The General (Professionals 4)

“No concussion or anything?”

“No. Just a bit of a headache. This wasn’t too bad.”

“Baby, this is bad. I don’t know what you’ve been through to think otherwise, but a man doing this to you, this is bad,” he told me, keeping his voice low. Like maybe Smith had warned him about the way the staff eavesdropped.

“That’s… it’s…”

“Not something you want to get into with some schmuck off the street,” he said, but did so with a smile to ease the insult he hurled at himself. “So, you have a cook, I hear.”

“She will happily cook for you. Just flash that smile at her.”

“You don’t want to join me?”

“I’m supposed to…”

“Ah, yes,” he agreed, nodding. “Right. You want me to sneak you something, or are you holding out for your junk food haul later?”

“After years of carefully prepared, healthy, small-portioned meals, I am looking forward to eating a whole bag of potato chips.”

“Totally understand. Go rest. Be a grieving widow. I’ll go charm your kitchen staff.”

He actually sent me a wink before swaggering off to do, I was sure, exactly as promised.

I let myself back into my bedroom, looking at the bed with distaste. The sheets still smelled like Teddy. Once the staff was gone for the day, I was going to strip the bed myself, wash everything, and put it all back on so no one suspected anything. I imagined a normal grieving woman would want her sheets to smell like her late husband.

As I sat there, flipping through endless options on TV – so many that I was having trouble zeroing in on anything, I wondered what would happen, what could happen the day I was finally free.

When Teddy’s memorial was done. When the suspicion was off me. When the scrutiny was maybe gone.

Could I fire the staff?

Could I change the furniture?

The paint colors?

Could I give up the house as a whole? Claim that I couldn’t stop seeing the ‘worst night of my life’ over and over.

People would understand that. No one would find it suspect.

Maybe I could get a little place of my own, fill it with things that I loved, make some money of my own. I was pretty sure that, eventually, our fortune could be mine. It likely wasn’t the sum it looked like from the outside. I didn’t have access to the books, just a Platinum card that I could use for basic things like gas, lunch or drinks at the club, just life things. I wasn’t given a limit, but my life didn’t allow for much spending. My world was small. My clothes were chosen for me.

If I had to place a guess, I would say our account – if my name was even on it, that is – had about maybe two. Three at most. Million, of course. And the girl who grew up in a house with wheels that was third-hand by the time my parents moved into it shocked back at that, but the woman who brushed shoulders with other wives who talked in hushed voices – though really wanted to be heard – about the five million they spent on a new yacht, the eight on a vacation home, knew that two was a fair sum, but not exorbitantly rich. If I lived a modest lifestyle of fifty-thousand – or less – a year, I could go forty years without even needing to work at all on that.

But that was assuming I got the money.

That wasn’t factoring in things like paying for a new home – since I was pretty sure Bertram would never let me sell this place.

I would have to do something.

Hell, I would want to do something.

What, I had no idea.

I hadn’t been given much time to think about my future before Teddy came in and steered it how he wanted.

I didn’t get to think of college majors or even trade school types.

I just went from high school girl to socialite wife in a matter of months.

There was a knock at my door, snapping me out of my swirling thoughts, making my gaze move to the clock on the cable box.

How did it get to be evening already?

“Missus?” Maritza called, peeking her head in, taking in me in the bed. “Just wanted to let you know we were leaving. Lydia left some dinner on the stove in case you are hungry. I think Smith is relieving that pretty boy right now as well.”

“Thank you, Maritza.”

“Of course, missus. Get your rest. We hope you’ll be feeling better in the morning.”

Feeling better.

What an odd thing to say.

But she was gone.

And I wasn’t really the type to question her anyway. Too many years. Too much training. My tongue didn’t know how to find accusatory words.

I took a moment to check my face and hair in the bathroom, choosing not to think about why I was doing so, then made my way down the stairs to find Smith already standing in the kitchen, lifting the lid off whatever was on the stove.