by Cynthia Dane
On the other hand, people rarely had anything bad to say about her, unless they didn’t like her dramatic personality. She was invited to most functions, had a few good business dealings, and had memberships to all the social clubs she qualified for. She had done something right to get people to respect her. Jasmine doubted it had to do with fulfilling her role as a billionaire’s wife for twenty years and giving birth to the male heir of a huge fortune. If that was the only thing people cared about, they would deride her for not handing over a spare too.
“Look,” Caroline continued, forgetting she had a full glass of sparkling cider to drink whenever she wanted. “I fully admit that I was a gold digging ho. I don’t think there’s anything shameful about that. Even a good chunk of the well-to-do prissies prancing about here are gold digging to some extent when they scope out prospective husbands for themselves or their daughters. Everyone wants to increase their fortunes. To them, though, it’s more respectable if you have some of your own fortune to bring to the table. There’s this idea that the most eligible bachelors should be saved for other women of means, regardless of their beauty. So when someone like me – or you, yes you – comes along and scoops up one of the most eligible bachelors, well, don’t be surprised when they hate you for it. You took their future husband or son-in-law. Trust me, Jasmine, I heard plenty of conspiring at the Women’s Bridge Club. Some grouch was trying to figure out how to make her thirteen-year-old granddaughter the fresh young wife of your darling Ethan. In five years, of course.”
“That’s… fucked up.”
“Yup.” Caroline remembered she had some cider. “Florence!” she called, once the glass was empty again. “Do we have any of those Bavarian crackers?”
A timid voice somehow managed to carry down the hall. “I will check, ma’am!”
Scoffing, Caroline turned her attention back to Jasmine. “All right. So I’m guessing you’re not a gold-digging ho, right?”
How the hell was Jasmine supposed to respond to that? “Not that I’m aware of,” she mumbled. “I really do love him. Even if he didn’t have any…”
“Yeah, yeah, noble.” Caroline fingered the stem of her crystal goblet as she studied a sturdy fern growing next to her leg. “But you’re getting pegged as a trophy wife, and that irks you.”
“Well, I’m not exactly fitting in well. Not that I want to, really, but it would make life easier if people weren’t always whispering about me. I know they will always whisper about something, because they’re bored and want to gossip, but…”
“You don’t understand them. Trust me, I get it.”
“I don’t understand them?”
“Okay, so they don’t understand you either. Here’s the thing, though: they are never going to understand you. They don’t want to. They don’t see why they should ever have to. One of the only good friends I’ve made came crawling here four years ago because her husband gambled away their fortune and they were having to sell properties and yachts. She was distraught. Only one nice house to live in! They had to stop eating out half the week! This was only until his next investment payments started rolling in and he got back from rehab. We laugh to hear it, but to my friend, it was honestly the most horrifying thing to ever happen to her. She grew up rich and married rich. She had no idea how to budget or, gasp, shop at a supermarket because they had to let go of their staff for a month.”
“Tragic.”
“Hey, even I shudder these days to think about it. I’m good with my money, though. I only do sure-thing investments and I squirrel shit away as much as I can. I still bargain shop, only now I’m bargain shopping for higher quality shit. I’m still wearing clothes from five years ago, if you can believe it!”
Jasmine nodded. Sounds like what I would do.
“So if they’re never going to understand you, you’re going to have to start understanding them. You have to see where they’re coming from, and, unfortunately, not make too much fun of them for it. Hand me your purse.”
“Huh?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” That wink was almost flirtatious. Almost.
Jasmine slowly reached down and pulled her Kate Spade bag off the floor and slid it across the table. Don’t make fun of me for liking Kate Spade… Ever since Jasmine was young, she adored the Kate Spades and Michael Kors of the world… since those were what she gazed at in department stores and in shopping malls. Now she could rattle off more exclusive, more expensive designers who charged thousands for a bag as cute or pretty as a Kate Spade, but why would Jasmine buy those unless she really loved them? For status?
