Their argument wouldn’t be the confrontation that a wife should have with a cheating husband. She wouldn’t cry about her broken heart or his complete lack of respect for their marital vows. No, there would be no love lost between them. For that to happen, the relationship would have to be based on love itself. No, this argument would more than likely be a tongue lashing with a few tsk, tsks on the etiquette of extra-marital affairs and a repeat of the do’s and the don’ts. And when she says don’t, she means me.
I gave Devin a sly wink then quickly made my exit as he rushed to his wife’s side to mitigate. Their heated whispers faded into oblivion as I walked down the dock and away from the hotel-sized yacht toward my town car. I texted my driver, Carson, and saw that he was already waiting for me with the door open. I gave him a warm smile.
“Carson,” I said with a nod as I made my way into the plush, leather backseat, kicking off my heels with a satisfied groan.
“Ms. Scott, how was the party?”
“Uneventful,” I said quickly before he shut the door.
I had taken a huge risk tonight confessing to Devin’s wife. I’d never purposefully started a fire where Devin was concerned, and I was sure the outcome wouldn’t be a pleasant one. I tried to ride the high of my deceit but couldn’t manage to keep it.
Nothing, I felt…nothing. I purposefully thought about the fact that my latest evil deed might have cost me Devin.
Still…nothing.
Maybe I had finally rid myself of my addiction after all. I didn’t have to worry about facing his wrath tonight, assured that whatever the outcome of my play, the circumstances would never change.
So the question remained: Why
hadn’t I moved on? The answer was always right behind my mind’s eye, a whisper in my ear, a tap on my shoulder.
I had become one of them. I had no soul to save. I found pleasure in what used to disgust me. I had begun mingling with the shark’s years ago and had the choice to sink or swim.
I had chosen to swim, and it cost me everything.
“A virtuous woman is not moved by big names and flamboyance, but only men of profound wisdom and integrity move her.”
? Michael Bassey Johnson
§§
I wasn’t born rich, and I worked for everything I ever had. My wealth had come to me later in life with a simple idea. Once upon a time, I was a housewife to a veterinarian. Sound boring? It was. It wasn’t until it all fell apart that I realized that I could have wasted the rest of my life in that cell without knowing any differently.
I no longer had the desire to confine myself to that type of prison, having never felt validated when I was married. It took me years to discover the bigger picture, and it had nothing to do with marriage.
I was a coupon clipping, Pinterest stalking, hobby enthusiast with entirely too much time on my hands. I was always doing what was trending, and eventually, that enthusiasm led me down an insane road: a fast track to wealth I could never have imagined.
I was born in Charleston, South Carolina, where I still lived. My parents were blue collar. My mother was a flight attendant for nearly thirty years, while my father worked as a crew chief for a general contractor. My brother Aaron and I never really hurt for anything, but we didn’t live large. My mother’s idea of extravagance was dining out on steak. I wasn’t gifted a car on my sixteenth birthday. I had to work to buy my own car and was rewarded with an affordable, used truck while my friends paraded around in their gifted BMWs.
I could not have cared less about designer jeans back then, or what labels I wore. Now I had a personal shopper, wardrobe consultant, and I wouldn’t be caught dead in a BMW.
The fine lines of class and stature were made clear to me when I was young. The elite of Charleston would shun my mother publicly, though she tried desperately to fit in where she could. One of my first memories was my mother taking me to a community pool in a posh neighborhood a few miles away from our apartment.
We walked into the clubhouse, all eyes landing on my mother. Being the proud woman she was, she grabbed my hand and quickly started to introduce herself to the women gathered. The shrewd women quickly picked her apart as they sipped their martinis in their designer swimsuits. My mother became embarrassed quickly and was on the verge of tears. She guided me out to the pool and let me swim for as long as she could handle their hostile glares.
“Come on, baby,” she prompted as what looked like the clubhouse manager approached us.
“Ma’am, if you’re not a member—”
“We’re leaving,” she snapped at the woman who seemed satisfied with my mother’s reaction. She quickly wrapped me in a towel, pleading with her eyes. “Let’s go to the beach, Ninabelle,” she said, drying me quickly. With a smile, I nodded and saw my mother’s relief when I didn’t throw a fit. When we got into the car, my mother sniffled, and I saw a lone tear trickle down her cheek. She wiped it away hastily then turned to me.
“Promise me, Nina. Promise me right now that no matter what happens, you will be nice to everyone, unless they give you a reason not to be.”
“I will, Mommy,” I answered back eagerly.
“You are such a good girl,” she said, grabbing me and hugging me tightly.
That night I heard my parents fight for the first time as I was tucked in my bed, reading Shel Silverstein with my Strawberry Shortcake nightlight. It was my absolute favorite thing to do, my little indulgence. I was memorizing the poem “Clooney the Clown” for book day at school. I had never heard so much anger in my mother’s voice and was too afraid to shut off the light.