by R. K. Lilley
I took my second walk slower, in time to the now sultry music number. There was no exchange between me and Brooks this time, in fact everything was going smooth as could be right up until I hit the end of the runway. I lingered at it, forcing myself to hold my spot and pose when all instincts pointed to moving through that catwalk with all due haste.
I was doing great, giving all my best angles, face calm, mouth relaxed, eyes smiling when I made the colossal mistake of letting myself look at the crowd.
Shit. He was in the front row. Banks. Staring right into my eyes like he wanted to fuck and throttle me simultaneously.
I didn’t blow it completely, in fact it probably looked like I was just milking my moment to the nth diva degree, but inside I was a wreck as I made my slow way back up the walk.
Why was he here? And . . . What was with that look he’d given me? Why was he so hostile? Why was he always mad at me? And . . . How could he manage to turn me on with one brief, contemptuous glance?
I exited the stage thinking that was the end of the show, but I was sorely mistaken. Backstage had turned into an after party between one blink and the next. I was led back to my prep station.
Someone handed me champagne, and I actually took a real sip before another someone took it from me so that a new team of helpers could shrug me out of my wings.
“You okay, Duchess?” Chester asked. I hadn’t even seen him, distracted as I was in my own thoughts.
I looked up and smiled winsomely at him. “Great,” I replied cheerfully, stepping out of my wicked boots and into some furry pink slides. A new wave of energy had rushed through me at both the thought of being done and possibly seeing Banks again.
I was stripped down to almost nothing and shrugged into a fresh pink striped robe.
I was scanning the crowd for my husband when someone else caught my eye.
A gorgeous woman with a glorious mane of black hair was making her way toward me. She was a standout in a room full of standouts, and I recognized her instantly.
Speak of the devil. She just kept coming up, things about her inserting themselves into my life against my will. Or perhaps they’d been there all along and I was too naive and sheltered to see it.
It was Fatima. My husband’s ex. The woman who had ruined him. And she was headed straight for me.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FOUR
Fatima came directly toward me, not trying to hide the fact that I was her destination. She stopped about two feet away and just studied me with an air of amused disdain. What else could I do but study her back?
The backstage situation post-show was crowded beyond belief, but somehow her confidence and my fear were the only things in the room.
She was the quintessential enigmatic woman. Wicked and mysterious. Her eyes were black and sultry her lashes heavy and thick enough to hide all kinds of secrets. Her skin was a fine bronze with golden undertones that gave her a glow that outshone any makeup. A natural beauty that was all the more stunning with a bit of polish, which she had in spades. Her lips were painted blood red and they were lush, with an exaggerated cupid’s bow that contrasted interestingly with the mean twist to her mouth. She was sharply stunning.
And then there was the rest of her.
I was slender, toned and fit, but shapely, my hips and bust exaggerated against my smaller waist.
She was a few inches shorter than me, but still statuesque, and on another level of curvy. There’d been hit songs written about her ass. She was a wet dream come to life. I felt like a skinny child next to her.
Comparison was a man’s device, meant to pit women against each other. I knew that, so I tried not to let my mind go down that road, but it was a struggle.
I didn’t know what to say to her, but she had plenty to say to me.
When she spoke her voice was low, sultry, and dripping with poison-laced honey. “Ah. You. The bride. I suppose it’s time we finally met. I’m Fatima. I assume you’ve heard of me?”
“I have,” I said evenly. There wasn’t so much as a hitch in my breath. I was proud of that.
We’d never spoken before, but I knew more about her than I wanted to. Some I’d been told, the rest I’d looked up myself with morbid curiosity.
Theirs was an old-school, tragic love story. Star-crossed, Romeo and Juliet shit. His family was old, wealthy beyond measure, and above all respectable. Hers gained and lost fortunes like it was a game of Monopoly and were rumored to be closely connected to the Turkish mafia. Or possibly the Russian mafia. Or both, depending on the website.
In spite of his family’s disapproval, they’d been together for years. And she’d gone directly from being engaged to him to married to her husband with no downtime at all.
I’d also found plenty of random, useless tidbits about her. She was four years older than my husband, had an unholy obsession with all things Gucci, and her DD breasts were real, fabulous, and had been plastered all over the internet thanks to her penchant for frequent topless sunbathing on her yacht.
“Did you need something?” I asked her, polite as I could manage. She’d been staring at me for moments that had dragged into forever.
“From you? No. I was looking for your husband. We got separated in the crowd.”
This was a scenario I’d gone over in my fake wife training. It was in the handbook under: Never admit it’s a fake marriage, even to his lover. Of course I’d never realized that when it came up just how it would feel, and how my instincts would kick in much more powerfully than my training.
“I saw him in the front row,” I retorted with all the fake haughty pride I could muster. “You weren’t with him.” After a moment I thought to add, “Because he’s here with me.”
Her reaction didn’t show up in the way her face shifted but rather the way it smoothed over into even more perfect neutrality. I’d hit some sort of a nerve there. Score one for the wife.
