I am scheduled for a full pamper session at one. I am talking massage, waxing, mani-pedi, a hair treatment—the works. My other appointment does not start until ten. Glancing at the clock, I see its only seven thirty. I decide to head to the basement where my makeshift art room is set up. Though it is a windowless room and can be very stuffy, I love my studio. It has got a large closet that I use as my dark room for developing photos, but the rest of the room I have lit up with LED bulbs and twinkling lights when I want a softer glow. I have bright, teal-colored walls I painted myself, and on one wall is entirely made up of bookshelves filled with my portfolios. Each book has a theme. Some are based on seasons, others on animals. Some drawn, painted, or photographs. They represent eighteen months of commitment to filling out as many as I possible could. In the center of the room is a large circular table that I do all my projects on. I have a dresser along another wall filled with supplies—bins full of wood to carve and wield into small figurines. I curl up with my sketch pad on the couch that is full of throw pillows and blankets.

I start to draw yet another portrait of Landon. I always start with his eyes. There is a stormy grey bordered by thick long black lashes. Then I move to his bold dark eyebrows, his slightly crooked nose, his strong, square, chiseled jaw covered in a five o’ clock shadow. Finally, I move to his plump soft lips. I run my finger along their outline. Knowing those lips will be pressed against mine tonight or dragged down the length of my neck, my heart rate picks up and my panties dampen. I can feel tingling in the tips of my breast even though he has never touched them, never explored beyond what was needed for the act itself. Sometimes I wonder why he even bothers. He clearly has no wish for intimacy, at least not with me.

The stupid voice in the back of my mind echoes my cousin’s words, “Brooke’s such an ugly, fat thing. Good luck getting that bitch pregnant. Of course, you could always turn off all the lights if you were desperate. Which if you ever wanted to unshackle yourself…” That was the last I heard of his sentence because my eavesdropping was interrupted by a server passing by. Unshackled? From me? If he did not want me as his wife, why did he marry me? What does it have to do with a pregnancy?

My alarm goes off reminding me of my appointment in a half hour. I put my incomplete drawing in the dresser drawer that holds an album dedicated to Landon. I keep it separated from my other work in case Landon came down here one day; not that he ever has. In a year and a half of marriage, Landon has never sought me out, never touched me unnecessarily. Hell, we do not even talk more than needed. Mostly we stick to polite table etiquette such as “Please pass the butter,” during our breakfast and dinner on the weekends. Landon owns a multibillion-dollar company in software. He is so tech-savvy it is unreal. He started the company from the ground up, and everyone thought he would fail. Closing the door to thoughts of Landon, I get into my Buick and head to my appointment, ignoring the nagging guilt I feel for keeping it a secret.