by P. Dangelico
“I’m still in love with you. I never stopped loving you.” Ringing loud and clear, his words stopped me dead in my tracks.
When I turned around, he was already an arm’s length away and closing the distance quickly. His long-lashed, dark eyes roamed over my face, taking in every detail. Slowly, he reached out and ran his index finger in the hollow spot at the base of my throat. His touch felt plastic, a little clammy, stirring absolutely no feeling in me. Then, before I could stop him, he kissed me. He grabbed my face and held me in place as his lips fastened onto mine, his tongue a battering ram trying to push inside my mouth.
Memories came storming back with a vengeance. I had kissed this man in the same way a million times––and yet this time I felt absolutely nothing. His teeth sank into my bottom lip, drawing blood. The sting ripped me out of my mental wanderings and propelled me into action. With all my might, I pushed him off. Inadvertently, he’d helped me wash away the remains of any responsibility or loyalty I may have still harbored for him.
Then I said the words that I knew to be true in my heart. “I don’t love you anymore. I haven’t loved you in a long time. I love my husband. Go on with your life, Alek. I have.”
I opened the door and walked out. There was no need to look back. I heard the door close behind me. I wiped the blood with my thumb and licked the cut on my lip. The taste of my own blood, of my past, was bitter.
Closure…I’d gotten what I’d come for.
The resolution of my past, dissolving all the pain and blame I carried around for years, should have been cause for celebration. Unfortunately, the state of my marriage was causing me grief. We were at an impasse. And apparently I was married to an ox, because he wasn’t budging. Which meant I needed to make a move, or this could continue ad infinitum. I hadn’t spoken to him in a week…an excruciating week. I must’ve picked up that cellphone a thousand times to call him, however, I knew that if I didn’t stand my ground he would forever be riding roughshod over me. I’d fought, scraped, and struggled for every inch of my independence. I wasn’t about to willingly walk into a prison and hand the keys over to any man––even one that I was madly in love with. His impending birthday gave me the perfect opportunity to offer an olive branch and end this stalemate.
As soon as I stepped into Horn & Cie curious glances followed me throughout the building. I could count on one hand the times I’d been inside, and most of those times under inauspicious circumstances. Therefore it was not a surprise that the people that worked for him found me either a person of interest, or an oddity. One of his two executive assistants, two very sweet and thankfully very middle-aged ladies, kindly escorted me to his office, my heart thumping harder and faster with each step I took.
She knocked before she opened the solid maple door. I wondered if she could see how nervous I was. Inside I found him seated behind his desk, which at the moment seemed a million miles away from where I stood.
The navy suit he wore sharp as a blade, his jaw closely shaven, not a hair out of place. He made no move to get up or speak. He was as still and remote as the day I met him, an unbridgeable island. But man cannot exist alone…he should’ve known that by now.
His eyes roamed up and down the length of my body in an indifferent inspection, as if I were a business associate he was taking the measure of. Between the super intense examination and the silence, I didn’t know which was making me hotter––and not in a good way. Sweat blossomed over my upper lip. I tried to lick it away and failed.
“Happy birthday,” I said, walking to his desk.
Apparently he wanted to make this as painful as possible because his response to this was to continue with the lifeless stare. I was actually surprised by how cold he was being. Did he expect me to crawl on hands and knees and beg?
“I haven’t celebrated my birthday since I turned twenty-one.” I ignored the cool tone.
“Well, maybe we can start a new tradition…I brought you something.” I placed the tiny birthday cake I made for him on the desk. When he didn’t even bother to glance at it, I knew I was in for an uphill battle.
“What exactly is there to celebrate?” The apathy with which he spoke killed the last shred of hope I had that this would work.
“Sebastian––” He held my gaze but didn’t indulge me further. “Why are you making this difficult?” For this, he had no reply. “I miss you. Don’t you miss me?” His narrowed eyes moved away to the window. When they returned to me, they were no longer shuttered. They were bright with a fresh dose of anger that seemed out of character, even for him. It confused me.
“I have a lot to get done today.” He glanced at his watch then. “If you don’t mind…” He was fighting this, fighting me.
I walked around his massive desk to where he sat. His eyes languid, unblinking, followed every move I made. By the time I leaned my rear end against the desk, he looked starched, uncomfortably stiff, so much so that I felt awkward reaching for him. My husband––I felt awkward touching my own husband. He looked almost scared to have me so close. The first crack in his resolve appeared. A tick below his eye.
I glanced at the tiny chocolate cake and said, “I didn’t know what to get the man that has everything.”
His head swiftly turned to face me. “Not everything,” he said cryptically. However, what really snagged my attention was the sharp, accusing glare he tacked on the end.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He stood then, and without hesitation, grabbed my face and kissed me. The kiss was forceful, meant to dominate, maybe even intimidate. There was no pleasure in it––there wasn’t meant to be. His lips smashed mine, his tongue thrust down my throat. I tried to pull back and got nowhere. Only when I stopped fighting him did he come up for air.
“I don’t have this,” he said, his voice ominously low. He pushed his hips against mine. The unmistakable shape of his turgid and solid sex pressed into me. “I don’t have my wife in my bed because she’s too busy fucking her ex-boyfriend.”