Of course, it didn’t take the mistress long to recover.
“You’re not staying at his Park Avenue residence, are you?” she asked archly. “I’ve never seen any sign of you there.”
I couldn’t have said what moved across my face at her words, but what moved through my chest felt like jagged claws in the shape of her long, red, sharp nails.
Did it hurt? Oh hell yes. But hurt wasn’t the whole of it. An unexpected red bloom of rage blossomed in my chest. Righteous indignation fell swiftly in its wake.
Was I just supposed to take this?
I think the fuck not.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I brazened out, the instinct to mark my territory now far overshadowing any misgivings I may have had about incurring my husband’s wrath later. “In fact, I’m staying there tonight, so I’m not sure why you’re even here.” I paused. “At my show.”
“I don’t believe you,” she returned, though her tone was unsure.
That bit of doubt was something, at least. More than I’d hoped for. It told me that he at least hadn’t made plans with her tonight.
I shrugged. “So? It’s not my concern whether you believe me or not. Our marriage has nothing to do with you.”
“You should be concerned,” she returned with a cold, ruthless stare. “About me. He will never be through with me. I was his first love, and I’ll be his last. No one knows him like I do. I’m sure you’ve seen his tattoo. I wear its match. I know what makes him happy, what makes him tick. He will never be able to smell lemon verbena or so much as look at a rose without thinking about making love to me.
My heart hurt like every word out of her mouth was reaching inside of me and tearing it to ribbons.
“Oh and by the way,” she was still going. “He’s always been indifferent to women that want or need his money. I’ll let you figure out where that leaves you.
Her message was concise and unmistakable.
I was his wife, but she owned more of him than I ever would.
“You’re delusional,” I replied, but I barely got it out and my voi
ce sounded robotic. Dead.
“That night that you were at Beautique,” she continued mercilessly. “One of the few times he’s even taken you out, right? I don’t think you noticed me, but I saw you there. He finger fucked you under the table, didn’t he? I know all his moves. But do you know why?”
I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My mind was too busy torturing me.
Fractured pieces snapping into place.
Everything, all of it, just to make this woman jealous. My stomach dipped with nausea.
Her laugh rang out, polluting the air.
She answered for me. “He saw me. He saw me walk in and wanted to make me jealous. Do you know why he didn’t go home with you that night?”
I thought I might throw up.
She smiled and it was bloodthirsty. “I won’t be so crass as to tell you. I’m sure you can guess.”
She left with smug condescension painted beautifully across every feature on her lovely face.
Humiliating needles dug deep into my gut. I watched her go, feeling things I didn’t want to name.
My eyes were still on her when I caught another figure in my periphery, a tall one that moved intently toward her and caught her arm, stopping her.
She spun into him without hesitation, laughing like the whole thing had been planned. Their dark heads bent together. My husband and his apparent mistress.
They looked right together.
I hated that.
They were right together.
I hated that more.
Calder dipped his head low to speak into her ear. He must have had a lot to say, as they didn’t move for quite some time.
If he’d had a choice, he’d be married to her.
I saw it all then with bitter clarity.
I’d brought my whole heart into this when he only had half of his own.
She’d claimed the rest.
I never even had a shot.
One thing that I noticed about them brought me some small ounce of relief. He didn’t smile for her. He didn’t laugh. He showed no outward signs of happiness at being close to her. She was as unwelcome of a surprise to him as she’d been to me.
And more encouraging still, my brooding husband appeared as stoic to her as he was to me. It didn’t mean anything, but the opposite would have meant more.
It took some time for my husband to make his way to my side, and I had enough small talk with strangers and glasses of champagne to feel at least a little bit of numbness by the time he got there.
He opened his mouth to say something to me when he drew close, but my own words beat him to the punch.
“If you wanted Fatima to think this is a real marriage,” I said in a quiet, terse voice, “you’re failing. She knows we don’t live together.”
Not a muscle moved on his face. Not a tic in his eye, not a twist of his lips, not a wrinkle in his brow. No expression marred his glacial eyes as they bore into me.
I wanted to take a step back from those eyes, but I held my ground. I was beyond cowering to him. And catering to him.
“Don’t.” His low voice was a warning: Danger. You’re trespassing here. Stay out of this. “Don’t talk to her. Don’t talk about her. The subject of Fatima is off-limits.”
I thought I might vomit. Hearing him say her name made me feel ill.
I’d never felt this way before. Jealousy was a terrible thing. I felt wretched. Heartsick with it. Utterly useless and inadequate. Like a silly, unwanted, pretty little doll.
He was grinding my heart under his boot. I didn’t think he was aware of that fact.
I also didn’t think that if he knew it would bother him one bit.
I was married to a man who was in love with another woman. I’d walked down the aisle with my eyes wide open. What I hadn’t understood, though, was that this fact would not stop me from falling in love with him.
He seemed to have put the subject behind him (that made one of us) and his eyes raked up and down my body, nostrils flaring, lip curling. He was pissed, and I didn’t think it was entirely to do with Fatima.
