Imperfect Truth
Table of Contents
The Begining
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Excerpts
Imperfect Truth
Editor: Chelsea Kuhel (www.madisonseidler.com)
Interior Design: Pink Ink Design
Cover Design: By Hang Le
Art by docart
Copyright @ 2015 by Ava Harrison
All rights reserved
Imperfect Truth
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, including photocopying, recording or by information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and trademark owners of various products, brands, and/or restaurants referenced in the work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Dedicated to the ones who broke me.
Without you, I would never have had the strength to rebuild.
I DON’T REMEMBER the last time I could truly say I loved my husband. To be completely frank, I believe it was before we even got married. You can hate me for this, but until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes you will never really know why I’ve done the things I’ve done. Often I stare at him from across the room and repulsion courses through my veins, a feeling of dread, that this is what my life has become. I wonder why I can't just leave him. Why I can't find the strength to love myself enough and simply be happy.
Was my life pleasant before I met him?
Was I content?
What’s missing now?
I’m pretty sure I’ve never truly been happy. I’ve always struggled to find where I belong, but how can I belong somewhere when I don’t fit anywhere? Sometimes I find myself picking a fight with him just so he will talk to me. All I want is a little attention from him. Good or bad.
It’s sick.
I know.
But living in the land of indifference has changed me. I reside here day and night until the moment I snap from his indifference. Then I lash out, rebel against what has become this norm. Although it’s not right, the reprieve from the emptiness when we argue is welcome.
If I left, would he follow me?
Would he fight?
Would he even notice?
A PART OF ME IS slowly dying.
My heart is empty. The weight of the world perpetually sits on my narrow shoulders. Something is missing from my life.
Now settled into my marriage with Alexandre, the loneliness has started to surface, and I feel desolate.
Even his name on my tongue leaves a bitter taste. From the beginning I questioned the spelling since it’s pronounced Alexander. Who the hell would choose to spell it like that? Then I met his mother and it all became clear. He was born into this life by an elitist woman who thinks she’s important and wants everyone else to think so as well. The name is pretentious and downright obnoxious…just like her. She alone gave me plenty of reasons to run in the beginning, but I loved him. I believed he would be my happily ever after...
Right before the wedding he had started to change, but I ignored it. The thought of reaching thirty and being an old spinster had scared the fuck out of me. I had imagined myself dying in my apartment alone with thirty cats eating my decaying body. At the time, getting married was definitely the better option. Boy, was I wrong.
It hasn’t always been like this. We used to be happy. We used to laugh and joke with one another. At one point he was even my best friend. Right before we got engaged was the happiest time for Alexandre and I. We used to do so much together. In the summer we would spend our evenings exploring all the cultural activities New York had to offer us. We would pack a picnic basket every Monday night and go to Bryant Park to see what film was playing on the large screen for the summer film festival. As the classic film would play throughout the evening we would sip wine and eat fresh delicacies. On other evenings, we would follow the New York Philharmonic concert schedule to Central Park and enjoy the music under a canopy of stars. Alexandre proposed to me under those shimmery lights.
We lay under the stars that peeked through the darkness blanketing us from above. Like diamonds tucked away the silver glistened with each pass of the wind. Alexandre pulled me into his arms as the sound of the symphony filtered through the air. He leaned back after a brief minute; he brushed my hair away and tenderly ran his fingers across my cheek, cupping my chin gently and lifting my eyes to meet his.
“Every day I love you more and more. When I’m with you, I feel that anything is possible. I feel complete. Will you marry me?” My lips trembled as a tear slides down my cheek.
“Yes.”
Once upon a time we were so in love…until we weren't.
I guess not every love story has a happy ending, after all.
But how do I live like this? Shutting off the feelings deep inside me is the only option. I know that he will take care of me. He will love me the best he can and always provide for me. Ignorance is bliss…Supposedly.
“How was work?”
“Fine,” he murmurs.
“Anything interesting happen today?”
“No.”
His one-word answer is like nails on a chalkboard. The tension that now fills the space between us palpable. As the sound from the TV drones on, I stare fixedly at him. He looks beautiful as his emerald green eyes focus blankly on the screen. His warm brown hair is tousled from a long day at work as he reclines lazily on the couch. Alexandre has always been a gorgeous specimen of a man, and when he used to smile even more so. If only his looks were the problem. Once so vibrant, now he is vacant…as lost as I am.
I shuffle my body, reaching my hand over to pick up the magazine sitting on the side table. I place it gently on my lap and begin to thumb through it. My eyes skim over the pages, and all I see are hollow faces. There are no stories to me. It’s as though Très Chic Magazine is nothing but advertisements. In my haze all that I see are images, reflections from my own life.
