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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

Jason worships her. He has loved her ferociously since the first time he glimpsed her tiny form on the monitor. He swore he would die to protect her when he first cradled her gently in his arms; that he would kill anyone who dared hurt her. Would he die for her now? Would he stay if he realised that, by leaving, he would be killing part of his daughter, crushing her childhood innocence and showing her how cruel life can be? How cruel love can be? Does he realise that he, her father, would be the man who would hurt her most of all?

Just like my father, he will destroy the child he created. I never imagined Jason capable of that. There’s part of me that still hopes he won’t, that somehow I can make him believe that our love for each other is strong enough to endure. He has been sidetracked by an illusion of his perfect woman, that’s all. I have to make him see that the person he wants to be with is me. But it’s not me, is it? I reach to wipe away another slow tear. What would he think if he could see me now: this sad morning-after creature, lying under sheets that smell of sex, next to a complete stranger?

Is he still in bed, I wonder? I picture him, his arm thrown across his forehead, lying next to the ghost of me, dreaming of a new life without his wife.

He stirs, my military-haired stranger, grunting slightly as he does, reaching for me in his drowsiness. He probably doesn’t know who it is he’s reaching for – soft flesh, female flesh, that’s all. Wriggling away from him, I ease myself woozily to a sitting position and realise dawn has turned to day. And then it occurs to me: I don’t know what day. Is it a school day? Frantically, I sift through my alcohol-induced haze. I can’t remember. Panic engulfs me, and I wonder again whether I might be losing my grip on reality. I’m drinking too much, thinking too much, struggling to keep track. Friday. I seize on it. It’s Friday. Breathing a slow breath, I feel calmer for anchoring this piece of knowledge in the sea of madness my life has become.

God, what time is it? I fumble for my phone on the bedside locker. Eight a.m.? But how? I would have sworn it was only six o’clock a moment ago. And then I hear the unmistakable spatter of rain outside, which explains the drab blue-grey start to the day. Instantly, I am transported back to the dark, defining days of my childhood – the rain lashing the windows, the cloying air of the steamy kitchen.