I CAME ACROSS a soft light. The kind of gentle glow that was inviting but speaks of an old intimacy that I never quite grew accustomed to. I knew he’d hear me if I walked away, let the night pass on a rushed day. Yet, I also knew I wouldn’t have the courage to look at his face if I went in there.

“Well?” he questioned from within. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was in the armchair. Its high back seemed to reflect both the prestige of his family but also his over- inflated ego. He had been impatient all day, but this was nothing new.

I took the last step off the bottom of the stairs and rounded the corner into the room. Looking at the glass decanter next to him, I explained, “Sorry, sir. I was coming down to get some bread, dinner was rather early.” It came out breathier than I had intended. Despite the distance across the room, my heart was twisting as though he could see into my soul. His gaze always bored into whatever he looked at. Even the rough stable cats would shy away when they were within his sight. My normally tough exterior was of no match.

“I’ve told you countless times not to call me ‘sir’. And if you get hungry, you should have called your girl, what else is she there for,” he snapped. I wasn’t sure if my flinch had caused it, or if it had been the haunt of the siren from down the hill, but his tone softened. “You’re here as my wife, and I would expect someone low-born like you to take advantage of the luxury. Stop being so stubborn.” The words had his usual bite, but the hushed depth was a contrast that I could’ve mistaken for caring.

My courage took advantage to light a small fire of resistance at the moment, so I countered, “It’s hardly worth waking someone at this hour for bread. And I may be low-born but I’m perfectly capable of——”

 “I wasn’t asking if you are capable of getting bread,” he interrupted. “I’m telling you to act a certain way, so do it before I get impatient.”

“Because that’s never happened before,” I muttered while turning toward the kitchen. Unfortunately, he heard me. Rising a bit too quickly he shouted, “You signed knowing what kind of person I am! You said you could follow instructions—so do it, goddamnit.” He started to take large steps toward me. “All I’m asking is that you pretend. You don’t actually have to like me. That’s not part of the deal, I don’t care.” He roughly turned me to face him before grabbing my face as though I was a disobedient child. His movement and voice would have genuinely frightened me if I hadn’t caught the fear that glimmered in his eye for just a moment. He breathed, “I get what I need, and you can have yours. Got it?”

I knew deep down he was right. God help me for always being so arrogant and stubborn, quite a bad combination if I was being honest. I wrested my face free from his grip. I was too put-off to say anything; there was nothing I could say anyways. All I had to do was pretend to be his wife for a few days while she was with her lover, and I would get my hard drive back: a pretty good deal for both of us.

I slowly mounted the stairs, knowing he would watch until I disappeared into the hallway. As I rounded the landing before taking the last few steps, he said, almost desperately, “I haven’t read any of it.” I froze. How would he know it wasn’t pictures or films—why would he know it was something written? He seemed to read my mind, “I opened it to see if it were pictures I could save.” I turned to glare at him. He threw up his hands. “But given that you’re a whistle-blowing journalist, I figured it’d be best if I stayed out of documents. You could ruin me when we’re done, so it’s in my best interest not to piss you off more than you need to be able to do your job.”

“Well, at least you aren’t too stupid.” I marched up the last few steps and straight into my room. I could hardly believe I actually said he was stupid, but it couldn’t hurt to take him down a peg or two. The day had been so long that in some respects, I hardly even cared.

His actual wife and I looked almost exactly the same. All it took was a box of hair dye and some makeup to make me a mirror-image of her. It made me sick to my stomach to know it could be that easy to look like someone else—let alone copy her life. She was a quiet person, which worked to my benefit. I didn’t need to say anything for the entire day, and yet people truly thought they were looking at her. I did nothing except sit and look pretty for the shareholders. Oddly enough, that was all they needed. Convinced that his life was falling apart and he couldn’t control it, they thought they could challenge him for ownership. Then suddenly, his wife showed up beautiful and perfectly sweet for the meeting, and they could barely hold it with me sitting right there. If he planned to divorce, that was fine, but he seemed keen on keeping his crumbling marriage off the radar, so my presence was really just to keep things looking nice until then. She would be home in two days, and it was just about to come over the horizon.

