Chapter 1

ONE

ASHLEY

C ook. Clean. Scrub. Repeat .

When had my life become so utterly mundane?

The young couple across the street embraced on the driveway, her thighs wrapping around his waist as their lips clashed. Excitement poured from their bodies, while I scrubbed the dishes, bubbles the only thing caressing my skin. A physical pain ate away at my stomach, watching the way the man's fingers slid along her spine before grabbing a handful of her ass.

How long had it been since Jerry had held me like that? Not since we got married, at any rate. It was like that wedding band was a metal collar, choking the life out of me day by day.

I'd give anything for Jerry to look at me with desire. To see me as more than a glorified housekeeper. Once upon a time I'd been hot. Sometimes when I looked in the mirror, I thought I still was. Sure older, a few more lines creasing the corners of my eyes, but I looked after myself. I plucked the stray greys and kept my hair and clothes on trend. I had only gained a single figure amount of pounds since we met. Hell, Jerry didn't give a fuck. He ordered take out on top of the meals I cooked, and the burger wrappers on the floor of the car told me exactly why his trousers cut deeply into his stomach. Nevertheless, I craved his touch. I begged for it. Debased myself for the potential of attention.

Pathetic .

Sometimes it still dumbfounded me how I'd fallen so hard for Jerry. Hard enough to uproot my whole life and move across the country for him. To let his career goals be our entire focus for the first five years of our marriage. And for what? So he could come home, kick his shoes off in the hallway, scarf down the meal I made without a second glance and go game with his buddies.

After the dishes, I did laundry. After the laundry, cooked dinner. The same as every other day.

With thirty minutes to go before Jerry would be home, that same insidious thought popped into my head that I'd given into far too often.

Maybe tonight would be different?

My idiocy not lost on me, I went to our bedroom and opened the drawer that contained my lacy underwear. Pretty silky delicacies designed to be ripped off of gasping women. Instead, they languished in the drawer, like I languished in my home.

Satin glides over my fingertips. Tiny scraps of fabric designed to titillate and tantalise. Half of them still had the tags on, bought in a moment of misguided hope, but rarely did I have the self-worth to wear them.

Still, I craved Jerry's touch. Fleeting memories of his hands so desperate for my skin against them, of harried kisses and can't-wait-for-the-bedroom sex. Being pressed against a wall and taken before our clothes were even off. Back then, I hadn't needed to resort to underwear that cost an eye watering amount.

Back then, I'd been enough.

Stripping off, I slid a pretty pink set on, loving the expensive feel of them against my body. The French lace knickers sat prettily over my ass, the half cup bra displaying me perfectly. I pinched at a stretch mark on my inner thigh, wishing I was as perfect as the women on his phone. I'd seen him whacking off to them many a night, when he was too tired or too busy to pay me any attention.

If only I'd stayed in my home state, with people who could support me, I could have walked out. At Thirty-Two I wasn't old, even if some days I swore I was past it. There surely had to be more to life than being an unpaid, undesired maid for Jerry? Someone out there would want me.

Right?

I didn't believe it.

The gentle rumble of tyres outside let me know Jerry had arrived, and I steeled the space around my fragile heart with determination. Pulling on some heels, I clipped downstairs, hoping for desire, but prepared for failure.

My pulse raced as I waited at the foot of the stairs, his keys scraping at they turned in the lock. Unsure of myself, I put a hand on my hip, before removing it, trying to figure out how to appeal most to him.

The door opened.

Eyes rolled.

My heart sank.

‘Fuck sake, Ash, could we not do this?'

He'd barely even glanced at me. Tempering down the upset, I brushed off the rejection, trying to pretend like it didn't yank my soul out of my ass every time.

‘Yeah. Sorry. I thought…' My voice shrunk, filled with broken edges. I hated it. Hated my weakness. I had to stop trying. He didn't want me. Other women deserved desire. Better women. I had to face the fact that sex and passion died in my early twenties.

RIP to me.

Sniffing back the pain, I skulked upstairs. The pink set hit the trash can with force as I stripped it off. No point keeping it. If it didn't do the job, why torture myself with the reminder? Tears fell unbidden. I barely even noticed them, such was their frequency.

I took my time to dress, pulling on clothes that wrapped me in comfort, as far from the lacy lingerie as possible. Dragging my hair into a ponytail, I washed the sorrow from my face.

By the time I returned downstairs, Jerry had helped himself to a plate of dinner from the slow cooker, spaghetti sauce dripping over his chin where he shovelled the food into his mouth.

I served myself, sitting at the breakfast bar and eating in silence while he flicked through the channels on the TV.

The front door clicked some twenty minutes later, and dread poured into me.

There wasn't a knock, and that could only mean one thing: Beverley.

‘Good evening, my sweet boy,' Beverley crooned, kissing Jerry on the head, like he was five, as she swept into the room. Her words clipped as she addressed me. ‘Ashley.'

Gritting my teeth, I bit back the retorts that filled my head. Like try fucking knocking or get out.

‘Evening Beverley. I'm so sorry, I must have missed your call…'

She tsked at me before dumping a takeout box on the counter in front of Jerry. ‘I don't need to call to come bring my son some dinner.'

