by Jess Bentley
Her voice comes back in a careless, offhanded way. “Why would we celebrate milestones in a fake marriage?”
I grimace but don’t reply as the car drives away from the villa. The silence might have been welcome, but right now, it feels awkward and uncomfortable. Often we’ve sat in companionable silence, each of us usually involved in our own activities, but nothing feels easygoing about this quiet. As much as she might have wanted to avoid the evening’s party, she breathes a sigh of what seems like relief to arrive at the Kakos villa a few moments later.
“This landscaping is gorgeous,” says Harper as we exit the car. “The sheer number of plants! The home is lovely, too, but it can’t compare to the beauty of our villa.” She draws up short. “Your villa, I mean. Nothing of the Satyros empire belongs to me, of course.”
“Of course it’s your home,” I say quietly. I don’t add anything about the future. That will remain up to her.
“For now.” She smiles and looks away.
Warm lights lend a welcoming glow to the house as we walk up the stairs to the entrance. Harper stiffens when I take her hand. She tries to tug it away, but I tighten my grip just enough to let her know I want to keep it. The strength I exert isn’t enough to hold her fast, but just enough that she’d cause a scene if she wanted to wrench her hand free. She glares at me, resentment clear on her face.
Well, I can’t argue with her. Our usual performance involves walking together, but we have had a tacit agreement to avoid touching as much as possible. So what? She’s my wife, and after her reaction to that massage today, I’ll touch her hand. I know part of her likes my touch.
People fill the home’s large salon, and I catch sight of the wait staff circulating among the guests. Their crisp white uniforms are a stark contrast to the glittering finery of the guests. Harper looks as good as any of them, or better. But I know she couldn’t name a designer to save her life. It was another oddity that set her apart from the women in my social circles. She probably doesn’t think I appreciate that about her, but I’d rather she name rare plants than designers any day.
Within moments, we mix into the party, and Harper maintains at least the façade of a happily married woman enjoying a night of sophisticated company. I know her enough that I’m sure curling up in the huge tub with a paperback calls to her as the sister of our host babbles on incessantly about the new wardrobe she’s commissioning. Somewhere between hearing about every detail of importing the correct fabrics to arranging to bring the designer directly to Trini Island, I watch as Harper manages to finish a glass of champagne and slowly slip away from the small group of vapid women surrounding Hestia Kakos.
“Hello,” says a familiar voice, breaking my concentration.
“Maia,” I answer. “It’s been a while.”
Her black bandage dress hugs her curves. Curves I know all too well.
Harper
I retreat to an alcove to survey the partygoers, willing to admit only to myself that I’m searching for Jayson. Some of the men in the room may be his height or have similar hairstyles or frames, but only Jayson makes my heart stutter when my gaze finally finds him. His back is to me, but I would know him anywhere.
My heart skips another beat when I see his companion. Heat suffuses my face, and I lean against the wall for support. The last time I saw Maia Papadas, she wasn’t wearing a sexy black bandage dress.
She wasn’t wearing a thing.
During the last trip to the island, when I half-convinced myself I was in love with Jayson, despite his lack of awareness of my existence, I spent a lot of time moping in the gardens surrounding the villa. One afternoon, I wandered the paths, looking for a place to sit and pour out the adolescent whining of my heart into my secret journal, when I heard passionate moaning.
Curiosity overwhelmed me, and ignoring the voice of caution, I stopped to seek out the source. Peeking through a thick growth of short Chaste trees, I saw two bodies entwined in a passionate embrace: Jayson lying on his back, his hands cupping Maia’s breasts as she rode him.
Devastated, I fled from the scene and locked myself in the room I’d been assigned for the vacation. For the rest of the trip, I didn’t set foot in the garden, and neither did I speak to Jayson. He clearly hadn’t noticed, but it made me sick to my stomach even to look at him.
With the passing of time, I realized his actions were normal and healthy, and that he hadn’t betrayed me. Suffice it to say, I got over it.
Or at least I thought I had.
It’s a shock to react so strongly to the mere sight of my husband talking to his former lover.
Or... maybe she isn’t his former anything? Perhaps they continued their relationship. What do I know about Maia? Nothing. For that matter, I know very little about Jayson’s personal life. He’s never shown it to me. Until this trip, he’s been mostly occupied with work.
