Don’t be upset with Elliot, I tell myself. Some men can be peculiar about their women earning their own money, and I suspect Elliot may be one of those men who wants to provide for his wife one hundred percent. My dad was like that, too. Mom had a degree in law and did well in her legal career, but he didn’t want her working, especially after I was born. He thought Mom should stay home and raise me, and whatever he made should be enough to provide for the family, save for retirement and college and everything else.
I learned all that from my grandmother when I was old enough. She disapproved of the way Mom gave up her own ambitions.
“A man whose self-esteem is tied to his salary does not deserve you.” She would harrumph and shake her head. “Your mother could’ve done something amazing with herself. What a waste of education. I didn’t fight for equal rights so she could be a housewife.”
I thought it was unfair to claim that Mom made the wrong choice to be a stay-at-home mom if that’s what she wanted. Equal rights doesn’t mean all women have to work.
On the other hand, it does mean that if I want to work, I should be able to without getting into an argument with my husband.
The gym on the second level is impossible to miss. It takes up half the floor. A bright golden FITNESS CENTER in all caps is emblazoned across frosted double-doors in one straight line.
A dark-haired guy in his early twenties is at the front desk. A white Nike shirt strains against the thickly muscled torso, and black workout shorts reveal a pair of well-developed legs. The name-tag on his chest reads JAIME. He pushes away from the desk and smiles. A cute dimple pops on his suntanned face. “Evening! Can I have your name?”
“Annabelle Reed.”
He types my name into the computer. “Excellent, Mrs. Reed. I see that you’re in the system.”
“Call me Annabelle.”
He nods. “Is this your first time?”
“Yes.”
“Do you need an orientation?”
“No. Just point me to a treadmill.”
“Sure.” He hands me a fluffy dark gray and purple towel and a bottle of water from the fridge behind him, then takes me to a row of gleaming treadmills, each with a TV screen mounted in front of it. “You can use this remote for the TV. And the controls for the machine are pretty self-explanatory.”
“Great.” I smile. “Thanks.”
I hop on the wide belt and start with a brisk walk, then increase the speed until I’m running at a comfortable pace. My eyes settle on a spot beyond the blank TV screen.
As my muscles heat and sweat beads on my forehead, a part of me wonders if I’m being ridiculous. Elliot is eminently correct about my employability. So let’s say I get a job waitressing at a diner. It would be embarrassing for him to have his wife work in such a profession. His friends, family and peers are going to wonder why I’m bothering with such a low wage job when I could be finishing up my education or doing something else that society finds more valuable.
The sweat starts to drip down my face and neck. If money is the problem… Maybe I could just borrow the money from Elliot. Surely he isn’t going to insist on charging me twenty-five percent compounded daily. That’s crazy accounting…although given what credit card companies do, probably legal. I don’t even want to think about how much the money Mr. Grayson gave me is going to balloon up to. The idea makes my chest tight with panic.
Stay calm. Think. Do the math.
There’s no way that money is going to be anywhere close to eating up the million Elliot promised me. I don’t have to pull out a calculator to figure that out.
Elliot and I have one year. Not even that long now. I don’t want to spend most of it fighting with him because of money, and especially not about money I owe Mr. Grayson because of sheer stupidity and desperation on my part. I know we can have a good time together if I give in a little bit. Surely that’s better than a year of conflict.
Besides, so long as I live under his roof, under the contract we signed, I do not fully have the control over my own destiny. The million dollars i
sn’t mine yet.
Keep your eye on the prize. Don’t screw up. This is my chance to finally have the means to take charge of my life and provide for Nonny.
I don’t know how long I run. But my legs become rubbery, and my lungs are heaving. Sweat dampens my shirt, and my hair sticks to my flushed skin. I suck water from the bottle as I do a little walking for a warm-down.
A gentle hand takes the bottle from me. “What are you doing?”
I almost falter at Elliot’s quiet voice. My right leg hits the belt with more force and a shorter stride than ideal, and I reach forward to grab the bar in front of me. “What are you doing here?” I ask, hitting the red stop button on the treadmill.
“I got done with TV and waited for over half an hour but you never came home. So I decided to come down here and check up on you.”
“How did you know I came to the gym?”