Fiery anger flooded my stomach, eating away at me. When Beverley had followed us across the country, I'd been shocked. Moving away had few perks besides escaping the smother-in-law. I should have known my luck didn't run that way.

‘He's got dinner. I cooked,' I pointed out.

‘Oh, I know, dear, but Mommy knows what he likes best.'

Mommy needed a foot up her ass. I glared at Jerry, sending a thousand fucking signals that demanded he back me up. He tore into the takeout carrier without even glancing my way.

Of course, if I hadn't had dinner ready, she'd have vilified me as a terrible wife.

Suddenly, I had gone entirely off of my dinner, wanting to be anywhere but near them. Scraping my leftover pasta into the trash, a scoff came from Beverley.

Closing my eyes, I inhaled. Deeply. Don't rise to it.

My fingers whitened around the handle of my fork, the last remnants of the pasta falling.

‘You probably shouldn't be eating pasta anyway. You'll need to be looking after yourself if you're going to give me a grandbaby one of these days,' Beverley's voice grated.

Heat suffused my face as I tried my best to let it slide. The words came bubbling out, anyway. ‘You're not getting grandbabies because your perfect little boy prefers fucking his fist to fucking his wife.'

Stunned silence filled the room. Beverley looked utterly wounded by my words. I'd pay for it, but fuck, did it feel good to say it.

Jerry dropped his fork and scowled at me. ‘Don't talk to my mom like that, Ash.'

‘And what about me? You're supposed to be the person who sticks up for me. You're my husband .'

‘God, you always have to be so dramatic,' he said, sighing.

‘Maybe that's because I'm wasting away here, and even in my home, I'm ignored by you and insulted by her!' I jabbed a finger toward Beverley, my voice swelling with rage.

‘I pay for everything. I look after you. All you have to do is cook and clean. Most women would kill to be in your shoes.' That even his retort lacked any passion hit me. He didn't care. I was nothing but a pain in his ass.

‘Who could blame him?' Beverley added as I crossed the kitchen. ‘Men don't want to sleep with mouthy women. They want a good meal and a clean house and pea?—'

Slamming the door as hard as I could, I left them there. The tears had my vision swimming as I reached the stairs, each step corrupting beneath my sea of anger.

My bed welcomed me into its dark embrace, the duvet surrounding me in the only semblance of touch I had in my home.

Sobs tore from me, muffled by my pillow.

Even hating him, I hoped Jerry would come. That he'd offer me a warm hug and a kind word, that he'd treat me to a sliver of humanity.

But humanity wasn't for me.

He probably sat downstairs and cried into his mom's arms while they spoke about how terrible I was.

J erry didn't made it to the bedroom.

That wasn't exactly a rare occurrence. In the middle of the night, I was thankful for his absence. At least he wasn't snoring a few inches from my face.

Doom scrolling on my phone, I browsed through a site for independent sellers and creatives called Aimly. Pretty things already covered half of my home. Items I bought to quash my melancholy, yet still I searched for the next piece, which would bring a sliver of joy when it arrived on the doorstep.

Handmade plant pots. Cushions embroidered with delicate florals. Intricately carved candle holders.

So much fluff that I didn't need, but temporarily filled the hole where life used to be.

I clicked on some cute leather plant hangers, looking at the pristine mock living area they filled. The internet forever offered me a glimpse of perfection. Maybe the woman who had these would also have everything else that I didn't. She'd have a husband who couldn't keep his hands off her, and a group of friends desperate to meet up for coffee. A family who loved her.

At the bottom of the page, it showed other hand-crafted leather items. Cute little wallets that looked one hundred percent style over function, personalised stamped key rings, even homemade handbags in an assortment of colours.

One picture caught my eye and made my stomach knot, my reaction both unexpected and visceral. A plastic mannequin sported the daintiest, prettiest collar around its neck. In the palest of pinks, with golden buckles and hardware. I'd never desired something so much.

I clicked away on instinct. Craving something like that was weird. Jerry couldn't even take lingerie well, far less something so… kinky.

Try as I might, the urge to drool over the delicate collar ate away at me. I pressed the back button and looked at the items listing. My fingers grazed my neck as I read through the details, each word picked with the utmost care. Would I look pretty in it?

Oh hell, there were matching ankle and wrist cuffs, too. I itched to press on the buy now button. Just to feel what it would be like to wear something created purely to make a person feel like an object of utmost desire. The pang hit me between the thighs, almost painfully.

Scrolling down, the reviews hit me like a truck. Pictures of men and women wearing the intricate leather pieces, posing alone or with their partners. People oozing lust unashamedly. Men's fingers gripping at the leather possessively. I ached for that. Imagined feeling so precious that Jerry wanted the world to know I belonged to him.

The reviews gushed. Loving statements affirming how the collars and cuffs had added fire to their relationships. Women openly buying them to tantalise their partners and near-bragging over the fantastic results. Men claiming they had bought them as gifts and then enjoyed the results after. People looking to add spicy fun to their relationships, where I was trying to dredge mine up from the fucking depths.

Biting my lip, I fought the wave of emotion threatening to drag me under. The tears mounted on my waterline, blurring the screen.

It wasn't fair. Why couldn't I have that? What do these people have that I don't? Why don't I deserve to feel wanted?

Throwing my phone away from me, I slid under the covers to wallow in my misery, cursing Jerry, his mother, and me.