“It’s a lovely bag, to be sure.” Caroline looked at it from the side, from below, and definitely from the top. “Nice quality. Clean. I like Kate Spade, although she’s definitely more your style than mine. These days I stick to my Louis Vuitton and Chanel.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Hey, you could be known for your department store chic.” To Jasmine’s horror, however, Caroline pulled the zipper wide open and started rummaging.
“Ah…”
“Oh, I won’t tell what I find in here.” Yet here came Florence, carrying a tiny tray of buttery crackers. The maid glanced at the contents of Jasmine’s bag before scurrying out of the salon.
“But…”
“Don’t mind me. Taking a look at how you organize your bag. Can tell a lot about a girl you know.”
Jasmine had rarely felt so horrified in front of a relative stranger. Yet here Caroline was, pulling things out of Jasmine’s purse and lining them up on the small bistro table. Her pale pink Chanel wallet, the same silver compact she had since first dating Ethan, Sephora makeup, tampon and backup pad in a daisy-motif package, her notebook and a drugstore pen, and a package of tissues she picked up from the bathroom of a fancy restaurant. I never thought about getting those until I saw them there!
“All right. Looks like a woman’s purse, right?” With a flourish, Caroline withdrew her small black purse from the side of the table and opened it, showing Jasmine its contents. Brown Louis Vuitton wallet, red makeup pouch, and… nothing else. “Here’s mine. You may not believe it, but I’m carrying the same exact shit as you, and a couple more crucial items.”
“You keep the other stuff in your makeup pouch?”
“Only the makeup. Really, you need to get one to keep that crap organized. I’d tell you that even if you were dirt poor and living in a floorless hut. Love your purse, please!”
“Okay…”
“Here.” Caroline revealed a hidden zipper inside her purse, stuffed full of items – which she then lined up next to Jasmine’s things. Not just tissues, pens, and calling cards, either. There were many pill bottles. Some of them over the counter, but there were the typical assortment of hormones and other prescribed medications a woman of Caroline’s age or older might carry. Oh, and a condom case. The woman was prepared. “You may not believe it, but those women are going to look in your purse any chance they get. Start putting the stuff that reminds them they’re human in your inside pockets. Your tampon and pad alone remind them that they’re dirty menstruators. We’re hush-hush about that sort of thing. Meanwhile, your wallet and makeup pouch remind them that they’re refined women of means.”
“I see.”
“If you don’t have a planner or address book yet, get one. They’ll come in handy. For a while, put the planner – a very nice one, of course – in the main compartment. This will make people think you’re busy and have a life that includes remembering many appointments. Believe it or not, once I started doing that, I was invited to many more soirees and garden parties. Suddenly people thought I was worth conversing with because they perceived my time to be limited. In truth, I had maybe two to three things penciled in a week.”
“I never thought of that.” Caroline shoved her things in her purse and handed Jasmine back hers. “How does that help me make nice with people?”
“You make nice through your actions. The way you carry
yourself, speak, and of course the kind of parties you throw. You may not have thought about it before, but unless you want a reputation as a social recluse, you’re going to be throwing parties once you’re married. You’ll have to.”
“I was afraid you would say that.” Jasmine kept having flashbacks to the last party she threw. “I don’t even know where to start there.”
“I saw that notebook in your pocket. Get it out while I get us some actual booze.”
This was the second time Jasmine was being taught by a woman well above her level of sophistication, but unlike when Adrienne took a stab at it, Caroline actually imparted some knowledge unto Jasmine. Maybe it was because she was much more engaging. Maybe it was because she grew up lower class and figured out how to make this new life work for her over the many years she had been subjected to it. Whatever the magic formula was, Jasmine didn’t feel like she was being condescended to, which was a huge plus when it came to asking for clarifications or questions regarding how to greet other wives and what she should or shouldn’t wear to the race track. Because she would make an appearance once every other month if she knew what was good for her reputation.
