by Zee Monodee
Diya nodded. To her, ‘all the way’ meant exactly that; the whole ‘’til death doth us part’ path. And people wondered why she’d flitted from boy to boy before—none had inspired this devotion and commitment in her, full stop. She sure wasn’t going to share herself with them under any other circumstance.
Lara eyed her with a frown. “How do you feel about the whole kids’ angle?”
She pondered the question. Not the first time she’d wondered about it. She and Trent had also talked a lot about the matter.
“Some part of me is ecstatic,” she said. “But another is scared out of her wits.”
Lara laughed. “Then you’re feeling like any expecting mother, Dee. Except you’ll not be dealing with new born babies. Believe me, it cuts on all the pregnancy woes, and the not sleeping at first.”
She laughed, too, before going calm again. “I always wonder if they’ll resent me. I’m not their real mother.”
Lara reached out and held her hand. “Even with your own kids, you face this fear. Love is never an acquired thing, never mind the biological ties between you. But all you can do is love them, and never expect anything back. That’s when you’ll see the beauty of being a mum. It’s in being selfless, and no one makes you want that more than your children, Dee.”
Diya nodded along, but somehow, this was getting too deep for her. She’d never been one to plan and obsess over scenarios, preferring to deal with things as they came. She’d figured she’d follow the same tack with the boys, when they got home.
Best she get Lara off this sensitive topic, though, for she did not relish imagining Trent’s kids putting the veto on their relationship.
“Speaking of kids, how’s the latest one coming along?”
Her sister sighed. “He spent the last few days kicking a riot inside my belly. But he’s grown a bit quiet now. Probably exhausted.”
Lara then grimaced and brought her hands to her forehead.
“What’s wrong?” Diya asked, sitting straighter. Her sister rarely, if ever, showed any sign of distress. This must be really bugging her.
Lara massaged her temples, before she opened her eyes again. “Nothing. Just an awful buzzing sound in my ears, and this migraine that refuses to leave me. Let’s order some food. Maybe it’ll go when I eat.”
Diya acquiesced, but a part of her remained concerned throughout the lunch, and even after Lara had left in her chauffeur-driven car. Eric didn’t want her behind the wheel in her condition, her sister had said.
Driving back to La Porte du Paradis, she wondered what lay in store for Lara. This pregnancy seemed to be taxing her, and she could only pray for Lara’s, and the baby’s, health and safety.
She parked the truck next to Trent’s Saab in the pergola-styled garage at the side of the mansion and stepped out into the afternoon sun before making her way towards the house up the stone steps.
The front door was closed, but the French windows in the front sitting rooms had been left open. The wispy voile curtains blew in and out of the interior, to the swaying rhythm of the light breeze. The first stirrings of winter were coming in on the coast, floating downward from the central plateau and tingeing the wind with a slight cold that could sting and bite at dusk and in the early hours of the morning, before the sun came up. But here, and all around the lower plains, they didn’t fully feel the edge of the cold, like at her parent’s place in Curepipe, the coldest town on the island.
A slight chill grazed Diya’s arms, and she didn’t know if the goose bumps on her skin were the result of the cold, or because of the high-pitched feminine voice echoing a merry tingle along the walls of the interior.
Who could be here? Did Trent have a visitor?
Maybe his mother had come down.
The sound appeared to be coming from the main suite, and dread weighed down every step she took. The closer she got to the bedroom, the more she could make out the words spoken behind the closed door.
“… simply divine … reminds me of the country manor near Highgrove, where we met the Parker-Bowles and the Palmer-Tomkinsons. Pity the Prince of Wales couldn’t attend ...”
The words resembled a bad rerun from one of those made-for-TV flicks about the late Princess Diana’s life. Only the haute ton—did they even use such a term nowadays?—rubbed shoulders with these people.
Could Trent be acquainted with such folks? Then why hadn’t he told her?
Come to think of it, she’d never asked him about his entourage back in England.
The doubt nagged her, burning a path like acid inside her chest. La Porte du Paradis was their house, where they planned to share the rest of their lives. True, Trent hadn’t popped the question, yet, but that’s where they were headed, innit? Who was this woman making such comparisons about their house?
But the doubt flew out on the wind when she opened the door, replaced by searing agony as the sharp knife of betrayal and deceit sliced through her heart.
Trent stood in the middle of the room. But he didn’t stand alone. A tall, beautiful, and blonde Barbie clone clung to his body.
Diya’s heart sank when the woman placed her hands on his face and kissed him full on the mouth. Trent brought his hands up to clasp her upper arms, and she moulded herself to his large frame, a sound like a purr coming from her delicate throat.
Why isn’t he pushing her away?
She must surely be mistaken, because Trent wouldn’t kiss someone else.
Stunned and shocked, the only thing her mind allowed her to notice was how the woman’s body fitted Trent’s, as if she’d been designed for him. The only time Diya’s body had fit his had been when he pulled her close to him at night, spooning together with her back pressed to his wide chest ...
Trent glanced up, then, and something flashed in his eyes when he saw her on the threshold.
What had it been? Pain? Guilt?
