Ella
The dim lights of the police station buzz in my ears as I sit across from two detectives. I shiver from the cool air wafting into the room while my head rattles with countless thoughts.
"Mrs. Wickham, did you hear my question?" the female detective asks, returning me to the present situation.
"Sorry, no," I admit.
"What caused the accident? Did someone walk in front of the car? Did Miss Deluca miss something? Or were you perhaps the distraction?"
I've done nothing wrong, yet these two detectives continue to question me as though I'm the culprit and criminal. I was in the back seat of the car when the accident happened.
"No. I don't know what happened."
The two make eye contact with one another, and I can see a conversation pass between them in silence.
The male detective sighs, and the two stand. "We're going to keep you here overnight."
I sit up straight. "But I did nothing wrong!" I insist, hating myself for raising my voice. "You should be going to ask Miss Deluca what she saw because then you'd realize that you're making a BIG mistake."
"Look, you can have your one phone call and contact your lawyer, but that's it," the female replies. "Just make the calls quick."
Not knowing who else to contact, I try George's number frantically.
Come on, George. Pick up the phone. I need you right now, please.
"You've reached George Wickham Esquire. Leave a message."
As I pull my phone away from my face, news articles appear on my screen, all of them about the accident.
"Singer Charlotte Deluca was admitted to Hartman Sanatorium following a serious car accident."
The news report also mentions a mysterious man who arranged for the best medical staff in the city for Charlotte. He rented a hospital room costing $10,000 a night and bought an ad screen across from the hospital to play her favorite songs, just to make her happy. A young girl sits on the hospital bed, smiling sweetly, while my husband, George, stands behind her... holding his phone, talking to her.
I blink softly.
After a while, I notice my phone ringing. I pick it up, my voice a bit hoarse.
Charlotte was the one who insisted I join her on this trip. I didn't want to, but after all the begging, I felt guilty. She just wanted someone to accompany her; how could that be malicious?
Charlotte asked me to accompany her on a trip. It wasn't really a trip; it was more like I was there to carry her bags. I knew she was my husband's first love and that they still kept in touch. I had been trying hard to ignore Charlotte's existence, convincing myself that they were just ordinary friends.
On the way back home, it was Charlotte that was driving. I was in the back seat, consumed by emails and others trying to get a hold of me. I have no clue what happened, why we crashed, what Charlotte saw. I was able to walk away with minor injuries. My arm throbs at this memory, but I'm okay.
On the other end, George pauses, sounding quite unhappy that I called. He perfunctorily says, "I'm still busy. If it's nothing urgent, I'll hang up. Contact my secretary."
"George, it's me. I was in a car crash."
"What happened with Charlotte tonight, Ella?"
His tone is stone-cold.
"We were in an accident. I need your help..."
I haven't even explained the whole situation before he interrupts me. "You hit someone on the road while driving? Honestly, Ella, were you driving with your eyes closed? What were you thinking?"
"No, that's not what happened, I wasn't—"
"I'm disappointed in you, trying to lie your way out of a serious crime."
The phone falls into my lap as I stare straight ahead at the wall, shock and disillusion clouding my mind. Of all the things to be accused of, I think the words my husband utters are the most painful I've ever heard directed toward me.
"You should be ashamed of yourself," he continues, though it's hard to hear from the phone now lying in my lap. "Charlotte has done nothing but treat you with kindness. You're an adult. Act like it."
The line goes dead, and I don't move. His ruthless words only shatter my fragile heart, letting the waterworks begin as I realize my husband will not forgive me, let alone believe me.
The staff gave me a lengthy explanation, but the bottom line was that the car accident was still under investigation, and I didn't have a lawyer. So, I had to stay tonight and cooperate with their inquiry.
The room was freezing, and I was shivering, but no one cared. They treated me like a criminal, even though my husband was a well-known lawyer. The irony wasn't lost on me. I let out a bitter laugh.
The hunger and headache make every minute feel like an eternity. I hold onto the table to keep myself from fainting.
As I think about George and Charlotte in a warm room, holding each other and talking, my heart sinks to the ground floor with pain in every body part.
***
My best friend Rachel picks me up the following day at eight. She's brought along a change of clothes and a greasy breakfast sandwich. Typically, I stay beyond a ten-foot-mile radius of those cheap, sh*t-tasting sandwiches. But today, I take it gratefully, eating it in silence as we walk back to her car.