It was exhausting, though. Knowing what to do, what not to do, and having it fielded through the eyes of a woman who “understood where Jasmine was coming from,” included a lot of pencil lead and erasers flying over Jasmine’s notebook. Wait, why couldn’t she wear yellow to so-and-so’s parties? Wait, what was so special about this brand of vodka, and why should she always have it on hand at soirees? Was it really necessary to have more than four courses at dinner parties? If she didn’t join social clubs, how fucked would she be?
Jasmine sat back after downing a glass of scotch. Normally she didn’t care for scotch, but the masculine drink gave her the extra oomph she needed to take stock of the past hour. Caroline’s dry throat needed more cider and scotch. She then drilled Jasmine about her upcoming wedding.
“Everyone’s coming,” Jasmine assured her. “I’m both excited because it’ll be my wedding day, but I’m also petrified because all of high-society’s eyes will be on me. The last thing I need to be worried about is leaving a good impression in my wedding dress.” Whatever that dress would be.
“People won’t care as much about your actions on your wedding day. Everyone gets hyped up or extra snooty, depending on the personality. It’s what you’re wearing, what you’re serving, and how you serve it. As long as you look like the proverbial angel princess, nobody will give a shit. Not on that day.” Caroline finished her drink. “For God’s sake, though, you better be wearing a top-tier designer wedding dress. That will be counted against you otherwise.”
“I figured.”
“Well,” Caroline said with a desperate sigh. “If nothing else, I’ll always be sure to include you on my guest lists. It’s who you know as well as what you do. If you amass enough people who like you well enough, you’ll make headway, slowly but surely. Just… make sure you can handle that grueling months or even years in between. The older you get, the less you’ll care, but that doesn’t mean your youth should be wasted trying to please people when you really can’t. For that matter, don’t think you can get away with not caring at all.”
“I’ll do my best.”
Caroline stood up and stretched her legs, one hand extending to Jasmine. “I wish you luck, dear.” Her fingers wrapped around Jasmine’s. “This isn’t an easy life you’ve fallen into. Not everyone will like you. Some will keep being nasty toward you for the rest of your life. It’s the same no matter your standard of living, but it can feel especially ruthless when you’re the wife of an esteemed man. Everything you do reflects on him.”
“Yeah.” Jasmine took her hand back. “That’s what makes me feel the sickest.”
“Don’t feel sick. Feel empowered. Who the fuck gets to marry a billionaire? Be proud. Be confident. Kick ass and take no prisoners. If nothing else, don’t let the assholes say that Jasmine Cole is a meek pushover. Better to have a lot of self-confidence in the face of their ire than to blow away in the wind. At least they’ll remember you… and it’s better for your husband. If you’re weak, they might think he’s weak.”
“I hadn’t thought of that…”
“Oh, don’t let me worsen your fears. You’ll be fine. I promise.”
Her kindly smile may have been aided by a healthy serving of scotch, but Jasmine appreciated it nonetheless. She shook Caroline’s hand one more time before taking her coat and heading to the front of the house. Her phone was in her hand by the time she reached her car.
“Had the most interesting conversation with Caroline Grant-Mathers. I am now better prepared to be your perfect wife.”
Ethan must have been on break, because he was quick to reply. “Oh, God, don’t try telling me you’re pregnant again.”
“I don’t think any of that magic rubbed off on me. Besides, I don’t need to get knocked up to get you to marry me, apparently.”
She wasn’t surprised when he changed the subject. “Let’s stay in the penthouse tonight. There’s something I want to discuss far away from your parents. Something potentially fun.”
Giggling, Jasmine agreed to meet him there that evening.
***
“That is the most fucked up, most 1950s bullshit you have ever asked of me, and you used to pay me for sex.”
Ethan sat back on the other side of the couch, looking as if Jasmine told him to suck it and die. “Well, when you put it that way.”