He pushed the woman away from him and stood there fixing Diya with troubled, darkened eyes.
She kept up with his stare, every fibre in her heart tearing with every second spent in silence.
“Diya,” he finally said.
“Oh, so you’re the decorator,” the blonde gushed in a syrupy voice. “I refused to believe people from this backseat of nowhere place could pull together such a fabulous job.” She trilled with laughter and wrapped her arms around Trent’s neck again. “My mistake, and I apologize. Congratulations. You’ve accomplished a marvellous feat.”
Diya trained her focus on the woman.
As she took in the veiled contempt and dismissal in the tone, the numbness in her left, to be replaced by outrage and fury. Who did that bitch think she was?
“Thank you.” Her tone was cool. How far would the Madame Tussaud consignment reject push the button? “I’m sorry. I wasn’t expecting any visitors today. I’d have prepped the place up.”
The blonde laughed again, a chilling sound ringing false. “A spontaneous visit, dah-ling. But then, Trent and I are very good friends. We don’t need formal invitations to drop in on each other.”
Diya thought she’d imagined the imperceptible stress on the ‘very’ in the phrase, but one look at her confirmed it hadn’t been the case. The other woman sported a smug smile on her perfect features. However, the expression didn’t touch the icy rocks posing for her blue eyes.
And Trent hadn’t pushed her away, either. What was wrong with him?
Nothing, a little voice spelt out in her head. The idiocy lay with her, for having trusted him. Another pretty white face with a black heart. Bholi surat lekin dil ke hain kale, as her mother and aunts would say—A fair, pretty face hides a black heart, all the Bollywood mamas would warn their daughters about Englishmen, the Angrezi.
How could she have been so stupid? She’d given him everything.
Shame flashed through her, burned on her face, but she refused to allow the mortification to combust her into a pile of dust. No, Diya Hemant was made of sterner stuff than that, and she’d have the last word.
&nbs
p; Even if it killed her.
“I’m sorry I disturbed you. I’ll be on my way,” she said.
“It’s okay, dah-ling. You couldn’t have known.” The woman laughed. “But please remember to knock next time.”
The words grated on her nerves, and it took all she had to contain the churning violence inside her. The harlot cow deserved to be socked one, or maybe two, all while getting a mighty kick in that non-existent arse of hers. And Trent—she should skewer him over and over with a stiletto heel, pound his heart out so he’d feel even a little of the hurt murdering her soul little by little.
She wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of knowing she hurt, though. Oh, no, not on her life.
Steeling her will, Diya threw her shoulders back and set out to exit with her dignity still intact.
But a part of her cursed the weakling who lived in her battered heart when she couldn’t resist a final glance at Trent.
He refused to meet her gaze, though he’d pushed the woman away.
A choked sob settled in her throat.
He was hiding something.
Every inch of her slowly died as she walked out of the house, down the steps, and along the driveway to the garage.
So that’s what Gareth had been hinting at.
Revolt and sadness battled inside her as she struggled to contain the tears threatening to fall along her cheeks. Trent hadn’t come clean with her. She finally reckoned it. And it had taken a filthy bastard pig like Gareth to tell her the truth about him.
A small laugh escaped her. Gareth and Trent had been friends before. No wonder, since they were both abject arses, two peas in the same pod.
When she reached the garage, she could no longer control herself, and let her body slump against the cold metal of the truck, her burning forehead pressed onto the glass of the side window. The sobs came, and she gave in. She couldn’t bear to open the door and get in, let alone find the energy to proceed.
Why had she trusted him? How could she have given him all she held dear, when he’d been playing her all along? There had always been someone else. Maybe even more than one woman.
“Everything has been for you.”
My arse, she wanted to yell. She’d fallen for his show of caring and concerned ways. The hurt inside her flowed bitter and stung every fibre of her body as it churned in her blood.
Diya had always suspected that, deep down, she was nothing more than an idiot. On the verge of twenty-five years, she still had nothing to show for where her love life was concerned. Not even one long-term relationship, because idiotic, naive Diya Hemant had been waiting for Prince Charming, in today’s age and time. A man who’d turned out to be nothing but a dirty, conniving rat. No wonder women the world over settled for frogs, because a frog could morph into a prince with time.
“Diya, it’s not what you think!”
At the sound of his voice, she stiffened her spine and forced herself to stand straight.
How dare he? She couldn’t allow him to see the wreck he’d made of her, and her pride fuelled her resolve as she dried her tears and faced him.
A deep frown marred his handsome face, and an itch settled in her fingers to caress those lines away.
But the cold grip on her heart wouldn’t allow it, thank goodness, so she braced her shoulders and stood her ground.
“How long were you planning to keep me in the dark?”
Her voice hadn’t even quivered when she’d asked the question. Good.
He sighed, his shoulders sagging in defeat. “It’s not what you think.”
“So you already said.”
The cold in her voice registered on his face like a slap.
“This was never supposed to happen. There’s nothing between me and her. She’s an acquaintance from the past.”
He expected her to believe that? She wasn’t so much of an airhead, surely.
“I never knew acquaintances exchanged such passionate kisses.”