A photo shoot in Paris…
Live mannequins standing in front of the Arc de Triumph three years ago for our engagement pictures.
A pool party in LA…
Reminds me of the false pretense of carefree life, a few months after being married.
A garden party in London…
The black hole of my detachment that formed during a work trip with Alexandre.
The white noise around me continues as I flick the pages and get lost in recollection and disillusionment. Each picture floats by like fog…locations, frozen moments, painful memories.
My movements stop short. The Fire and Ice Gala…
> All the faces look up at me from the pages; they are just emaciated models playing dress up. A still life in print, a dispassionate crowd frozen immortal. Image after image flash by of the patrons attending the soirée…there we are.
In print.
This picture is…
A fairytale of beauty...
A glimpse of our deception…
A painful reminder of my solitude…
A grim look into my isolation…
A mockery of my own sham…
The woman appears before me, and although I see her reflection every day in the mirror, the face staring back is familiar but false. I barely recognize the sight before me. My head swims in an array of white noise. The pretense of perfection living, breathing in these pictures.
It’s all a lie. The truth is set behind her eyes, only hidden from the unobservant onlooker. I sit motionless, my eyes running over the images staring back at me. I see a woman exhausted by keeping up appearances. A horrible fake smile. Her eyes cast down rimmed red with sorrow. His tight smile so obviously blanketing his judgment. I can still hear his voice in my ear as we poised.
“Can you at least pretend you actually want to be here?”
The raw emotions from this shoot shakes me to the core. The void swirls around me.
How does no one notice the pain lying behind her eyes, behind his?
Sighing deeply, I pull myself out of my thoughts. Placing the magazine down, I reach for my laptop. With the need for a distraction from my dismal reality, I sign into Facebook. I look through my inbox quickly, but nothing interesting is happening, so I transfer over to my business page. Author drama. Typical.
I run what most people would consider a rather successful book blog. With over 30,000 followers on my Facebook page, my reviews and following have made me rather sought after by authors to read and promote their books. I switch back over to my private page and notice a new friend request. There is no face, just a perfectly tailored Italian suit. The design and fit are impeccable. Wow…
Ryder Matthews. I know the name instantly. He was notorious for evading the cameras. He’s also who many like to refer to as “His Highness” of erotic novels. He acquired the name because of his pretentious nature and his apparent taste for the finer things in life. His title is not far from the truth, since he’s a trust fund baby who’s often referenced in the society pages of the well-heeled New York.
Ryder is best known for his recurring article in City Style Magazine. That’s his real claim to fame, but recently he self-published a dark erotic serial. The series is called Changing Faces, and each novella in the series is focused on the main character using his chameleon-like personality to ensnare a new prey—an unsuspecting woman who just can’t resist him. It was a different and unique approach. The first time I read his work, I was floored by how honest it felt, and I fell in love with his writing style. The way he wrote made him stand out as he weaved beautiful poetry within each novella.
How can I say no to this request?
Confirm.
A message pops up. Oh God, not another generic author PM. When will authors start realizing that if you want a favor, you should at least try to go the extra mile? Like, I don’t know, maybe know my name?
Ryder Matthews: Hello there!
I was wondering if you could please post a teaser and buy link for my new book in the Changing Faces Series: Blinded Lies
Buy Link: http://C&Bn.to/1zdrc
Ava Readsalot: No problem.
Ryder Matthews: Thanks for the add ;-)
Ava Readsalot: My pleasure.
Ryder Matthews: Honestly the pleasure is all mine.
My cheeks flush crimson. I didn’t expect that kind of warm welcome.
Ryder Matthews: If you ever want me to…takeover, I’m your guy!
The sexual innuendo is not lost on me. Hell no, Ryder Matthews will never take over my page. Author takeovers are all the rage in the indie book industry these days. Basically, you let the author hijack your page so they can promote their work. I’m certainly not letting “His Highness” take over my blog. He is known to never hold back on any page takeover, posting every steamy sex scene from his series, including whips, floggers, everything. Anything was fair game, and the racier the better. I was truly petrified. I knew it would be great for the blog; I was just apprehensive of what he might post.
Ava Readsalot: Aww, thank you so much. Right now I’m not doing takeovers, but I will definitely keep you in mind when I start :-)
Ryder Matthews: No doubt. Well, again let me know if you need anything, and I do mean anything.
Oh I’ll let him know if I need something…like his head buried deep between my legs. Where did that come from?
I let out a chuckle as my face turns beet red once again. I glance over to see if Alexandre has noticed my little outburst. Nope. Nothing. Feeling flustered, I quickly sign off and shut down the computer.
