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Back The Marriage Trap: A completely addictive psychological thriller Save as PDF
Chapters (60)
  1. Cover
  2. Books by Sheryl Browne
  3. Dedication
  4. KARLA
  5. One
  6. Two
  7. Three
  8. Four
  9. Five
  10. Six
  11. Seven
  12. Eight
  13. Nine
  14. Ten
  15. Eleven
  16. Twelve
  17. Thirteen
  18. Fourteen
  19. Fifteen
  20. Sixteen
  21. Seventeen
  22. Eighteen
  23. Nineteen
  24. Twenty
  25. Twenty-One
  26. Twenty-Two
  27. Twenty-Three
  28. Twenty-Four
  29. Twenty-Five
  30. Twenty-Six
  31. Twenty-Seven
  32. Twenty-Eight
  33. Twenty-Nine
  34. Thirty
  35. Thirty-One
  36. Thirty-Two
  37. Thirty-Three
  38. Thirty-Four
  39. Thirty-Five
  40. Thirty-Six
  41. Thirty-Seven
  42. Thirty-Eight
  43. Thirty-Nine
  44. Forty
  45. Forty-One
  46. Forty-Two
  47. Forty-Three
  48. Forty-Four
  49. Forty-Five
  50. Forty-Six
  51. Forty-Seven
  52. Forty-Eight
  53. Epilogue
  54. The Affair
  55. Hear more from Sheryl
  56. Books by Sheryl Browne
  57. A Letter from Sheryl
  58. The Babysitter
  59. The Second Wife
  60. Acknowledgements

Gulping back the acrid taste in my throat, I twist my head to the side. He’s lying on his back, his face turned towards me, one arm crooked under his head. His hair is dark, military-cut, with just a sprinkling of grey. His eyelashes are long, luxuriant, sweeping his high cheekbones as he sleeps. He’s obviously well groomed. I try to take some small comfort from that. He reminds me of Jason. I feel my insides knot. The same sharp spasm I feel every time I realise I’ve almost certainly lost him: my husband, the person who is fundamentally part of me. This man is not Jason. Jason doesn’t have tattoos. Jason doesn’t like rough sex. I know this person intimately – my body, sore and raw, tells me I do – but I don’t know him at all.

Did I have sex with him at the nightclub? My heart thumps in my chest; broken thoughts leap around in my head. I see the overly made-up face of the woman looking back at me in the mirror and my stomach recoils, rebelling against the memory, as well as the wine I poured into it, so easily, so carelessly. God, what am I doing?

Who am I? I don’t know any more. This person lying here with a stranger is not me. Not the me I used to be: a mother, a wife. A good mother, I’d thought. A good wife. But not good enough. Inhaling, I hold my breath, try to stop a silent tear sliding from my eye.

Did Jason miss me last night? My heart stalls at that thought. Jason doesn’t try to stop me going out. He knows that, in choosing to throw away what we had, he forfeited the right to interfere. He asked me not to go one night. I told him he could stop me by telling me he wouldn’t leave me. He didn’t. I bite back a low moan. He doesn’t want me. He’s not jealous. Why did I imagine he would be, when emotionally he’s already left me? He’s staying for the children. He doesn’t want to rock their worlds. He will miss them if he goes, that much I do know: Josh, his scrawny ten-year-old son, who’s already decided he wants to do computer science, to grow up to be clever and big and strong, just like his father. Poor Josh. How badly will his illusions be shattered? Holly, the baby I refused to abort, despite my father pressurising me to. His granddaughter. Even now, knowing the truth about the kind of man my father is, I struggle to believe he would have had me snuff out her life.