The Next Wife, Kaira Rouda [fiction books to read TXT] 📗

I will pay Sonja to bring the contents of my closet to my suite at the Canopy. I’ll have them set everything up on rolling racks in the adjoining room. And I’ll have Sonja organize it all. She’ll handle that, and then I’ll fire her, too. She seems overly loyal to John and Kate. Overly attached to the past.

I am the future. That’s who I am. The music still blares as I make my way downstairs to the kitchen. As I stand in the kitchen, the electric blackout shades on the windows in the house start to roll down. I’m plunged into darkness even though it’s sunny outside. My house is a fiend.

I push aside the electric shades and open all the windows in the kitchen before realizing the music will carry to the golf course.

I need a fresh start. I’m not going to hang out in downtown Columbus. No, Paris is nice this time of year. Or London. Or, well, anywhere luxurious. I’ll go away for a price. And I know who will be willing to pay just about anything. I pull out my phone.

I text Kate: How about coming over to my house for a discussion. We need to work things out between us. For Ashlyn’s sake. I don’t understand what you said about owning seventy percent of the company, but I do know I have a right to something for being married to John. Don’t you want me gone? Maybe we can make a deal?

I watch my phone, pick it up every minute for the next ten minutes. I check to be sure I sent the message to the right phone number. The contact in my phone is labeled Old Mrs. Nelson. Yep, that’s her.

Finally, my screen lights up. It’s Kate. She texts: I’m busy. Sorry.

I’m so tired of these people. I want out. Kate’s my multimillion-dollar golden ticket.

I text. I can be reasonable. Buy me out.

She texts: Out of what? I can prove the will is fake. Witnesses, Mary and Sarah, signed statements. Notary ledger is being subpoenaed. John’s signature declared a fake per expert. You’re done.

Well, shit. I remember George never called me back. And his stupid receptionist, Mary, has turned on me. I’m alone, as usual. Ok, but I’m still here. I can make your life miserable. I can go to the press. Ruin the IPO.

I watch the bubbles as Kate responds. She must have a lot to say. I’m about to send another text when hers finally comes through. You already tipped off the media.

I text: Yup. But I’ll keep quiet from now on, for a price.

Kate texts: You killed John. You sabotaged Ashlyn’s car. You tried to take my company with that fake will. You tried to take everything.

Interesting. I wonder what she thinks she knows. She’s bluffing. She has no proof. Just Ashlyn’s stupid speculations.

Still my hand shakes as I reply, His heart stopped. His fault. Ashlyn is a brat who should go back to school. I don’t want the company anymore. I know what you want. You can have it.

I yank up the shade and stare outside at the backyard and the golf course beyond. Those guys out there on the golf course are John’s people. They were never mine. These neighbors aren’t my type. The whole scene in the suburbs never suited me. This is a place people come to die, the last stop before a retirement home. I’m so glad I’m getting out of here. I’m about to be super rich. I search for flights on my phone and discover several to New York this evening. I book a seat, first class of course, and when the travel site screen prompts me, I decide yes, I would like to add a luxury hotel suite. So I do. From New York, I can go anywhere in the world.

My phone lights up with a notice that there’s motion at the front door. Likely it’s a golfer coming to complain about the late afternoon noise. Or worse. It’s probably the neighborhood security guard writing me another citation for not understanding how to control my house. It’s like if you have a dog that keeps running away and digging up your neighbor’s yard. Sure, it’s not you doing the digging, but still, you’re responsible. Until you put some ground-up cherry pits in the dog’s food, then you’re not. That was a lesson dear old Momma taught me when she killed my puppy.

Kate texts: This is your last chance. I’ll be over at 7. You better be telling the truth.

I text: I am.

“Coming,” I yell, even though I know the person at the front door can’t hear me.

I pull open the door. It’s the stupid rent-a-security-guard cop again.

“Mrs. Nelson. Good evening.” He’s yelling and points to my noise-canceling headphones.

I yank them off. “Good evening, Officer.”

“Ma’am, your music. We’ve had several complaints.” He’s opening his little citation pad and begins to write.

Who cares? “As I told you, I can’t control the house. It’s haunted. I’m moving. Tell them all I’m moving. Gone tonight for good. That’s going to make all of us really happy.”

“You know what, ma’am. You’re right. I’ll let them know. Have a great evening.” He is laughing as he walks down my front path.

I hate them all. I walk back inside and just like that, the music stops. I know something else will happen soon, but for now, I enjoy the silence.

I walk out to the garage, and I find a picnic basket. We only used it once, but it’s so cute, I should have used it more. The basket is woven, with a red-checkered lining and a small wooden cheese board. The board has a message stamped on it: BRIE HAPPY.

The message warms my heart as I carry everything inside. I’ll make a proper cocktail party for me and Kate. We deserve it after all we’ve been through. I start whistling and preparing for Kate’s arrival. This is the sophisticated way to handle our disagreements. We will come to an understanding. We