My stomach turns and I look away from them, randomly walking up to another group. They’re gossiping, so I tune them out and focus on the rim of my glass, until one of the women says Maia’s name.
“Disgraceful,” says another woman.
Maybe it’s the champagne or maybe it’s just morbid curiosity, but before I can stop myself I ask, “Why is she disgraceful?”
“Her husband was barely dead before she was on the hunt for another one,” says a woman with an English accent. “There is more than speculation that she was looking before Stavros died. And besides, he was much older than she was, so his death wasn’t exactly unexpected.”
Nodding despite myself, I’m surprised to hear them condemning the other woman. These kinds of actions aren’t unheard of among their circles.
“Everyone thought she had her claws in Salus Valokis.”
“Many women breathed a sigh of relief,” interjects a stunning Greek woman in her mid-forties, who looks like she’s never had to worry about competing for men’s attention.
“Until he married his assistant without a hint of warning,” says the Englishwoman, who was sporting a wedding ring set with a diamond the size of an ice cube.
“Seems like she’s on the hunt again.” They cluck and shake their heads.
I hide a grimace by turning to take another glass of champagne from a waiter, who holds out a silver tray and then moves on.
“It’s disgraceful how she continues to pursue Salus,” says the older Greek woman.
As one, all the women turn their gazes to Maia, who is still talking to Jayson. “Maybe she has found a new victim,” says the Englishwoman.
The older woman shakes her head. “There is nothing new about that victim, Liv. Jayson Satyros and Maia were once engaged.”
I choke on my sip of champagne.
“My dear, are you all right?” asks the older woman.
I nod. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“I pity his wife,” says the youngest woman. “He keeps her hidden away, and now he is openly humiliating her with his ex-fiancée.”
The Englishwoman scoffs. “I hardly think he’s humiliating his wife by talking to someone he knows.”
“Perhaps, Liv, you still don’t fully understand our ways,” says the older woman, not unkindly. “Many Greek husbands are philanderers, and Greek wives are expected to turn a blind eye. Look at those two and tell me their conversation is perfectly innocent.”
Trying to detach my perceptions from the equation, I eye my husband and the other woman as impassively as possible. Maia leans in close to Jayson, her hand on his shoulder possessively. While Jayson doesn’t appear to be as eager to touch her, he’s definitely not backing away.
“Excuse us. We’re being terribly rude to discuss this in front of you without the benefit of proper introductions,” says the third woman suddenly, turning to look at me. “I am Sophie Russo. This is Calista Kakos,” she says, gesturing to the older woman, “and Olivia Volakis.”
The Englishwoman extends the hand with the heavy rings. “It’s actually Harcourt-Volakis, and I prefer Liv.”
I take her hand,
putting off the moment where I must reveal my identity as the wife to be pitied. “Are you related to Salus?”
She nods, sending waves of black hair rippling around her face. “I’m married to his brother, Ioseph.”
Aware that they’re waiting for my name, I release Liv’s hand, take a long drink of champagne, and say, “My name is Harper Satyros. I’m the wife of Jayson Satyros.” As the other women gasp and quickly look away in their discomfort, I drain the glass of champagne and stroll away, hoping I look half as composed as I strive to, instead of revealing the tattered mass of nerves I am on the inside.
Seeking sanctuary in a tiny but exquisite powder room, I lock the door and lean against the counter. It feels impossible to process what I’ve learned and to restore my calm. I shouldn’t feel so betrayed that Jayson never told me about the engagement. Ours isn’t a normal marriage, so I have no right to be upset at such a revelation.
Or to feel jealous seeing the two of them together.
Meeting my eyes in the mirror, my lips tighten.
However. I am entitled to respect and to be treated like his wife in public. Humiliating me was never part of the deal. Sure, he hasn’t yet crossed any big lines of impropriety, but Jayson is dancing at the edge. That much is clear from the conversation I came upon. It crosses my mind to saunter back into the party to Jayson and Maia, thread my arms around Jayson, and kiss him senseless, just to remind everyone exactly who he’s married to.
