Save Her, Abigail Osborne [ebook reader for surface pro txt] 📗

escape without consequence. Cavendish & Sons is a family company built and founded upon reputation. That means my husband will not let me go. Not without a fight. He cannot risk the ripple of rumours it would cause. At the moment, his power is resolute, unshakeable. But like with everything, the higher up you are, the further you have to fall. He cannot risk questions; doubts about his character would be intolerable. As he is fond of telling me, rumours are an incurable poison to a business.

I am a rose surrounded by an impenetrable circle of thorns. There is no escape. This knowledge echoes in my head even as his fist pummels into my side, driving the breath from my body. It makes me feel angry. I ball my fists. Although I am as smart as my husband I am nowhere near as strong as him. I breathe through my anger and through the pain. Deep breath in. There is no escape. Deep breath out. There is no escape.

I think about killing him sometimes. Okay, that is a lie. I think this all the time. When we are at dinner, especially family dinners, I look at his face. The twinkle in his eyes. The way he dominates conversations. I take in everything about him and then I visualise my hands around his neck. He would look at me with amusement at first, but then when he realises I am deadly serious, he would start to look scared. He’d claw a little at my hands. His body would jerk to escape underneath my deathly grip. But my rage cannot be denied. His face would start to turn red as the blood begins to pump furiously at his temple. His eyes would lock with mine and I would watch as the little vessels in his eyes begin to burst, his eyeballs bulging in his head, trying to escape the socket. For once I would be the one in control. I would be the one inflicting the pain and fear. I shiver with delight at this image and someone offers me a jacket. I have to stop myself from unleashing the deranged laughter inside me. ‘I am not cold,’ I want to say, ‘I am just experiencing the delicious anticipation of killing my husband.’

Flora closed down the document, unable to look at the words any longer. There was more, but nausea was threatening to overwhelm her. She’d seen enough. She was about to turn away when she saw her name. A file was on the desktop named, ‘Dear Flora’. With her heart in her mouth, she double clicked and opened the file.

Dear Flora,

If you are reading this then he has killed me. I can’t believe my life has come to this. All I ever wanted was for both of us to get the happy ending we deserved. There’s something else I need to tell…

41

Instantly, Sophie knew that there was someone in the house. Her arm was hurting. In fact, her whole body ached and it was bone deep. Pulling up in their driveway and getting out of the car, her eyes were instinctively drawn to Flora’s house. Exactly the same red brick house as her own with elegant ivy artfully arranged to enhance the beauty of both the houses. There was no movement in the house today. Sometimes she would catch glimpses of Flora as she moved around from room to room. But today the house stared back at her gloomily, as if lamenting its emptiness.

Opening the black front door, Sophie dumped her bag on the side table and her whole body relaxed. She needed that feeling more than anything after the gruelling meeting with Alistair. This happened every time she came home. The beauty and sophistication of her home would soothe her. But the feeling was interrupted as the hairs on the back of her neck rose unbidden. Somehow, she knew that there was someone in the house. The peace and tranquillity were altered, like someone else’s air was dirtying the atmosphere.

Slowly, Sophie removed her heels, not wanting to alert the intruder to her presence any more than she already had. The hard floor was deliciously warm through her sheer black tights as she made her way around the bottom floor of the house, trying to locate the cause of her unease.

In the kitchen, she saw the smudge was still there that she had instructed the cleaner to deal with only that morning. She made a mental note to send an email requesting her dismissal.

Sophie cautiously crept upstairs, caressing the wrought-iron banister as she went. Cecelia had free rein when it came to decorating Sam’s house, but Greg had drawn the line at his mother buying his house. He would choose what was in it. Surprisingly, he had a good eye for detail and the house was minimal, ultra-modern and she loved it – once she had put her stamp on it.

Upstairs, she moved towards her bedroom, a pit of dread unfurling in her stomach. Sixth sense was telling her she was not going to like what she found. Something terrible was going to happen. Reaching the doorway, her worst fears were confirmed.

Flora was perched on the edge of her bed. Sophie’s laptop was open on her knees, the screen illuminating the tear tracks on Flora’s face.

A wave of nausea swept through Sophie. She was not ready for this conversation. There were things on the laptop she had no doubt would devastate her friend. She had not intended for Flora to see them. Sophie had been preparing, that was all. She was rehearsing what she was going to say and how she was going to say it. But fate had intervened and forced her hand.

She tried to rally her mental faculties, willing her brain to co-operate. But she was lost for words. Unpreparedness was not something she was used to experiencing.

‘Sophie,’ whispered Flora, finally noticing her presence. Her face was stricken, bloodless. ‘What is this?’ She gestured to the laptop. ‘Tell