There's only one way out of this mess.
No matter how I look at the paper I've drawn, trying to map out the plot of the book, it all comes down to one person. Knox.
I need a divorce.
If we aren't married, I won't be in the way of his fated-mate connection with the protagonist. It's as simple as that.
Only—I have a nasty, niggling feeling he won't accept a divorce. Would a man willing to enter an unhappy marriage at his family's behest be willing to divorce?
No matter what Vivienne did, he never divorced her. Not even when he found his fated mate. Killing her was his only option, or at least it seems like it.
So how do I get a divorce?
I can't spend him into a pauper. Judging by the room I'm in, Vivienne is no stranger to spending money. I don't think my normal-person mindset can come up with enough things to buy in order to make even a sizable dent in Knox's fortune.
A hundred-dollar pair of shoes is an insane luxury to me; meanwhile, I'm pretty sure the toilet paper I use here is a hundred dollars per sheet.
Okay, maybe not. But the difference in lifestyle is truly so extreme.
So, spending is out. No matter how much of a wastrel I become, it won't be enough to facilitate divorce. And it would take too long.
Cheating? Maybe. But Knox was okay cheating on Vivienne, wasn't he? Then again, is it infidelity when it's a marriage like theirs? Ours, I mean. Ours. Shit. I have to get used to this identity.
Giant question mark over cheating. I'll circle around to that. I have no interest in trying to date just to get divorced. It makes me feel sick even thinking about it.
Money is out. Infidelity is out. What else is there?
Family conflict: I don't know enough about either family. Another question mark.
Scandal: Over what? Cheating? Back to that, again? No, there has to be something else.
"Madam?"
Bobby the Intern—shit, no. Wells, the housekeeper's assistant, enters the room with a respectful bow, cell phone in hand.
It's weird. I wonder if I'll ever get used to it.
"What is it?"
"Your father is on the line. Would you like us to take a message?"
Perfect timing. I need to learn more about the families involved.
"No; I'll take his call."
* * *
"Are you okay, my little hummingbird?"
The saccharine-sweet, over-the-top voice coming out of the phone (the housekeeper's, because Vivienne is apparently known to be unreachable otherwise) is so familiar, it shreds my heart into pieces.
"Daddy?" I whisper, aching with the loss of my parents. Without the chance to tell them goodbye. I blink back tears, reminding myself this isn't my father. He belongs to someone else. Nothing more than fiction.
"Are you so unhappy there, sweet child? This is your third time…" His voice trails off.
If I wasn't in a book—I'd know for sure this is my father.
The way he speaks. His inflections. The little endearments.
A broken sob escapes. "Daddy, is it really you?"
Even knowing it's impossible, the hope unfurling in my chest is hard to quash.
"Of course it's Daddy. Do you know how worried we were? You begged us to set up this marriage, but if that bastard's mistreating you—"
The denial comes from a place I have no control over. "He's not mistreating me. Knox is just busy." No, no. I should take this opportunity to bring my parents to my side, to push for a divorce—
But some strange force keeps my mouth shut. It's like the prior Vivienne is desperate to keep Knox, even when she's no longer in control of this body.
Does this mean my life here is only temporary? Uneasy at the thought, I focus on the call.
"Yes, yes, so you've said before," her—my—father sighs. "I don't understand why you won't let us visit. Your mother says it's triangulation."
It is! It is triangulation! Yes! Get me out of here!
But my mouth goes off on its own once again. "I just want us to live without the influence of our parents. We need a chance to become our own people."
No! No, we don't! We need a divorce! I'm trying to avoid my death flag!
"At least talk to your mother. She's been a mess. Won't even go to her morning yoga."
Wow. My mother also goes to yoga every morning. An act of God would be necessary to get her to miss a session… Like a cancer diagnosis for her only daughter.
"Tell her I won't speak to her even at her funeral! She can die alone with that man she loves so much!" she snaps in the background.
My stomach flips.
That voice; it's Mom. If I close my eyes and pretend I'm not in this strange world—these are my parents. How is that possible? Even her overblown anger is the same.
"Mom…"
This time, whatever force keeping me from telling them anything terrible about Knox loosens its grip, leaving me free to speak again. "Tell her I miss her, too."
If this Dad is anything like my Dad, I'm on speakerphone so Mom can listen in.
"Hah! If she misses me, why would she not talk to me since her wedding? That girl doesn't know loyalty. She throws her family aside for what? A handsome man who doesn't even visit her when she's sick!"
"Honey, don't say that. Our little girl is just having fun. See? She answered the phone this time!"
"She's like this because you spoil her," Mom scolds, and I can imagine her shaking her finger at Dad. Sometimes it's a spatula, because I swear Mom lives in the kitchen.
"Don't point that at me," Dad says in panic. "It has sauce on it! Honey! The sauce!"
See? Just like that.
A laugh bubbles up through my tears, and I curl my knees to my chest, phone pressed to my ear. The dynamic between them is so familiar. Even in this ostentatious room, I can close my eyes and believe for a moment that this is still my life.
Where I'm home. Healthy. And all those bad things were nothing more than a fever dream.
"You can call me anytime," I blurt out. "I'll keep my phone on me from now on."
"Oh, so now you want to talk to us?" Mom's voice drips with sarcasm.
"I miss you both," I whisper, my chest aching with the truth of it.
A beat of silence. Then, "Well, are you coming for Saturday coffee or not?"
My heart lurches. Saturday coffee.
Mom and I always met at the coffeeshop around the corner from my apartment on Saturdays.
"Where?" I ask before I can stop myself.