Revealed: The Missing Years
Page 61

Then, in a magical, unexpected moment, everything changed. On that frost-filled night, with lights twinkling in the trees, we sat in a horse-drawn carriage, and his beautifully worded proposal took away my shame. He offered me the option of saying no. I could have done that and walked away—but to where? Anthony Rawlings was my job, my life, and my world. If I walked away, what would I be? What would that make me? Would I forever have been nothing more than his whore? He’d taken away my past, and I despised my present. That left only my future. It was like the journey necklace he’d given me. The diamond representing the future was the biggest and brightest for a reason—it held hope for better. That night in Central Park, Anthony Rawlings offered me a future without disgrace. The sparkling engagement ring that he presented was more than a symbol, much more. It was my dignity. I wanted it back. Truly, there was very little deliberation: I would be his wife.
No longer would I feel as though I didn’t belong. No longer would I feel like the world could see behind the veil of perfection. I would be Mrs. Anthony Rawlings. As husband and wife, our personal business would remain personal. Yet, no matter what it entailed, I could endure it with pride, knowing that now it was socially and morally acceptable.
I’d learned too well the importance of confidentiality. What happened in the past, present, or future, behind the iron gates of our estate, or the closed doors of one of our apartments, wouldn’t be shared, yet, as his wife, somehow I could accept it with my head truly held high.
My past and my future worked together to create a new paradigm. I knew I had my new sense of self-worth, but I remember wondering what my new title would mean to him. Did he too understand the significance of being his fiancée?
That morning, after I woke and ate, I went to look for him. From behind the closed door of his home office, I heard his voice. I was now his fiancée, not his mistress, possession, or whatever I had been. I also knew my rules. As his acquisition, I was not allowed to enter without permission or advance summons. Now that I’d willingly accepted my new role, what did it mean? Could I now pass into his sacred domain without fear of punishment? Standing for minutes debating my entrance, an all too familiar fear swept over me. I wanted to believe that I could enter and show him the love and happiness that I was feeling, but at the same time, I was terrified that in doing so, my illusions would be shattered irreparably. Without knocking, I returned to our suite.”
Tony leaned back and closed the book. Though his eyes were open and staring toward Jim, he was seeing the past. He saw his fiancée of four years ago. He remembered finding her in their suite. His thoughts had been filled with wedding plans and his conversation with Catherine. He had no idea that Claire had been standing outside of his office door or that she was fighting an internal battle.
“Why did you stop reading?” Jim asked, bringing him back to present. Truly, Tony wasn’t sure which place was worse—his memories or his therapy sessions in prison.
“I can’t read any more right now.”
“Why can’t you?”
Tony inhaled deeply as he fought the urge to rebuke Jim’s question. This was his counselor’s way of making Tony weigh each word. Was it that he was incapable of continuing to read? Tony corrected, “I don’t want to read anymore right now.”
Jim nodded. “Very good. Why don’t you want to read any more? You’d said you wanted to read happier parts of this book. It sounds like she was happy about the wedding. Was she happy?”
Tony could control the red outside of therapy. Hell—he could control the red in therapy when they talked about anything, except Claire. But when the topic was his wife, the crimson seeped through his shields and filled his thoughts without warning. “Does it fuck’n sound like she was happy to you?” he asked. “Maybe you’re hearing something I’m not.”
“Then tell me what you’re hearing.”
The chair screeched across the linoleum floor as Tony stood to pace toward the window. The view of the prison’s campus was much better from Jim’s office window than from any of the windows in his dormitory. In the summer, it’d been beautiful, but now with the grayness of winter, it reminded Tony that the green was gone. He tried to remind himself it may be dormant, but it wasn’t forgotten. He worked to articulate his thoughts. “She said she wanted to come in my office and show me the love and happiness that she was feeling.” He turned toward Jim. “That sounded happy—right?”
“What do you think?”
“I think what I’ve thought before. I fuck’n hate having questions answered with questions.”
“Okay, tell me why you aren’t convinced she sounded happy.”
The soft soles of his shoes muffled his footsteps as he traveled from one side of the office to the other. “I’d just proposed. I was in the office making arrangements, and she was scared to walk in.” His dark eyes shot darts toward his therapist. “Didn’t you hear that? She was fuck’n petrified to knock on the damn door.”
“Would she have needed to knock?”
Tony’s eyes opened wide at the question. Well, yes, she would… but later, after their divorce, she wouldn’t have. Fuck! He’d never thought of it like that before.
“Anthony, would she have been required to knock?”
“Yes.”
“What would have happened if she knocked without being asked to your office, say… upon her arrival to your estate?”