He might as well have struck me. It certainly felt that way. All the air left my lungs at once. Squeezing my hands into the sliver of space between us, I shoved harder at his chest this time. Not an inch, not even a centimeter. Trying to break loose of his hold was as an exercise in futility.
“Get off of me!”
“Are you denying it?”
“There’s nothing to deny! You’re being absurd,” I nearly spat in his face. “Get off!”
“The problem with that, Lover––” he said, practically snarling the pet name, “is that I know what you look like when you’ve been fucked––I saw the pictures of you coming out of his hotel room.”
Scanning my memories of that day, all I came up with was the bloody lip and the messy hair. The fight left me all at once. I went limp in his arms. As soon as I did, he let go of me and stepped back, hands on his hips, his eyes still twitching from the effort it took to contain all that emotion.
“I told you I was going to see him,” I said in a much more subdued tone.
He stopped trying to control his anger. It boiled up and over, apparent in the hard lines of his body, the fire in his eyes threatening to consume him. “You didn’t mention you planned on letting him stick his dick in you.”
My breathing turned shallow. “You actually believe that?”
The moment of truth. It always came back to this. Trust…the third rail between us. Would he trust me, or his own eyes? The look on his face told me that doubt had gotten a foothold.
“I saw the pictures,” he repeated, softer this time, with much less convictions. Dejected, my entire body sagged under the weight of defeat. Because if I thought his controlling ways would inflict damage, then what would the lack of trust between us do?
The silence stretched eternal. He looked like he wanted to say something. Though he never did. In the end, I’m the one who spoke. “Happy birthday.” He didn’t answer––and he made no attempt to stop me when I walked out.
I didn’
t know what to do about us. Therefore, it was easiest to push my problems onto the back burner and funnel all my energy into my job. All I’d gotten for my attempt to heal this rift between us was an accusation of adultery. That he would believe that about me stung––I won’t deny it. Three days later, I was leaving the clinic after a long and fulfilling day of work when I received his text.
The Horn Foundation is holding an event. A Black and White ball. Saturday night at the Grand Theater. As my wife, I expect you to be there.
It was another slap to the face. Rage, the likes of which I haven’t ever felt, blazed through me. I stared at the text in disbelief. No courtesy. No love. Not even any advance warning. Apparently I didn’t even warrant a phone call. I texted back.
What do I wear, my love?
Kill him with kindness, I repeated over and over to myself. Seconds later, I got my reply.
An evening dress. I opened accounts for you at all the stores in town.
So much for small talk. Any attempt I made was met with resistance. With only two days to come up with a dress, I wasted no time hitting every store on the Rue du Rhône until I found what I was looking for at Armani. On a whim, I decided to walk into La Perla––if all is fair in love and war then I needed every weapon in the arsenal. After trying on a number of different outfits, I settled on three. I was in the middle of taking off a champagne colored bustier and garter set I’d decided to buy, when I heard two women talking right outside my changing room.
“Are you going to the Black and White this weekend?” said the salesperson.
“Yes. I can’t wait!” Something about the voice of the woman that answered sounded vaguely familiar. I quickly slipped on my dark Helmut Lang jeans, my black sweater, and waited.
“I don’t know who this mystery man is but he’s a lucky guy. He’s going to go nuts when he sees you in all these outfits,” the sales girl continued excitedly.
“God, I hope so. He’s amazing. I’m crazy about him.”
It was the longing and desperation that struck a chord, that helped me put two and two together.
“Show him these and he won’t leave your bed for a month.”
“That’s the plan.”
I stepped out of the dressing room and stood there waiting for their inevitable embarrassment. The sales girl noticed me right away. Caroline Pruitt took a second longer.
“Will that be all, madam?” the sales girl asked after glancing at my wedding band.
“Yes.” I handed her the garments while holding Caroline’s arrested, bright blue gaze.
“Charge them to my husband’s account, please. Sebastian Horn.” The look on the sales girls face was irritating. She looked like someone just informed her she’d won the lottery. “Of course, madam,” she added in a super polite tone and hurried off to ring up the garments.
“Hello,” Caroline finally said, her tone insinuating she couldn’t recall where she’d seen me before. Her transparent eyes betrayed her words however.
“Vera––Sebastian’s wife,” I said with satisfaction––heavy emphasis on the word wife. “You’re Caroline, right?”
“I know who you are,” she answered, dropping the charade. She looked around nervously, fighting some internal battle. I knew which side won when she began speaking. “I also know that the two of you are separated.” The taunt lacked as much conviction as she lacked backbone.
“You shouldn’t believe everything you read in the tabloids.”
After a beat, her expression transformed from uncertainty to purpose. “I have money––a lot of it…I could give it to you.”
It took me a minute to grasp what she was proposing, the notion so ridiculous that I had to make sure I’d heard her correctly. “You can’t be serious?”
She lacked the courage to repeat the offer. A hint of guilt passed across her suntanned face. “He’s my husband. I love him more than life itself and you think you can ‘give me money’ for him like he’s a thoroughbred stud at auction.” I started to giggle at the lunacy of it. My amusement spurred her on.