“You’ve got to believe me. It has nothing to do with us.” He paused, and ran a hand in his hair. “It’s all Clark’s doing.”
A choked chuckle escaped her. That’s how he thought to get away with it?
“Gareth? This is Gareth’s doing? Isn’t this a tad too convenient an explanation?”
“Diya, I swear. It’s got his name written all over. It’s a set-up. He’s set us up. He knew Camilla was trying to find me, so he gave me to her on a platter. She’s a good friend of his.”
He really thought she’d gobble that up? Had he thought her feelings for him so resilient that she’d forget her pride? Diya shook her head.
Folding her arms in front of her chest, she leaned against the car. “You can do better.”
He reached out and placed a hand on her shoulder, but she shrugged him off.
“Don’t you dare touch me,” she said. “Not after you’ve touched that … trashy blonde snob!”
Trent let his arms fall to his side.
“Diya, don’t do this. I need you. I love you.”
The breath caught in her throat when he said those words. How she’d longed to hear him say them.
Biting her lower lip hard enough to draw blood remained the only thing she could do to face up to the battle of conflicting emotions in her. He’d said he loved her, hadn’t he? But his confession had come after she’d caught him with someone else.
“It won’t do, Trent,” she said softly. “You’re only saying this to keep me from leaving.”
He drew his mouth into a tight, white line as he balled his hands into fists. “Blimey, Dee. You think I’d fool around with something like this?”
“No.” The word came out in a croak. “It’s just your timing that’s awful. Somehow, I cannot believe this under the circumstances.”
He threw his hands up. “What circumstances? I’ll explain it all, if you only give me the chance.”
Fixing her gaze into the grey depths of his eyes, she gulped. “Well, here’s your chance.”
“I’ve never lied to you.” His voice thrummed low, his expression beaten. “She’s nothing.”
She took a deep breath. “What if I become nothing, too, one day?”
“It won’t ever happen, because I love you.”
A small smile edged with sadness curled her mouth. “No, Trent. It’s a truth that I love you. Not the other way round.”
He slammed a fist onto the vehicle, the repressed fury in the gesture making her jump.
“To hell with your preconceived notions of the truth! I swear I never lied to you.”
His words shook her, reawakening her own fury. She snorted.
“Yeah, right. You simply never said you rubbed shoulders with British royalty. You also never said you were filthy rich. You never told me about this vendetta between you and Gareth. How many other things like this haven’t you told me?”
He placed his hands on her, his wide palms clutching her frail shoulders as he all but lifted her off her feet and pressed her back against the car door.
“There never was a right time to talk. We were too busy … doing other things,” he said softly.
Making love. Or having sex. Which one had it been for him?
Raw pain seared through her, igniting her blood yet again with hostility. “Or is it because you haven’t the guts to tell me the truth?”
When his eyes narrowed and he jammed his body into hers against the truck, Diya realised she’d pushed him too far.
Push might’ve come to shove, but she wouldn’t back out, either, so she faced him with defiance.
“Don’t you ever dare tell me I haven’t the guts.” His voice sounded like a menacing growl. “You want the truth? I’ll give it to you.”
His chilling tone sent shivers down her body, and she flinched. But she couldn’t turn away. He had her pinned between his broad, warm body, and the flat, cold metal of the vehicle.
“The bloody truth is that Gareth Clark and I fought over the same woman fifteen years ago. But since I had more money and a pl
ace in the establishment, Crystal married me. When Gareth lost her, he did everything in his power to win her back, and he did. She became his mistress shortly after Matthew was born. But Gareth wasn’t satisfied yet, and he led her down a dark spiral of debauchery and drugs. I stayed with her only for the sake of our son, the child she got pregnant with so I’d marry her.”
The contained anger in his voice made her blood pound louder, and it did a quick flip in her brain.
“It didn’t stop you from conceiving another child with her, though.”
His face grew ashen, until a small smile grazed his lips. The gesture didn’t reach his eyes, though, which grew more intense and piercing.
A curl of fear broke in Diya’s stomach.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
What did he mean?
The smile died on his face, to be replaced by an agony aging his features and shadowing his eyes.
“Josh isn’t my son.”
What?
He shook his head lightly and loosened his grip on her arms. “I don’t think even Crystal knew who his father was. When she found out about him, it was too late for her to abort without risking her life.”
He took a few steps back, turning away from her.
The pain in his voice clutched at her, but she wanted to hear him go all the way with his revelations. A perverse part of her brain wouldn’t allow her to put a stop to this nightmarish moment.
“When he was born, she wanted to give him up for adoption. But since I was legally her husband, I had to sign the papers, too, and I refused. She grew livid. The doctors had advised her to stay in bed for a few weeks, because she’d had a complicated delivery.” His voice grew strangled, and he paused for a few seconds. “She couldn’t stand it. Five days later, she left to attend a party at Clark’s place. She never made it there. She started bleeding severely in the car, and the police said she must’ve blacked out when the vehicle skidded out of her control and hit a tree head-on at the side of the country road.”
He shifted towards her. His face was a careful mask of indifference.
A stab of fear jabbed Diya when she reckoned it might really be indifference he felt.
