Page 6 of Silken Chains
I squint at him. “You think?”
He doesn’t seem to appreciate my sarcasm. “Safety protocols.”
“Just wanted a front-row seat to my life going up in smoke,” I quip, even though my heart’s breaking with every water-soaked page that flies by.
The words spill out before I can stop them. His eyes widen briefly before he composes himself.
My eyes sting, not from the smoke, but from the emotions threatening to spill over. “I’m so sorry,” I force out, fighting the urge to break down. I’ve always believed public meltdowns are reserved for dramatic movie scenes and not real life.
Gathering some semblance of dignity, I continue, “I own that… well, what was once a store.”
His eyes mellow for a moment. “Look, I get it. This is awful, and I’m truly sorry,” he says, genuine sympathy evident in his voice. “We only got the call an hour ago. The flames had already taken hold by the time we arrived.”
I nearly snort, but it comes out more like a choked sob. “An hour ago?”
He exhales, obviously trying to maintain patience. “We respond as soon as we’re alerted. It’s never fast enough in situations like these.”
My hands fly to my mouth, pressing against my lips as I attempt to keep the sob trapped inside. The weight of the moment presses down, threatening to crush me.
His posture softens. “I wish there was more we could’ve done.”
Trembling, I fish out my phone from the depths of my bag, almost instinctively wanting to dial David’s number. It’s a force of habit, the kind of thing you do when you’ve been with someone for as long as we were. My thumb hovers over his name. It’s then I remember the ridiculous Post-it note.
Sorry, Laura.
Sorry? You’re sorry?!
You run off with Polly Pocket, empty our bank account, and all I get is a Post-it?!
I imagine that square yellow piece of paper—one stuck so haphazardly near our shoe rack that it took me hours to find it amidst the chaos he left behind. Oh, and the delightful realization that followed: the emptied bank account, the missing savings—ninety-nine point nine percent of it earned by my own sweat.
Him and my twenty-year-old assistant Polly, enjoying each other’s company behind my unsuspecting back for months. Little Polly, whom I had almost mothered, who couldn’t tell a P&L statement from a grocery list, had betrayed me, too, helping herself to the cash in the bookstore before fleeing with my husband.
How the hell did I miss that?
Recalling it makes my blood boil. David’s face on our wedding day, promising forever. Then, those recent distant eyes. Maybe they weren’t lies. Maybe they were just preludes to that damned Post-it note.
Like a fresh slap, reminding me of all the times I’ve been called “naïve” and “clueless,” especially by my dad. Dad would have a field day with this.
“This is what you get, Laura,” I can almost hear him sneer. “Always trusting everyone, thinking the world’s some bloody fairytale. You never listened, never learned.” He’d always been quick to point out my missteps, every stumble, every blunder. “Your lack of foresight is astounding, Laura.” When David vanished with our life savings, Dad had only one thing to say: “Typical. Trusting a snake and then acting shocked when it bites? That’s on you.” The accusatory tone, the condescending smirk… it’s always the same.
The pain of betrayal by David was one thing, but having to report it to the police was its own circle of hell. The embarrassment of sitting there, recounting my naivety, watching as the officer’s eyes didn’t even flicker with surprise.
“Another case of a runaway spouse,” he’d muttered, scribbling down notes, making me feel like just another statistic, another foolish wife left in the lurch. But what stung most? The officer’s indifference mirrored how Dad would’ve reacted.
Just another day, another Laura mess-up.
With a sigh, I contemplate the train wreck my life’s become, then decide a chat with Serena might just be what the doctor ordered. I scroll to her name in my contacts, a smile tugging at the corner of my lips despite the chaos.
There it is: “Gothic Goddess Ser.” My bestie, emotional anchor, and Paranormal Romance Scribe Extraordinaire.
Ser always knows how to weave a bit of magic into the darkest tales, both in her writing and in real life.
Just seeing her caller ID makes me tear up more.
I instantly realize there are two missed calls and a graveyard of unread texts from her, mostly filled with her raving about some vampire and witch love triangle she’s cooking up. Ever since college, she’s been engrossed in her otherworldly tales. I reminisce about those late-night brainstorming sessions, with me pitching dark, steamy romance scenes and her laughing, her curly hair bouncing as she typed away. James, her partner-in-crime since our uni days, would be somewhere in the background, lost in his political spy drama.
But right now, she doesn’t pick up.