With casual finality, he took the glass out of my hand and set it aside with a caustically muttered, “You’re too young for that.” He paused. “At least you put on a robe backstage now,” he noted.
I shrugged. He wasn’t the only one pissed. “Usually. When I think of it.”
He had that look on his face again, the one he’d worn as I walked down the runway, the one that made me ponder whether he wanted to fuck me or throttle me on the spot.
“Okay, you won this round,” he said finally. He waved one hand negligently to indicate my body. “You do not possess even one ounce of modesty. And you have shown me that in spite of my wishes you can and will find a way to go around my rules.”
I couldn’t exactly argue with him. And worse, why did his words make me feel about an inch tall?
I thought this was just going to be a thorough dressing down, so I was taken aback by his next words. “Fine. You’ve made your point. Let’s negotiate.” I shouldn’t have been so taken by surprise. He was a business man through and through. “What would you like in exchange for giving me final approval over your dress code?” He paused, then added with sharp irony, “Final approval that you will actually adhere to.”
I didn’t even have to think of it. My brief, devastating clash with Fatima had done its damage, but it had also had the unintended effect of lighting a new fire in me. The fire of competition. “I want to see your apartment.”
He just stared at me, nonplussed. “You can’t be serious.”
“I can and I am.”
His surprise warred with chagrin on his face. “Reconsider. You can do better. Think jewelry. Money. I’m willing to be very generous for this concession.”
I didn’t hesitate. “Take it or leave it,” I said stubbornly.
He looked like a man who was trying to swallow a very bitter pill. “Fine,” he said through his teeth. “When would you like to see my apartment?”
“Now is good.”
“Fine,” he gritted out.
And like that we were off. There was a brief moment of conflict when he realized I’d actually come to the show in my robe and underwear. Pissed off anew. In my current mood, I ate it up with a spoon and toppings.
He kept glancing at my robe in the car as though it added a new offense every time he saw it. For all that, it was a silent ride.
We took the garage entrance up to his penthouse, to hide my attire I was sure.
“Would you like the tour?” he asked sarcastically as we emerged from the elevator into his apartment.
“That would be perfect,” I said with the cheer of someone who was spitefully getting their way.
He showed me around. It was big, gorgeous, and sterile.
“Well, is it everything you dreamed?” he asked bitingly.
“I like mine better,” I shot back instantly.
He blinked. “Why?”
“It’s warmer. You can tell a human lives in mine.”
“Well, your opinion is as unwelcome as it is inconsequential.” For all his disdain, his eyes as he said it had gone sensual and drowsy. His bedroom eyes.
He took me to bed like he was devouring me. Like he needed to swallow me whole.
He was marking his territory, nailing my body to his bed, tattooing our sex into his sheets.
He wasn’t gentle, but I didn’t want gentle. I didn’t need it. I needed something else.
It didn’t even start out as desire. It was a more complicated need. It was conquest, domination, rough and hot. And with every touch it became simpler and simpler until it’d resolved itself into the oh so satisfying itch and scratch I was coming to recognize and crave with every pulse of blood pumping through my body.
Afterwards I felt rung out. I felt so relaxed I could’ve curled up into a ball and fallen asleep on the spot, regardless of my location. In fact I started to.
He wasn’t having it. The sex had done nothing to relax him. He was up
and pacing two seconds after he dragged his dick out of me, hand pushing his hair back, looking harried and mean.
I just watched him, eyes beginning to drift closed.
“No one said you could sleep here,” he said sharply.
I sat straight up and started looking for my clothes. I was dressed (or barely dressed, as it were) and heading for the door in record time. I should’ve been numb from his rejection, completely immune at this point, but apparently not. I wanted to escape that realization as much as him in that moment.
He stopped pacing to watch me move. He studied me, cursing. “I didn’t mean that,” he said quietly. “Listen—”
I waved that off. “It doesn’t matter. I didn’t want to stay, anyway. Good night.”
He followed me through each room and to the door. “You don’t have to—”
I was texting with Chester and I didn’t even glance at my husband. “Chester’s waiting for me downstairs, right outside the elevator. I can see myself out.”
And I did. Though I will say that the way he watched me as I did it was as remorseful of an expression as I’d ever seen him wear.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-FIVE
I didn’t see my husband again for six days.
It would have been longer, I was certain, but I went out of my way to get his attention. I couldn’t seem to help myself. It was an utter failing on my part at self-control.
Because I was starting to crave the taste of him, bitter as the aftertaste may have been.
One of my jobs gave me the perfect opportunity, and it was just too tempting to resist. I was ashamed of my weakness, but even pride didn’t stop me.
I had a shoot that day with a male model for the first time since my wedding. Nothing too scandalous, of course, but I had a feeling it would still do the trick.
The model was Tommy Grace, and I was relieved the instant I saw him on the set. We’d worked dozens of runway shows together over the years. We’d never hung out on our off time or anything, but we were definitely friendly. It would make the shoot considerably less awkward.