His attitude towards me was strange though: the staff didn’t know, so we had to play house even in private. But why would he insist on maintaining the act even when there was no one else around when I had come downstairs? Maybe he just had a hard time getting out of character. I could only hope that he never treated his actual wife with that same harshness, or else it was no wonder that she’d wanted to leave him–either way, it wasn’t my business. I just needed my hard drive.

As a kid, I was a tattletale, and as I got older I became a rat, stool pigeon, or a snitch. But I found a special joy in bringing things to light; it was my own sort of justice. I tried not to pass judgment—who was I to play God? Instead, I’d play the mischievous demon and let the rest of the world do the judging. He was smart not to read the documents; I had a dozen companies poised to implode the moment those documents went out. However, I didn’t find the chance to publish anything yet.

How my hard drive ended up in someone else’s hands was because of my real husband, a cruel, cruel man. He wouldn’t sign the divorce papers and threatened to destroy my hard drive if I were to publish another article about him. When I found out that my hard drive had gone missing, I thought I had blown a gasket. My blood boiled. I seethed with the rage of one too many years: I became tough because of him, but I could also play gentle and coy to get what I needed. But this lit my fuse, and every time he threatened me or worse I had cut the fuse shorter. Part of me felt guilty, always hoping he would change into the person my parents said he’d be. Time was just as cruel as him. I couldn’t take it anymore, not with my career on the line, not with the only thing that could make me happy.

Therefore, when I found out who had taken my hard drive, I thought I’d never get it back. It was hard to negotiate with the man who had almost everything. To my advantage, however, he already seemed to know what he had wanted.

“Be my wife for four days and come to a meeting with me,” he said. I thought maybe the money made him lose one too many marbles. He already had a wife, so what could he possibly mean? But as he explained, it all began to make sense. My confusion turned into wonder: this man was about to lose it all, as he desperately poured out his life details to a whistleblower, as his last resort. He was that desperate, just like me. Therefore, our contract was easy to make—his life and mine were at stake.

The first two days were a breeze: pretend to return from a shopping trip in Europe with a cold that made my voice seem a little weird. He had suddenly given most of his staff a short holiday, so there were even fewer people to convince. The remaining few either took the bait or were smart enough to play along, feigning ignorance. Days three and four were also promised to be easy, barring nothing sudden happening.

I collapsed into my bed, ready to get the next two days over with. I had crawled out from one man to under another. My frustration racked my body. I was so ready to be done, to move on, to not be afraid of blowing my cover. I cried silently, but I wanted to scream. Let people hear me, crash cymbals as I walked down the street, announcing to everyone, “I am the bold person I’ve always been inside.” I could then give a big middle finger to anyone who made my life difficult. Two more days. Just two.     

I must have fallen asleep somewhere between feeling sorry for myself and the urge to burn the mansion to the ground. I stayed in my room for the better part of the morning, reassuring myself that I was me. By the afternoon I had wandered my way into the gardens, taking a sandwich and an overfull glass of red wine. I had been sure to open one of his most expensive bottles: my little rebellion.

The plants were soothing. The flowers bored me—but I’d always thought they were too delicate for their own good. Following the dirt path, I found a horse chestnut. Maybe not the best kind of tree to grow in a place like this, but it still thrived. It struck me as I sank into the bench onlooking the tree. This tree was my aspiration. It was maybe misplaced, but damn was it strong, giving a middle finger to any doubtful gardener. I had been ready to chop down my inner sapling. It was misplaced. But this was another wake-up call. I’d been through worse, and now was not the time to let it look like a different person had control yet again. Crying last night was fine, but now I was really ready to crash those cymbals.

I finished what was left of my sandwich and chugged what was left of my wine. It didn’t taste good enough to be worth more than my yearly salary. I walked back inside, a new firmness to my step and broadness to my shoulders. The walk inside and to his office was long, but I didn’t lose my resolve.

