Through His Eyes Read online

  Table of Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Excerpt from The Pickup

  Other Books by Nikki Ash

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Through His Eyes

  Copyright © 2019

  Nikki Ash

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Cover design: Jersey Girl Designs

  Cover image: Taylor Alexander Photography

  Cover models: Cody Mackie and Chantel Mackie

  Dedication

  To all the women who have never been told…you are enough.

  One

  Quinn

  Sitting on my terrace, in a comfy lounge chair I purchased when Rick first bought us this place, I hold a glass of red wine in my hand—one that I have yet to take a sip of. I want to. I look forward to my nightly glass of wine. I buy my favorite brand in bulk and have it delivered to the condo. But for the last several weeks, I haven’t been able to drink it. I still pour it and bring it out here like I’ve been doing every night for the last four years. Only once I go back inside, I pour the crimson liquid down the sink and rinse the glass out. I think, somewhere deep in my subconscious, I believe if I continue to pour it every night, eventually I’ll be able to drink it. I’ve put it in my head, if I pretend like my life isn’t about to change—well, technically, already has changed—then it won’t. As if I can will my life to go back to what it was only a few short months ago. And that says a lot since I hated my life the way it was.

  Drinking my nightly wine isn’t just about drinking, though. It’s about finding comfort in my nightly routine. It makes me feel like I have the tiniest semblance of control in a situation that, in reality, is completely out of my control. I can handle my current life. I know what to expect. It’s routine and dependable. Rinse. Wash. Repeat. Now, though, not being able to drink wine means my routine is about to be shaken up, and I’m scared of what the future holds. It’s easier to fight the monster you know than to take on the one you’ve never seen.

  As I stare down at the hustle and bustle of the city, from the forty-seventh floor, I try to focus on what’s in front of me and not what’s inside of me. The problem is, from this high up, and this late at night, there’s not really much of a view to focus on. Down below, I spot several flashes of lights from the cabs and bikes that make their way to their destinations. Tiny dots of people litter the sidewalks, but they’re too small for me to see their features. I wonder how many of them are couples, holding hands and kissing, in love. My heart knots at the thought, and without thinking, I bring the wine to my lips. The liquid has only barely wet my tongue before I’m spitting it back into the glass and setting it down.

  My eyes glide upward. The sky is clear tonight, so it should be filled with beautiful stars twinkling above. But with the bright lights that make up New York City, it’s difficult to spot a single star. What I would give to be back in Piermont, in my old apartment in North Carolina I shared with my brothers, staring up at the sky and counting the hundreds of stars that wink down at me.

  My cell phone vibrates on the table. When I see it’s my sister-in-law, Celeste, I hit ignore. I’ve been pushing everyone away for years. I know I have. But I don’t know what to do, how to handle the situation I’ve found myself in. Once upon a time, I dreamt of being right here, in this moment: married to the love of my life, living in the most beautiful city in the world, in a gorgeous home. Pregnant with my husband’s baby. Looking toward our future. How ironic is it, when my dreams finally come true, nothing is the way it’s supposed to be.

  I’m married, but my husband doesn’t love me—and if I’m honest, I don’t love him either. How do you love a man who hates every part of you? It’s hard, trust me, I’ve tried. Over and over again. And through trying, I’ve lost a large piece of myself I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to find. When I look into the mirror, I’m not even sure who I see anymore, and that scares the crap out of me, because I wasn’t always this way. I was strong and determined and full of life, and now… I’m not. I’m weak, and I hate that I know it, yet choose not to do anything about it. It makes me feel even weaker.

  I might live in a beautiful city, but it’s one I no longer get to experience because I’m stuck in this suffocating ivory tower, going through the motions but not actually living. Where I live is beautiful. The furniture, the paintings, everything expensive and top of the line, but it’s not a home. It’s simply a dwelling. A place to eat and sleep. And I can’t imagine what it will feel like to raise a baby here.

  Rick and I tried for years to get pregnant. He wanted a baby with his last name, and I wanted someone to love. After four years of trying, at thirty-four years old, I didn’t think it would happen. I brought up the idea of using in vitro fertilization a couple years back, but my husband scoffed at me and told me he’s not defective, and only defective people need to use IVF. Then, he proceeded to tell me I was probably the defective one, and if that were the case, he didn’t want a baby with me anyway. I swallow thickly at the memory of crying myself to sleep that night. My eyes burn, and I close them tight, willing the tears to vaporize. Rick doesn’t deserve any more of my tears. I know that. But, still, they come. Because I’m weak.