"What the f*ck is the use of George making so much money if he's not even going to bother to give a damn about you? I mean, really, what's he planning to do, buy himself a coffin before he's thirty?" she snaps, her black heels clicking on the sidewalk as her brown hair swishes from side to side.
I don't reply, chewing the crap sandwich. However, Rachel is tapping away on her phone, starting to laugh in a rough tone. "What, is he planning on getting you a matching set?" she asks, not even bothering to look at me.
I laugh without a second thought. "Probably is."
That stops her, and Rachel turns to look me in the eyes. Gone is that spark and jokester I've known for years. She stares me down with those dark eyes, shock and concern spreading through her. "You're still in the mood to joke? You could have died last night, Ella."
"Yeah. I almost died," I reply, deadpanned. "What's it matter anyways? I'm still the same woman I was before the accident."
Except now I don't know if I have George.
Once Rachel gets me back to my place, she leaves me be. She attempts to insist on staying with me, but I promise I'll be okay.
I turn on the news out of habit, tidying up as I listen. I can only get so damn numb; I need a distraction so that I don't have to remind myself my husband isn't home.
"This morning, we are still waiting with bated breath to hear about Charlotte Deluca's state. Though we hope to hear soon about the popular singer's status, many of us on Entertainment Daily have begun to speculate about another piece of the puzzle: her mysterious boyfriend, who has remained by her side through the hospital time."
"Though no one inside the hospital can get a name or even a shot of the mystery man, sources have insisted he's beyond wealthy."
Of course, I know it's my husband, George. But given his status, the media wouldn't dare reveal his true identity.
The screen flashes to images of Charlotte at an event she'd sung in last year, smiling and waving at the crowd. Then, the screen fills with social media accounts posting on behalf of the woman.
"Fans have taken to posting their opinions online. While many are busy denying Charlotte's romantic involvement with any man, others are expressing immense concern for her online and calling in to the station to get further information. We await with thoughts and prayers in our hearts for a full recovery."
I can't help but push out a single "Ha!" at these words. I turn off the television and throw the remote onto the couch, disgusted with the media circus performing at its finest.
The nurses have confirmed in several postings that Charlotte only has minor scratches and suffered no severe head trauma—these people are blowing it way out of proportion.
I remind myself of the truth: George never loved me or even cared for me. Our marriage, our relationship, was always a ploy. He only agreed to marry me because of his out-of-touch grandmother. She'd forced him out of the law firm, and she had made it clear that the only way for him to come back into the company was marriage. We had complied with her wishes.
I, however, gave up everything. Most people who say those words mean a job or a different lifestyle. But I did give it up—all of it. My career was at its peak, and as a young woman in the work field, I had put everything on the line until his proposal. I sacrificed the best years of my life and willingly gave it all up just to become a full-time housewife.
I even learned to hand-wash George's underwear properly. That's how serious it was. It was all for him and only him.
Now, after all these years, I have no social standing left in my life. I left behind a world I loved to be with a man I loved even more.
But none of that matters anymore. George is all I have.
Yet he still doesn't love me.
Three whole years together, and he'll never know that I love him.
I feel completely exhausted, both physically and mentally. I take a shower and then lie down. When I wake up again in the middle of the night, I hear footsteps on the stairs. The servant tells me it's George who has come back.
I hear him drop his luggage somewhere nearby, and I wonder if he expects me to come running and tidy up for him.
I've been lying in bed with a throbbing pain in my temples for hours. But does he care?
He doesn't even bother to speak to me and just walks straight into the bathroom.
I'm not a maid or a nanny. I don't want to live my life to take care of this man. I'm fully aware that if it weren't for my beauty, there would be nothing here. That's the saddest part of all.
We've been married for years. Does he really see me as some naive woman so desperate to stay in an unhappy marriage? That's not what I want, and that's no longer who I am. All these years we've been married, he's continued to treat me with harsh tones, and he has neglected any compassion or love I've tried to give.
That is not LOVE.
That is not HAPPINESS.
It's a long while later when George exits the bathroom.
"Ella, I think we need to talk."
He sits on the bed beside me, and I feel his hand touch my leg. I want to jump at his touch, how I always feel when his warm hands find my skin. But not today. The break in my heart decimates me so much that I stay as still as a statue.
"Come on, Ella," he murmurs, his hand finding its way up my skirt. Is he serious? Does he think I'm going to have sex with him after all of this?
"What's wrong? Are you feeling unwell?" he coos like it's supposed to sway me. He wraps his index finger around my panties and starts to pull them down past my thighs.
Goddammit, I really wish I hated him.