I threw open the door to his office, catching him mid-sip of coffee. I planted my feet. “I want it back now.” He looked at me for a beat and stammered, “But, but you aren’t done… not yet… it’s not—”

“I wasn’t asking.”

“But you’re leaving tomorrow morning, why do you need it now?” he asked, looking like a child about to lose his toy.

“That’s why I want it now. You don’t need it, so give it back,” I stated a bit too forcefully. But that was fine, I was right.

He clawed through his desk, pulling it at last out of his bottom drawer, wrapped in tissue paper. I crossed the room in large strides to his desk and snatched it from his hands. He was caught off-guard and couldn’t put up his usual front. Ripping the paper off I turned it over in my hands. It felt heavier than before. But that was its new-found importance. I squinted at him, “Prove it’s mine. Show me what’s on it—that nothing’s missing.”

Pushing back from his desk, he stood and gestured widely at the desk and chair. I plopped into his chair, more comfortable than I expected it to be. Plugging it in, he moved around the desk to face me. He set his hands down, making a triangle with the desk, a move to intimidate me. He muttered, “I’m still the one in control.” His poor ego felt threatened. Good. I glared up at him, ready to spit nails. He suddenly lifted his hands off the desk as if it was making him dirty. He then slowly stood up straight again.

I directed my gaze back to the screen, let him be intimidated. I scoured all the files, looking closely at the names and sizes of the files. It checked out, lucky for him. I ejected it and yanked the hard drive away from his computer. Standing sharply, I took large steps around the desk. He staggered back as I walked past him toward the door. So much for that ego of his. Guess it just took a pissed off woman to show his true mettle.

He didn’t show up at dinner. I was told he had an urgent appointment pop up, leaving the place entirely to me. I ate slowly and methodically; then I polished off the wine bottle from lunch. Oddly, it tasted much better now. A bit tipsy, I found my way back to my room. A few minor bumps in trying to get up the stairs, but nothing like what I’d had before. The house was as timid as its owner when you got to the heart of the matter, and this was nothing I couldn’t handle.

I fell into bed, sure that I would vomit the most expensive meal I’d ever had but drifted off before I got the chance to. I slept hard. I hadn’t slept that well in years. I had fallen asleep drunk so many times before, but this time was different. Despite the spinning and brutal headache when I awoke, I felt alive.

---

I decided to leave early for the airport. Donning his wife’s most expensive day clothes and a massive pair of sunglasses, I called a taxi and slipped out with my hard drive, not even stopping to say thank you or goodbye. The ride to the airport seemed painfully slow. I knew the anticipation would make it seem long, but this was ridiculous. When we finally arrived, I stepped out, breathing the smog like it was the first clean air of my life. Leaning into the passenger window, I handed the driver a bill that was much too large, but said, “Keep the change.” I turned on my heel to face the door as he sped away before I could change my mind.

I picked my way through the crowd, finding the check-in counter. I slid my passport to the assistant across the counter, not even saying my destination. She took it and tapped her keyboard with long neon green fingernails. Perhaps it was not the best choice, but I was too excited to care. She could be the devil himself and I’d gladly still take my ticket, even straight to Hell.

She suddenly grinned, “Looks like yesterday you were upgraded to first class.” Grabbing the ticket from the printer, she slid it and my passport back across the counter. With a toothy smile, she chirped, “Have a great flight Ms. Wild.”

Grabbing my ticket and removing my sunglasses, I stated, “Actually, I go by Dorothy Freeman. Mr. Wild is not my master anymore. Nobody is.”

---

Sarah Brooker is a lover and studier of all things creative. After picking up photography from a
very young age, she started performing in middle school and in high school began writing
creatively. She worked for several years as the technical director of an LGBT youth theater
troupe and has found that the greatest inspirations, artistically and otherwise, come from
listening to and empathizing with others. As a Global China Studies major with minors in Art
History and Chinese, she hopes to bring to light the fascinating things about that which is often
understudied—commonplace things.