  Glancing at the time on my cell phone, I see it’s almost ten o’clock. Rick should be home soon. I’m planning to tell him about the baby tonight. I’m not naïve enough to believe a baby will repair our marriage, but I don’t know what else to do. It’s not as if things can get worse. My thoughts go back to when I was a little girl. Of my father and mother yelling and screaming at each other. Of my mother hitting him and calling him names. Of the way she turned her hatred onto me when he died from a heart attack, and she found out the extent of his cheating. I was only eight years old, but I can still remember the way my brothers tried to protect me. I know they would protect me now, if they knew, if I let them in.

  I pick up my glass of wine, and once again, have to stop myself from downing the entire glass. Closing my lids, I try to imagine how my baby’s life will look. I refuse to let him, or her, grow up like I did. Scared to talk out of turn, frightened of what mood my mother would be in when I got home from school. Terrified, the nasty words she spoke about me were true.

  It wasn’t until my eldest brother, Jax, turned eighteen and gained guardianship of me, I was finally able to breathe. At the same time, my other
older brother Jase became emancipated. From the time I was eleven years old, I grew up in a loving home. I was given everything I could want or need. They treated me like a princess, and when I grew up, all I wanted was to meet a man who would treat me like his queen. Boy, was I naïve. Fairytales are overrated if you ask me. Maybe the problem was that every girl wants a Prince Charming, and I got a king. One who rules with an iron fist to keep his castle in order. He’s well-respected by everyone and answers to no one. Maybe what I should’ve looked for instead, was a sweet prince, one who would find my glass slipper, or show me a beautiful library. He would kiss me awake to save me from the evil witch, or take me away from the horrendous stepmother. Maybe the problem was that, because my brothers told me I deserved the world, when I wished upon those shooting stars, I aimed too high. You know what they say: be careful what you wish for because you just might get it. Well, I wished and wished and wished, and I got it…and now I have no damn clue what to do with it.

  Glancing over at my phone, I notice five more minutes have passed. It’s time to go inside. I need to clean the kitchen and put Rick’s dinner out for him. He texted me earlier he would be home at ten. After rinsing out my wine glass, I take his dinner out of the warmer and place it on the table for him along with some silverware and the scotch he always has with his dinner. Then I head into the bathroom to freshen up. Using a makeup wipe, I swipe under my eyes so the black is no longer smeared, and I no longer look like a racoon. When I reach into my drawer to grab a night shirt, I spot the lingerie I bought while out shopping with Celeste a while back. I was hoping to spice up my marriage, only when I put it on, Rick told me I looked like a trashy hooker and demanded I take it off. I’m not even sure why I kept it.

  Instead of grabbing my cotton shirt, I pull out the silk, beige negligée Rick bought me for our honeymoon, from out of the bottom of the drawer. It’s on the shorter side, touching just above the top of my knees, and is thin, showing all of my curves Rick used to love but now despises. Taking a deep breath, I throw it on. It’s probably a stupid idea, but I’m desperate—for affection, for attention, for any sign my marriage isn’t completely over. Maybe the sight of this negligée will remind him of a time when he actually found me attractive, and he’ll go back to being the man I first met. The man I gave my heart to. The man I wanted so desperately to have a family with.

  When I hear the door alarm chime, indicating Rick is home, I rush out to greet him. He’s toeing off his expensive loafers and shrugging out of his suit jacket, when I make my presence known. He looks up, and I hold my breath, praying his reaction will be receptive. That he’ll once again look at me like I’m his entire world. He’ll take me into his arms and lay me down on the bed and make love to me. I’ll tell him about the baby, and he’ll spend the rest of the night worshipping my body.

  I’ll be the respected queen to my king.

  For a brief moment, he stares at me. His gaze rakes down my body, and I think maybe today will be different. But then his face contorts into his usual look of disgust, and I know whatever he’s about to say won’t be good. So I do what I have learned to do over the years—put up my broken and fragile wall and pray his harsh words aren’t strong enough this time to completely demolish it.

  “You would think with all the time on your hands, you would make an effort to lose weight,” he quips. “What else do you do all day?” He shoots me an accusatory look that makes me want to tell him to go fuck himself. And that makes me a bit proud that I still have even a single ounce of strength left in me to consider saying it. Even though it does no good when I don’t actually have any intention of acting on it. Been there, done that. Not stupid enough to ever do it again.

  Instead, I stay stuck in my place as if my feet are glued to the ground beneath me—my voice refusing to speak the words I so badly want to say. I’m well aware I don’t do shit all day because he gives me a hard time every time I leave—always pointing out a woman’s place is in the home.

  After the first few times of Rick putting me down, I started to go to the gym in our building, only he showed up and caused a scene when he saw me talking to one of the men who worked out there. It didn’t matter that he was only showing me how to properly use one of the machines. He forbade me to ever return, telling me I could workout at home. Months went by, and he kept pointing out I was putting on weight. He then began to put me down during sex, making comments about everything I ate, and pointing out the type of woman he does find attractive. At that point, I met with a nutritionist, who mentioned stress can cause weight gain. It doesn’t help I’m an emotional eater, and dealing with my husband can be emotionally stressful. I try to eat healthy, but it doesn’t matter because I’m not what he wants, and I never will be.

