2. Rafferty

The atmospherein the back of the limo is tense. I can usually muster up the energy to play nice when it's for a charity event, but it's becoming increasingly more difficult to toe the line when I'm faced with such barely concealed contempt.

My wife and I do not love each other. I'm not certain we ever loved each other. For a time, when we were first married in a match that was beneficial to both our families and their businesses, we had common goals. Seeing as we are both undeniably hard workers, we strove toward those goals together, and for a few years, it felt like contentment.

I find happiness in success. No one who truly knows us would ever dare to call our marriage a success now, unless they are referring to how well we manage to deceive the public and the tabloids.

I wish it didn't matter. Why do they care? I've begged Charleen for a divorce more times than I can count, but she says that it would destroy everything we've built over the past twenty-five years. My argument that if it can be ruined that easily then maybe it wasn't that strong to begin with has been steadfastly ignored.

So I put up with it. I barely have to see her unless there are cameras present or if our son, Logan, is going to be around. I'm sure we're not fooling him, but that's what we do in this family. We lie.

I know he's gay and refuses to come out, no doubt thanks to his mother and her rotten parents. They're the kind of people who aren't openly prejudiced but I have no doubt it's left Logan with the distinct impression he'd be quietly disowned if he ever confessed to his sexuality publicly. It makes me sick, and it's certainly twisted him into a young man I barely recognize anymore.

Charleen spends most of her time in California with her younger architect lover. I suspect she always wanted to be with someone a great deal more malleable than I am. She likes to take charge, but so do I. For the life of me, I don't understand why we don't just end this sham marriage so she can go off into the sunset with her pretty little boy toy.

As for me, I don't have the strength to even consider a relationship. My business is my priority, and the thought of juggling a secret affair on top of managing my family just makes me feel exhausted. Discrete trysts and occasional filthy private parties generally see that my needs get met. There's usually a pretty little treat looking for a sugar Daddy to pamper her, even if it's only for a night.

Lies, lies, lies. That's all the McKennas have. I'm sick of it. This evening has been increasingly grating after Charleen made us later and later for the benefit dinner, then spent the whole drive bitching at me like it was somehow my fault.

She's not a bad person. Not really. It's just sometimes people aren't meant to be together. They actively bring out the worst in each other simply by standing next to one another.

I don't think I can do this anymore.

Charleen blinks at me, and I feel a shift in the air between us.

"I beg your pardon?"

Shit.I said that out loud, didn't I?

I sigh and look at her. She is stunning. Age has only made her more refined, more powerful. I can understand why that puppy of an architect is besotted with her. But as we sit in the back of the limo, I see clearer than ever that we're simply two magnets pointing the wrong way at each other.

"Nothing. We're nearly there," I say, jutting my chin to indicate the tall hotel we're approaching.

Usually, I spend my time between our home in Albertson and the nearby towns where a lot of my business is wrapped up. Including Paddle Creek—a foolish investment that I've been wasting my time on for more than fifteen years. Sunk cost fallacy dictates I should sell up and walk away. But I've been trying my best to remodel that town for so long, and I'm a stubborn mule when I want to be. I'm holding out until I can get my way. It's not like my other developments are suffering from it.

But sometimes I do get too obsessed, so it's good to get away into the city every now and again. The fundraiser is on the northern outskirts of Indianapolis, and I'm sure it will do us both good to mingle with society for an evening.

"I'm not having this conversation with you again, Rafferty," Charleen snips.

"Neither am I," I observe.

We are genuinely pulling up the drive to the hotel now and there's nothing else I feel like adding. But I know she needs to get her opinion across whether I like it or not, so I resign myself to getting an earful.

"We're not children. Nor are we trailer trash. We present a united, successful front so that confidence in us does not waver from our peers, investors, colleagues, or even acquaintances. We are this company. If you've got a slip of a thing desperate for a big society wedding, tell her now that it's never going to happen. The McKenna family name always has and always will come first."

I fight the urge to point out that it's my family name, not hers. The Doboshes are equally respectable, but not as flashy as my lot. The McKennas have a better origin story, having come over from Ireland a hundred years ago and growing our fortunes generation by generation.

Besides, she just likes having my balls in a vise.

Sighing, I turn to look at her. The limo has stopped, and the doorman has opened her door. "There isn't any slip of a thing," I assure her truthfully. "I'm just tired."

"Then take some pharmaceuticals like a normal person and stop bitching," she says coolly before exiting the car.

I take a second to scrub my hand over my clean-shaven chin before pulling myself together and exiting from my own door, which has also been opened for me. If the staff think anything of our brief pause, they don't give any indication of it. Just another lie to cover up in the life of the McKennas.

