Mitchell Lanigan Books

Chapter 1 "Roger, darling, just how much of your hard-earned cash is sunbathing in that offshore account of yours?" Bridget lounged across from her husband of three decades plus one, her tone dripping with a casual mockery that masked the weight of her question. The turquoise waves of Aruba lapped lazily at the shore, oblivious to the brewing storm between the couple. Roger, momentarily lifting his gaze from the thriller he was half-heartedly thumbing through, peered over his sunglasses with a look that could curdle milk. "Bridge, my love, could you kindly take your detective routine and shove it? I've already told you I'm not playing this game." Roger Gates, the retired magnate with a nest egg nearly as large as his ego, was not used to being cornered. "You are a self-centered, egotistical jerk, Roger, you know that?" Bridget said, reclining on her sunbed with a theatrical sigh of defeat. She pretended to gaze at the ocean for a few seconds, secretly monitoring her husband's reaction. When she saw Roger’s smug grin, clearly pleased with himself for brushing her off so quickly, she abruptly sat upright and delivered her well-planned and well-thought-out blow. "Oh, I can shove it up my ass, certainly. But before that, let me offer you a small tidbit," Bridget retorted, her voice a dangerous whisper, the kind that could slice through the humid air of their beachside paradise. "If you don't loosen your death grip on that cash for Steph, I'm about to become the town crier of your little soap opera." Roger bolted upright. His book flung aside as if it were on fire. "What in the world are you prattling on about? Spill what, precisely? Did you finally join a cult?" "Well, honey, since you asked so nicely," Bridget's grin was tinged with sarcasm, her eyes locking onto his with an intensity that rivaled the Caribbean sun. "I'm thinking it's high time I brought up your dear Nela and her…well… special services. Should I call that a service? Your weekly 'bonus' while I'm out clubbing." Roger's response choked in his throat. A mix of resentment and sheer panic left him speechless. His face, usually a confident mask of bronze, seemed to drain of color as her words hit him like a sledgehammer. Beads of sweat formed on his brow, betraying the chaos beneath his composed exterior. It was as if he'd just seen a ghost—one that knew all his passwords. Bridget pressed on. "Yes, Roger. I've known about your little escapades for quite some time now," she continued, her tone now soft, almost reflective. "And I figured, why not leverage my silence? So, you're going to do exactly as I say. You'll give our daughter the money to help that talentless hack she married with his latest so-called project. Sure, he might blow it all, but I'll cross that bridge when I come to it. Right now, you're my project." Roger was a statue, the words washing over him like a tsunami, dismantling his carefully assembled house of cards. The idyllic morning suddenly turned into a twisted soap opera of betrayal and blackmail, complete with commercial breaks. Roger still could say nothing. His gaze was fixed on Bridget, his eyes giving away that he had been caught like a deer in the headlights, only this deer had forgotten to wear pants. Bridget, sensing victory, went in for the kill. "Let's rewind to last July," Bridget said, drawing closer, her voice a conspiratorial whisper. "I was fiddling with my camera. Remember the one Caden gave me for my birthday? I tried setting up a delayed recording but got distracted by Steph's call, left it in the kitchen, and forgot all about it. Imagine my surprise when, days later, I found it with the battery dead as a doornail. Curiosity killed the cat, Roger, but in my case, it just caught the rat." Her laugh was devoid of humor. "And there you were, on tape, getting a blow job. Imagine that!" Roger attempted to interject, but Bridget's silencing gaze was a clear signal: this was not a dialogue. "I could've screamed, Roger. I could have thrown a fit worthy of a reality TV meltdown. Instead, I chose silence. And surveillance. You see, I've got quite the collection now," she said, her voice full of a sinister pride. "Think of it as my little Netflix series—' The Chronicles of Roger's Indiscretions.'" "Bridge, please, let me—" Roger's plea was desperate, feeble. "Hush, Roger. I've played the fool for all these months, storing ammunition. I'm not after your money or a scandal. Just do right by Steph. This is not open for debate." Bridget leaned back, her expression shifting from satisfaction to icy determination. She adjusted her sunglasses, a slight smirk playing on her lips as she watched Roger squirm. "Alright, Bridge. I'll do it," Roger said, his voice trembling with regret and desperation. "I'm sorry. Truly, I am. You know I love you. I can't excuse my actions, and I can't change the past, but I'm sorry from the bottom of my heart." His eyes glistened with unshed tears as he pleaded for her forgiveness. Beneath the surface of his remorse, a cocktail of humiliation, stupidity, and exposure brewed with a seething desire to gracefully untangle himself from the mess he had created. "I know, Roger, I know. And I understand, in a twisted way. But let's say your...hobbies... must have their consequences. Now, why don't you show me just how much you love me? Transfer the money. Now."