with someone wanting their big break in the industry. I don’t want to feel like I’m being watched in my own home. I’m hoping he’ll let me take care of the place—the inside, at least. The home is expansive, but as long as we have regular housekeeping services, I should be able to manage the rest.

It’s not like we have children running around, muddying everything up.

It’s just going to be me most days. The thought is enticing, to say the least. I love spending time with Jack, but there’s something about having the day to myself that tickles me down to my toes. I’ll have all day to research, to get some serious work done on my book, or do absolutely fuck-all, if the mood strikes me.

Although Jack hasn’t spoken the words, I know this is the home we’ll buy, and I’m happy with that plan. It’s the only home I’ve seen that’s ticked all the right boxes. Jack is after the security and privacy, and for those things, nothing rivals this place.

Peeking out the kitchen window over the sink, I steal my first glimpse of the backyard. It’s landscaped beautifully, with a pool, a spa, a cabana on either end, and trees lining the edges for privacy. I can definitely imagine summers spent back there. Alone. Curled up on the lounge, computer on my lap, margarita on the table at my side.

The community board is active, as you would imagine in a place like this, the agent says, letting her hand drift over the banister as she leads us upstairs. So there are rules that must be followed if you intend to purchase the home.

What rules? Jack stops dead. You didn’t mention that before.

There’s the husband I know, resistant to any kind of order.

Nothing too onerous. This way to the master. You must see the view.

I stop a few stairs above him and extend my hand. He clenches his jaw and follows reluctantly, taking my hand as he passes.

These rules are going to be a deal breaker, he says with a groan, and leads me down a hallway wide enough to fit a car through.

As the agent pushes open two oversized doors simultaneously and stands back with a smile, the room washes in light. The bedroom is enormous, with a cathedral-like ceiling, a chandelier in the center, thick crown molding, and a window with a sprawling view of the Pacific Ocean and Golden Gate Bridge.

Before we go any further, I need to hear about these rules, Jack presses. He’s standing in the center of the room with his arms folded over his chest. What are they and who makes them?

The agent turns, her blond hair falling over her shoulder. It’s about the front of the home, mainly. Grass can’t be longer than two inches. Garage doors cannot be left open for longer than five minutes at a time. Cars must be parked in the garage overnight—not in the street or the driveway. No music over seventy decibels. Things like that.

Nodding, Jack seems to chew over her words. Those aren’t too cumbersome. Who makes them?

The Presidio Terrace Homeowners Association. It’s run by a few of the wives in the community. She checks her phone. Erin King, who lives across the street, is the president. Georgia St. Claire—I’m sure you’ve heard of her from the news—lives next door, to your right, though you can’t see her home from here. She’s the secretary.

Why would we have heard of Georgia St. Claire? he asks. Then he repeats the name, thoughtfully. St. Claire. Is she married to the governor?

No, no, nothing like that. The agent lowers her voice as if telling a delicious secret. She’s the Black Widow. When Jack stares blankly, she prattles on. Oh, it’s just a nickname the press has given her. She’s had two husbands pass away in the last ten years, and some say she’s killed them. She’s already lined up her next future dead husband too. Got engaged this summer. Robert Donnelly is still alive for the time being, but there are bets as to how long that’ll last.

Talk about morbid gossip. I’m all ears.

I don’t know that I want my wife associating with a husband-killer. The corners of Jack’s mouth kink up in an attempt at a smile. What if that kind of behavior rubs off?

Mr. Davies, I’m sure that’s not the way it works and—

That was a joke, he says flatly. Brooke wouldn’t dare associate with someone nicknamed the Black Widow.

But I don’t even know her. How could I say who I would or wouldn’t hang out with? Surely I’ll make up my own mind. And it’s not like Jack will be around to police me.

There’s more of the house to show you: the gym, the upstairs office, a handful of other bedrooms. If you’ll follow me? The agent glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and then continues the tour. I wouldn’t let Ms. St. Claire’s presence sway your decision to purchase the home, Mr. Davies. I can assure you there are plenty of reputable women on the street for your wife to associate with.

I was wondering how long it would take for them to leave me out of the conversation completely. It’s as if I’ve become invisible, a ghost walking the halls. I must have a talent for disappearing in plain sight. I’m impressed with the agent, actually. Within my husband’s inner circle it usually takes only a few minutes to start ignoring me, and she’s nearly finished giving the tour. Points for making an attempt.

After she’s shown us everything the magnificent home has to offer, Jack moves the conversation to other couples on the street. He covers the husbands’ occupations and the length of time each couple has lived in the community. Listening intently, though pretending not to care, I stand in the backyard near the pool, relishing the warm California sunshine on my cheeks.

All right, Brooke, Jack says with a tone of finality. Sounds like you could make some friends in the neighborhood. He’s at my side again, though this time he doesn’t touch me. Clearly he’s interested in the home and ready to negotiate. His demeanor has completely changed. It’s all business now. You’ll be happy here. You can get involved in the board too, if you’d like.

Realistically, we’ll be here only a year tops before we move on to the next best house in another enticing neighborhood. Moving is in my nature, and the thought of putting permanent roots down in a place like this has the blood freezing in my veins.

I smile brightly, playing the part of a billionaire’s wife, and nod enthusiastically. He nods decisively in return.

It’s done, he tells the agent. I just have a few other questions for you, about the security system. Brooke, I’ll meet you at the car.

As he takes her by the elbow and leads her back into the house to talk business, I take in my new backyard. Flowering bushes and walkways leading to hidden places and fountains and birdbaths. It’s going to be peaceful here. I can feel it. Following a tiny shaded path on the left side of the house, I tiptoe from one stone to another, beside towering ferns that take my breath away. The path leads me out front, near Jack’s and the agent’s cars. A few houses down, a blond woman scoots along her driveway on her hands and knees. She’s holding something and from here, it appears as if she’s edging her lawn with scissors. Odd, I think. What’s she going to do next? Measure the blades with a ruler?

I’m waiting for her to do just that when a woman directly across the street yells, Good morning!

She takes a break from unloading groceries from the trunk of her Tesla to enthusiastically whip her arm back and forth over her head. I can’t remember what the real estate agent had said her name was, but I like her immediately. Are you looking or buying?

Buying, I holler back, and then check over my shoulder for signs of Jack. He’s nowhere to be seen. My husband’s inside finishing up the details.

Oh, how exciting! The woman strides confidently across the street without a single teeter on her heels. Her platinum-blond hair, a stark contrast against her black pencil skirt and matching jacket, blows in the breeze behind her as she approaches and extends her hand. Allow me to introduce myself properly, then. I’m Erin King, president of the Presidio Terrace Homeowners Association.

My name is Brooke, I say, shaking her hand. Brooke Davies.

Let me just say, right off the bat…your husband is a genius.

I squint, perplexed. You know Jack?

"Not personally, but I doubt there’s a single person in Silicon Valley who doesn’t know of him. Besides, not many can afford this neighborhood, and people of his magnitude love the privacy it offers. I recognize you from the news, Erin says. They like to bring up your husband’s nasty divorce and his hasty marriage to—well, to you. Kids?"

No, not even on the radar. I try not to sound upset by her probing into our personal life. You?

God, no. She makes a scrunched face as if she’s tasted something gross. "Mason hates kids. Loathes them. That’s why we moved