No matter what Charleen is truly feeling in that moment, she won't let it show. So I walk around the limo to find her waiting to take my arm. She puts on a dazzling smile as we walk through the front entrance. "Come on, darling," she says amicably. "There's nothing to quarrel about. Let's go have a nice evening, hmm?"

I muster a small smile and a nod to appease her, knowing that's much easier for her to say than it is for me to do. Socializing and networking come so naturally to her. It's like a drug that feeds her. Whereas I can happily chat for hours with people I know well on subjects that interest me. However, small talk bores me to tears.

Just a few hours,I promise myself. That's all I have to do.

The hotel's ballroom is already brimming with people milling around in dresses and tuxes. Chandeliers glitter overhead, and a string quartet plays in the corner, their gentle music drifting over the polite conversation.

A savage part of me thinks that every single person in this room is just like us—hiding dirty secrets behind simpering smiles. It's all so painfully fake. Even the event itself is a shame. Supposedly, it's fundraising for a charity that helps battered women and children, which I agree is a noble cause. But none of those people are here tonight, save for a couple that are being paraded around in clothes that have no doubt been loaned to them. This evening is more about the rich patting themselves on the back for what a nice thing they're doing. It's about making sure you've been seen doing a good deed.

I doubt many of these people would be involved if it were simply anonymous donations.

Sighing, I take two Champagne flutes from a passing server's tray, and hand one to Charleen as she gravitates toward a cluster of women that I assume she knows. I'm wallowing in bitterness because I'm feeling out of control, so instead, I'm lashing out. I'm fully aware that this is how business gets done. An event like this will raise ten times what a simple donation drive would do.

But there's an itch within me that's desperate to be scratched. Is it too much to ask for a real fucking human interaction without all this bullshit getting in the way? It doesn't have to be pretty. Right now, I just need something authentic.

For the next couple of hours, however, I play nice. As far as any of these people are concerned, I am a dutiful husband who is riveted by the conversation over dinner. I bid a ridiculous amount on several items, most of which I don't want, but I console myself that the cause is actually a worthy one. I'm sure I can find places to put the modern art, and Charleen will happily take the gifted experiences off my hands.

After dessert has been served and people are once again wandering around the room to mingle, I feel like I've done my duty and suffered enough. If I don't get this tie off in the next five minutes, I'm going to suffocate.

I manage to catch Charleen between conversations and lean in to whisper against her ear. "I'm going to order a ride. You take the limo home. If anyone asks, you can tell them I have a headache." They won't ask, but she'll like to think they will.

She's either going to pitch a fit or not care. Apparently, she's had a good night because she waves me off with her hand. "Go. Have fun," she murmurs, already drifting away to another group of friends with a "Darling! It's been too long!"

I don't need her permission, but it makes life easier with her approval.

My phone is already in my hand before I've even made it through the doors. I hadn't really thought past getting the hell out of there, possibly seeking company, possibly searching for solitude. I've had a few drinks, so I could either continue drowning my sorrows or sober up pretty quickly. My app shows several executive cars within five minutes of the hotel. I just need to decide on a destination.

That's when I see the notification that's popped up on my calendar. ‘Drinks with the Joneses.' The discrete code I use for a kink event. My heart flips. Good god, that's exactly what I need right now. People who aren't afraid to ask for what they really want and just fucking take it. The calendar reminder doesn't give me any further details, so I pause in the foyer and sift through my emails to work out which event in particular this is.

Oh, fantastic. It's a private residential event being hosted literally on the way back between here and home. I know the organizers. They're stringent about screening their guests and not allowing cellphones, so I always feel safe going to their meetups. There's a strong chance there will be people there I've already played with. A familiar, easy scene or just some quick and dirty orgasms sound incredible in this moment.

It's like there was a rubber band around my chest that I didn't even realize was there until it started loosening. I hastily punch the address into my ride app, then go to wait outside in the fresh night air.

I know that I bitch a lot about the constraints of my life, but I'm also fully aware that I have an enormous amount of privilege. Looking up at what few stars I can see through the light pollution, I feel free again. Even if it's only for a night. For the next few hours, I can actually be authentic. I might never see these people I'm about to meet again, but that doesn't mean we can't share something real and meaningful. Hopefully, that will give me the fortitude to bullshit my way through the next several weeks until I can let loose again.

It'll have to. I'm not escaping the fa?ade of my marriage anytime soon. Tonight will top up my reservoir and give me the strength to keep up the lies and bullshit life requires of me.

So I better cherish this time and not waste it.