“Now, Eliza—”
She was already gone. Eliza had turned on her shiny new heels and stomped down the hall. She didn’t bother to clear out her office. Her assistant could do that for her later and ship her any personal items left behind.
Eliza frowned at the thought. She wasn’t big on personal items. That was for the other 98 percent of women who bought books like Marguerite Hill’s Take Charge. Books that Eliza helped shepherd into the world, books she helped shove down consumers’ throats with their messages of Happy, happy, happy! and You can do this!
It was all bullshit. Bullshit on a silver platter that she expertly placed on airport bookshelves so that working moms and jet-setting women could select a feel-good read to display proudly on their tray tables during flight. She sold a promise.
A promise, Eliza thought as she pounded her finger against the elevator button, that will always end up crushed beneath the feet of someone bigger, bolder, richer, stronger. All these women would ever gain from buying self-help crap were fragments of hope.
Eliza hopped into her convertible, a luxurious white thing that the bonus from her last promotion had bought her, before pulling out of the parking lot and easing onto the streets of Beverly Hills. Flicking down her mirror, she swiped on an extra smudge of blood-red lipstick to fortify her defiance.
Let them fire me, she raged internally. They don’t know what they’re missing. To hell with Harold, to hell with her assistant, to hell with them all.
She would show them. Not in the rah-rah-rah ways of Marguerite’s book but in the ways of Eliza Tate. Let the battle begin, and let it be raw, bloody, and brutal.
She smiled at herself in the rearview mirror, her lips bleeding bright, and settled a pair of oversize sunglasses over her eyes.
Yes, she thought. This is only the beginning.
_______________________________
Eliza noted the absence of her husband’s vehicle when she arrived home. She wasn’t surprised to find she’d arrived first, seeing as he taught acting classes at his studio several nights a week.
The Tate house was located in a rich development not a mile north of Beverly Hills. Eliza could have easily walked to her office, but that would have defeated the purpose of her expensive car. She glanced over her shoulder but couldn’t see the road through a tall fence that blocked most of the tourists from peeping into the sweeping, open windows that lined the front of their home.
Once inside, Eliza kicked off a pair of gorgeous shoes that Roman had given her to celebrate something or other. She basked in peaceful silence for a long moment before climbing the stairs to her bedroom. She changed out of her pantsuit and hung it carefully, like a thin piece of tissue paper, to preserve for another day.
After changing into a set of yoga pants and a tank top she’d picked up at T.J. Maxx, she headed back downstairs. Grabbing a bucket, mop, and gloves, Eliza armed herself for a whole new battle as she set to work scrubbing the floor of her shiny, mostly stainless-steel kitchen.
It was fascinating, even to Eliza, how quickly she could shed one layer of herself and slip into another. Work Eliza and Home Eliza were two very different people, and she kept both personas on tap, ready to dispense either when necessary.
In the professional environment, Eliza naturally excelled. She’d always been good at work, work, work. Rules, rules, rules. Things that made sense. She’d grown up as the straight-A, extra-credit-obsessed, quietly serious student. Those skills had helped her develop into a no-nonsense, capable employee all bosses loved. Eliza thrived on friendly competition and fat, twinkly gold stars.
When evenings rolled around, Eliza would slink home and, like a chameleon, peel off her first skin and sink into her second. She admired those individuals who could be themselves all the time, regardless of their audience. Genuine people—that’s what they were called. That wasn’t possible for Eliza, not if she wanted to survive.
“Honey!” The front door opened in sync with Roman’s greeting, startling Eliza from her spot on the floor. He came around the corner, his face changing to an expression of surprise. “Did Andrea forget her cleaning day again?”
Eliza directed a weak smile toward her husband. Her darling, naive husband. She’d been bewitched with the stunning Roman Tate the first time she laid eyes on him. Football star, theater major, well-dressed man in her English class—Roman had been an anomaly. One flash of his charming smile and Eliza had fallen head over heels for her husband before she’d even known his name.
The man still had a presence. Tall and broad-shouldered, Roman had the windswept, dark hair of a movie star. His skin was a glorious shade of tan. Roman liked to let people think he was Italian, but Eliza knew the only genuine Italian flare Roman had in him was the hint of fresh basil she had added to the previous night’s pasta dish.
“No, Andrea didn’t forget to come,” Eliza said. “I thought I told you—I had to fire the cleaning lady.”
“Are we talking about the same girl?” Roman frowned. “Curly hair? I liked her. What happened?”
“My grandmother’s china disappeared.”
“Ah, well.” Roman flashed a quick smile. “We never used that china anyway. Would you like me to hire someone else?”
“No, no,” Eliza said. “Don’t waste your time. I’ve already taken care of it.”
“Very good.” Roman gave a happy nod. “Where did you get that shirt? Is it…new?”
“Oh God. How embarrassing.” With a flushed face, Eliza looked down and noted her shirt had a stain above one breast, and worse, her pants had a hole in them. She’d have to be more careful. “I didn’t expect you home so soon, or I’d have changed into something nicer.”
Roman moved into the kitchen and set his briefcase on the counter. His hands reached for Eliza and pulled her to her feet, then spun her around. They began to work their magic on Eliza’s shoulders. She rolled her neck back and forth, closed her eyes. She could almost pretend that life was perfect in moments like this.
“It doesn’t matter what you’re wearing,” Roman whispered in her ear. “You’re still gorgeous. I’ve been thinking of you all day.”
Eliza squirmed out of his grasp, giving a reluctant giggle against the tickle of his breath on her skin. “I’m in the middle of tidying up. We have the neighbors coming by for dinner tomorrow, remember?”
Eliza inched her way to the sink and busied herself washing dishes left over from breakfast. She paused when she came to a knife covered in peanut butter. It was a beautiful knife that had come as a special gift from a special friend. Anne Wilkes, Eliza’s college roommate and current best friend, had given her the knife, along with a matching cake server and two spoons, on her wedding day. Each had Eliza’s and Roman’s names carved into the handle along with their anniversary.
“I thought we agreed to save these utensils for special occasions,” Eliza said, not quite meeting Roman’s eyes. “They’re so beautiful; it’s a shame to get them caked with peanut butter.”
“Why have beautiful things if you don’t use them?”
Roman stepped behind Eliza and inched closer still, sliding his arms over her belly. His legs were clad in dark jeans, and he wore a white V-neck shirt underneath a zip-up black sweater. He smelled familiar, sweet, expensive. She closed her eyes and took a breath.