“Last I checked, we are not a lifestyle couple.” Jasmine scoffed so hard that she had to clear her throat. She couldn’t even look at the man right now. “So I’m not exactly sure what you were thinking when you got this in both of your heads, but you can shove it up your ass.”
“All right, I get the point. Forget I mentioned it at all.”
“How? How the fuck do you expect me to forget that you, the man I’m going to marry, asked me to be his sub for a whole day?” That wasn’t all he asked. When Ethan broached it like that, Jasmine went along with it. Wouldn’t be the first time she wore a collar for a day for them both to enjoy. However, that was at home. Maybe once at the office when he employed her and she was used to his weird games. This, though? Ethan followed it up with asking her to be his lifestyle sub for a day. An extensive role-play that would last from dawn until dusk. Jasmine was still on that train until Ethan went off the rails by saying he wanted to completely control her every move, her every word, and her every thought.
That was a bit… much.
“I’m not your pet,” Jasmine spat. “I’m not your sex slave. It’s one thing to fall down the rabbit hole while we’re doing it, but to preplan it like this… what are you really thinking of me? That’s all I can wonder.”
“I’m not thinking anything. It was a suggestion.”
“Okay, but it’s not something you thought off the top of your head in the middle of a conversation. For you to ask me here to talk about it means you’ve been fantasizing. So, come on, Ethan, tell me true. Do you think I’m nothing more than your little woman you get to control?”
“No!”
“Then what kind of woman do you think I am, huh?”
“Clearly this was a bad idea.” Ethan stood from the couch and headed toward the bedroom. “I’m sorry I brought it up at all.”
You should be. Jasmine still couldn’t believe it. How could Ethan ask such a thing of her? To be her controlling Dom for a whole day? Shit! What kind of man was she marrying? Did she really know him? I thought he wasn’t into that. Ethan had made it clear many times that he didn’t want to enter a lifestyle BDSM relationship with anyone, let alone Jasmine. He was perfectly happy with being a vanilla man except for when the kink claimed them in the bedroom. This was the man who rarely went to The Dark Hour because it was overwhelming for his tastes. Fuck off. If this were their old relationship, she would have expected it, honestly. It also would have hurt less back then. Jasmine had distanced herself emotionally from Ethan. This? This wa
s different. They were in love. They were getting married. People in their situation did not partake in that shit!
Jasmine didn’t feel like dealing with him after that, so she kept to the living room while Ethan stayed in the bedroom. Soon she heard the fervent click of him on his laptop in there. Yeah, bury yourself in some work. There were things Jasmine could work on too, but her mind was too muddled. Not even brainless TV shows could make her feel less… oh, angry.
“You won’t believe what Ethan asked me to do,” she texted Monica. “He wants me to completely serve him for one day.”
She didn’t expect a reply anytime soon. Monica had a life, after all. Thus Jasmine was pleasantly surprised when her phone lit up not five minutes later.
“What do you mean by that?”
Jasmine explained the situation, using more colorful language than Ethan had. By the time she was finished, she had written a veritable essay about what he had asked and how she had responded.
“It can be very rewarding, you know.” Monica said. “Only if you’re into it, yes. You can’t think of it as him lording over you because he doesn’t respect you, as his fiancée or a woman. Ethan wouldn’t do that.”
Jasmine didn’t care. It was also beside the point.
“Did you even let him explain?”
“Well, no. What is there to explain?”
“Maybe his reasons? Not even the most alpha male brute is going to want to do something like that without a good, strong reason. This may shock you, but even Henry and I don’t roleplay to that extent most of the time. When he suggests it, I don’t think twice about his motives. He wants to share something with me in a safe, encouraging setting with plenty of rules and ways to stop it if I decide to discontinue. I know Ethan. You do too. What kind of man do you think he is? I’m surprised he would want to do it, but I’m sure his motives are fine. You should go talk to him.”
Jasmine mulled over that text before responding. “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”