“I’m off to bed, Alex. You coming?” Nothing. No response.
“Alexandre!” I shout over the TV, now turned to full blast on The World Of Poker Tournament.
“What?” he replies, his voice exasperated as if I’m interrupting something important.
“You can at least acknowledge that I’ve said something to you.”
Alexandre finally looks over to me with a bored face. “I did. I shook my head no.”
Quietly, I take a deep breath. I’m moments away from losing my shit, but like every well-groomed lady, I gather my composure. Biting the inside of my cheek, a practice I’ve become rather accustomed to, I nod and walk away. I can taste the sweet copper filling my mouth. As I make my way into the bedroom, I think back to the conversation I had with Ryder. A faint laugh creeps out of my mouth as I recall his flirtation.
I climb into my bed that night with a smile on my face for the first time in months.
For the first time in years.
THE NEXT MORNING I wake up feeling refreshed. I open my eyes, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. 7:30 am.
Brilliant rays of the sun peek in through the drapes, and the morning’s beauty is breathtaking. I feel peaceful this Saturday, and the allure to begin my day beckons me. I really love living in Manhattan. Pulling the drapes back, I catch a glimpse of Gramercy Park. It’s a hidden secret nestled within the city. The London-style Park has impeccably groomed gardens that can only be accessed with golden keys. Only the elite are offered such pleasantries, a detail that my mother-in-law insisted on when purchasing our home.
The street surrounding the wrought iron gates is eerily quiet. Only the soft hum of the morning traffic can be heard.
After further inspection, the park is completely empty—not unusual for this time of day. Hauntingly beautiful. It brings a smile to my face as the idea of sitting peacefully by myself with a cup of coffee and my book invades my mind.
Alexandre is still sound asleep. His rhythmic snore tells me he won’t be up for a while. Silently, I change into a pair of tight-fitting yoga pants, a white T-shirt, and my black sequined Toms. Grabbing my cardigan off the back of the vanity chair, I make my way into the kitchen.
Our apartment isn’t huge as it was formally a pied-à-terre for the original owner’s mistress. It is, however, exquisite and rather expensive. The location and park access inflates the prize considerably. Alexandre comes from old money; his family now owns and manages a hedge fund in the city. I’m a stay at home wife, whatever the fuck that means. Basically, in his family’s opinion, it would be an embarrassment if I worked a nine to five job. Blogging is allowed as it’s accomplished in the privacy of my own home under a pseudonym. I love and cherish every moment of my “little hobby.”
I stand in front of the Keurig as the aroma of a perfectly brewed coffee infiltrates the air. A delicious and invigorating smell so savory my mouth waters. Filling my to-go mug and grabbing my Kindle, I exit my apartment.
My feet slip into a brisk rhythm as I step onto the sidewalk that runs adjacent to my building. When the moment is
right, I walk toward the park entrance with the gold tarnished key in my hand. I notice a young woman sitting on the stoop along the fence holding a coffee and book, as well. Nodding to her, a morning greeting to my fellow reader, I turn the key. Stepping into the park, I’m transported into a far-away place long since forgotten in time.
Finding the perfect bench with an unobstructed view of the Edwin Booth statue, I bask in the splendor of the park. The lush surroundings are an ideal backdrop to my morning retreat. The only place I feel free is locked behind the gilded gates of Gramercy.
After about thirty minutes of uninterrupted reading, my cell phone chimes, indicating a new message on Facebook. Closing my Kindle and placing it on the bench next to me, I pull out my phone sliding my finger across the screen for access.
A window for Messenger is sitting there on the homepage. Ryder Matthews’s name is in bold black.
Ryder Matthews: Hey there!
My heart drums in my chest as nervous energy courses through my body. Ryder Matthews is messaging me again. What does he want?
Ava Readsalot: Hey, Ryder, How are you today?
Ava Readsalot: Something I can help you with?
Oh shit, I sound like a bitch. Fuck. Is it too late to throw in a smiley face?
Ryder Matthews: No, no I’m good. Just wanted to give you a heads up…My new book is up for presale. I’m going to send you the link.
Ava Readsalot: Oh, yes, of course. It would be my pleasure to post. Thanks :-)
There. Smiley face included. Oh my God, why am I acting like a high school girl? Why is this man I don’t know already giving me butterflies when we’ve hardly said two words to each other. Is it because he is famous? What is wrong with me?
As I prepare my witty repartee, I’m lured out of my thoughts by the sound of my phone ringing.
“Ava? Where are you?” He sounds irritated.
“Good Morning to you too, Alexandre,” I roll my eyes.