“I’ve loved him since we were kids.” Shear desperation stared back at me. Whatever tentative control she had on her obsession had broken loose. “I’ve waited for him all my life,” she hissed, making her case with wide blue eyes and a ferocious determination. It would’ve been comical had it not been so sad. “I’m his equal. You two aren’t right for each other. I understand what a man like that needs.”
“This is the most…” I pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to soothe the dull pain growing there. “You are out of you’re bloody mind. And you have no idea who he is, or what he needs.” With that, she buttoned everything up, her face once again a pretty, blank canvas. “You people and your money––” I chuckled humorlessly, my head shaking. “Let me give you some free medical advice, Caroline––see a therapist. My husband has never had, nor will ever have any interest in you outside of the investments he makes for you.”
“We’ll see about that,” she fired back, turned on her Jimmy Choo heels and walked out of the store.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The night held promise…or so I thought. After lengthy debate upon lengthy debate with myself, I’d come to a decision. It was clear that waiting him out wasn’t working––the stubborn ox had no intention of coming to his senses any time soon. And I was afraid of what remained of us when he finally did get around to it. The situation had become untenable. So the decision was an easy one. My pride could suffer the hit. My heart, however, could not survive the loss.
The Armani Privé gown I had chosen was an elegant, body contouring sheath that fastened over one shoulder. Sexy and understated, all I could hope for was that it was enough to catch my husband’s attention. The earrings he would recognize immediately––the pave diamond ones from JAR he had given me on our first real date. The ones that reminded me of our wisteria tree…ours…funny how I thought of it that way now.
“Have fun,” Bear teased. I glanced behind me, ready to reward his sarcasm with an eye roll, and found him unapologetically leaning his big body against the Mercedes with his arms crossed in front, his biceps bulging beneath the sleeves of his tux.
I wasn’t surprised to find him parked in front of the clinic when I came down from the flat. I’d tried a million times to argue that since there was no longer any threat to Sebastian’s life, his babysitting duties were obsolete. To no avail. It was impossible to budge him.
“Don’t get too comfy,” I deadpanned.
“I won’t.”
By the time I was walking up the steps of the Grand Théâter de Genève, the event was well under way. All the streets around the theater were congested four rows deep with luxury cars and limousines, the steps of the theater littered with paparazzi. The security personnel outnumbered the guests. With the security measures being so tight, it took me forty minutes to get inside. I was almost certain someone royal was in attendance.
Inside, it was a crush. Bodies spanned the foyer from wall to wall. It seemed most of Europe’s elite and some of America’s were in town for the event. I looked around dazed by all the glitz and glamour. You hear and read about people living this kind of lifestyle, you just don’t really understand it until you’ve experienced it––at least, I didn’t. For once, reality far eclipsed my imagination.
I was disappointed not to find Sebastian waiting for me, although nursing my wounded ego would have to happen later. At the moment, I needed to find the man I loved, the only man for me––regardless of everything that had transpired. I pushed the thought aside and elbowed my way through the crowd on a mission, hustling up the marble stairs to the main room.
In spite of its size, a cloud of humidity from all the body heat billowed up, the scent of flowers and expensive perfumes riding on it. Gathering up the train of my dress, I walked around, scanning all the tall, blonde heads in search of the man in question. When I finally spotted him across the room, my stomach dropped, the sight of him wreaking havoc on my nerves.
So handsome. He had a crowd of people surrounding him and still looked so alone.
Wearing a tux that hugged every perfect angle on his body, he stood in the midst of a large group of people begging his favors, none whom I recognized. He was the calm in the middle of the storm––his expression placid, detached. To the untrained eye, he wore all that power effortlessly. Only a ruse, even if it was a beautiful one.
One hand clutched a glass of alcohol while Caroline Pruitt occupied the other, hanging on his arm as if she paid rent. Reluctantly, I had to agree that they made a striking image. Her black hair to his blonde, her blue eyes to his golden ones. They belonged–– they were bred for this circus, while I was just a visitor, an outsider, and would forever be thought of as such. She threw her head back and laughed at something one of the other guests said. Then leaning into Sebastian, she whispered something in his ear. Nothing registered on his face, not even a twitch. The brooding intensity only added to his allure.
By some sixth sense, his head turned in my direction and our eyes collided. Neither one of us looked away for a very long time. His eyes were haunted. For a moment I saw past the shutters, where the pain and fear lived. Somewhere, in there, he still loved me. I knew it in my bones. It seemed like he was stepping away from them, leaning towards me, but the moment passed just as quickly and everything slammed shut again.
I had no pride left where this man was concerned. If he wasn’t going to meet me half way then I was prepared to cover the entire figurative and literal distance between us. Taking a fortifying breath, I made my way over to him, bracing myself for his inevitable chilly reception. His eyes tracked every step I took to cross the room. He didn’t blink once, his lids heavy while his gaze roamed over my body and up to my face. When I reached him, he stepped away from the people gathered around him, each of whom gave me the once over; not a single smile to be found anywhere.