  Whenever I would go to Forbidden Ink, my brothers’ tattoo shop, to hang out, he would give me a hard time, saying it’s not appropriate. When I would try to hang out with my sister-in-law, Celeste, and my niece Skyla, he would come up with a list of items that needed to be done. I still make it a point to see them when Rick goes away, but the more unhappy I become, the more my family notices, and the less I bring myself around them, not wanting to have to explain my entire life is a lie and in shambles.

  Setting his jacket on the table, Rick steps closer and takes the silky fabric of the negligée between his fingers. “Delicate items like these are meant for women who take care of their bodies, not for women who let their bodies go to shit. Take it off. Now. You don’t deserve to wear something so exquisite when you clearly don’t appreciate it.”

  Knowing better than to respond, I nod once and turn on my heel. I knew this was going to happen, so why would I willingly put myself in this situation? Maybe I just needed to hear it one last time. For him to confirm where we stand.

  “Wait,” he says, and I turn around, my heart filling with false hope. “Put my shoes and jacket away,” he commands, his voice devoid of all emotion.

  I nod again, walking over to grab his jacket, and then reaching down to grab his shoes. When I stand upright, I feel his hand on my wrist. I look up into his cold, blue eyes. The same eyes I once found warmth in. “How do you think it makes me feel as your husband, to have to see the way you’ve let yourself go? I’m the one who has to see you naked…touch you… How can you expect me to want you when you don’t care about your own body?”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmur softly, unsure of what else to say. The truth of the matter is, I’ve only gained about twenty-five pounds since we’ve gotten together, but it’s enough my husband no longer views me as attractive. I’ve always been on the thicker side: wide hips, thick thighs, big breasts. I was never the most popular or the prettiest, but I was okay with who I was. Until Rick made sure to point out every flaw. Every imperfection. Day after day he broke me piece by piece. I don’t know how I even let it go on this long.

  But, I finally did reach my breaking point and made the decision to leave—to go to my brothers and tell them everything. I formulated a plan to move out and file for divorce. I knew Rick would give me shit, but it couldn’t be any worse than living under his roof. But fate is a fickle bitch and the day I was going to meet with my brothers, I realized I missed my period. I waited and waited, but it never came. Now, three months later and I still haven’t gotten it. I’ve yet to take a test, but I know what the results will say. I’m pregnant by a man who hates me.

  Rick’s brows dip together at my apology—in confusion or frustration, I’m not sure—and I wonder, maybe, if I’d worked out harder, dieted more seriously, my husband would want and love me. It’s too late now, though. Pregnant women only get fatter. I’ve already started to put weight on, and my body is already changing. My clothes are becoming tighter. What will he think of me once I’m fully showing? Will he despise our baby for doing this to my body, like he despises me for letting myself go? No, he’s wanted an heir for too long. I refuse to believe he won’t love our child. But does he even know how to love?

  My thoughts and feelings are scattered all
over the place. I’m a mess of hormones. Getting pregnant was what I wanted for so long, but now that it’s happened, I can’t help but wish it wouldn’t have. I feel a tremendous amount of guilt for even thinking that, but the last thing I want is to bring a baby into this unloving home. I was raised in one for years before Jax saved me, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone, especially my own child. Even if Rick, by some crazy chance, loves our child the way a father should love his baby, he, or she, will still grow up watching him treat me like shit—the same way I watched my parents treat each other. Will my child resent me for being weak, or will he, or she, view me the same way Rick does? The thought has me wanting to throw up.

  As I scurry back to the room, I try to recall when Rick changed. You hear about it in books and movies. They talk about it on those shows like Dr. Phil or Oprah. The woman who lives in the abusive household. How does she not notice? Why doesn’t she leave? She must be blind, deaf, and dumb not to see the signs. All I can say is, until you are standing where I am, you won’t understand. Words can hit as hard as fists. Without even realizing I was standing in the ring, being thrown into a fight I wasn’t ready for, I had already been knocked to the ground. Did I get up? Of course. But when you get knocked down so many times, eventually you realize it’s better to just tap out. I’m aware it makes me sound weak. But in my defense, the fight isn’t even close to being fair. I never really stood a chance.

  I can still remember the days when Rick would kiss me lovingly. The way he would hold me in his arms and tell me how much I meant to him. I can’t pinpoint the moment when things changed. When we went from having sex every day, to a few days a week, down to once a week, and eventually it turned into once a month. When our weekly date nights turned into me leaving dinner out for him. And our weekend getaways turned into Rick going away by himself while I stayed home alone.