Instead, I open my purse and grab my lipstick, tracing the lines of my mouth with a color that is dark as blood. If I were Jayson’s true wife, I wouldn’t have any compunction about reminding Maia of that fact, but the sad thing is that it would be hypocritical to do such a thing when Jayson and I both know our marriage is coming to an end.
With a small pang in my chest, I take a deep breath and leave the powder room, surprised by the flow of traffic passing. The guests are moving to another room, so I guess it’s time for dinner. I refuse to look for Jayson and join the procession with my head held high.
I jump slightly when someone places an arm around my waist. But then I instantly recognize Jayson’s touch and scent. I want to melt into him, to breathe him in, to feel his hands on me again. Still, I won’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.
“There you are. I was trying to find you,” he says.
“I’m sure,” I answer icily.
Jayson frowns as we enter a large dining room arranged with multiple tables, complete with place cards. Servants in black tuxedos mill about, helping guests find their spots. “Is something wrong, Harper?”
With a shrug, I answer, “No, not at all.” Turning my head from him, I look for our seats, and groan quietly when I see Calista and Caesar Kakos seated at the head table, along with a younger man who appeared to be dateless, and three open spots. At least Hestia isn’t seated there. I’m in no mood to hear more about her goddamn couture wardrobe.
Sliding into my seat, ignoring Jayson’s assistance, I glance at the remaining name card. It’s somehow unsurprising to see Maia Papadas in elegant script on the crisp white paper. Is it a random accident that Jayson’s ex-fiancée was also assigned to our table, or had she arranged it with one of the servants?
Or had he?
I just want to forget all of this.
To her credit, Calista doesn’t avoid my eye, and doesn’t act uncomfortable around us. She’s not so adept at hiding her reaction when Maia approaches the table. Maia stands by her chair expectantly, as though she doesn’t have the strength to pull it out herself. When the unknown man and Jayson both rise to their feet to assist her, Calista grimaces.
Biting back the impulse to giggle, unsure if the giddiness is coming from amusement or lingering shock, or maybe the champagne, I reach for a crystal goblet of ice water, hiding my disgusted expression by taking a sip. Jayson surrenders the “pleasure” of seating Maia to the other man and returns to his seat. His hand drops onto my shoulder, and I quickly shrug it off.
Calista makes an effort to engage me in conversation and I surrender gratefully. I don’t want to acknowledge the questions in Jayson’s eyes. It physically hurts when he turns to Maia, falling into a quiet conversation that I do my best to block out. Unsuccessfully.
Calista seems to be aware of my reaction and keeps me distracted with light topics. She’s a charming conversationalist and as such I manage to ignore the fact my husband is acting like I don’t exist. We’re discussing the Kakos’s recent yacht purchase and their plans to sail around the Greek islands when Maia’s cold laugh cuts through the conversation like shards of glass. Caesar and the other man fall silent as well, all eyes turning to Maia.
“What’s amusing you, Maia?” asks Calista softly.
“That.” Maia gestures toward a heavily pregnant woman making her way across the dining room, probably in search of a bathroom.
“Why do you find Helene funny?” Calista regards her with barely concealed dislike.
“There are so many reasons. She looks ridiculous in that gold tent.” Maia shrugs. “What can you expect from someone who isn’t one of us? She’s devious enough to trap her boss into marriage by getting pregnant, but she’ll never be clever enough to fit into our world.”
“I think she’s lovely,” says the man who has remained nameless. “Quite elegant, in fact.”
Maia snorts, contorting her face into an expression that makes her classical beauty turn into something else. “I think she’s disgusting. I won’t have anything to do with her.”
“There is no reason to be unkind to a pregnant woman,” says Jayson, sounding annoyed.
Either Maia doesn’t catch his tone or doesn’t care. “You can’t expect me to treat her as an equal. It’s clear she doesn’t belong.” Her dark eyes settle meaningfully on me for a moment before her tirade continues. “She might be able to lie and trick her way into Salus’s bed, but she can’t trick her way into being accepted.”
“I doubt she tricked Salus into anything,” says Caesar. “He’s a pretty astute man.”
“You can’t think he deliberately knocked her up?” Maia laughs again, though to me, it’s more of the screech of metal against metal than a sound of amusement. “I’m certain he only married her because of the baby.”
“If that is so, I find it refreshing,” says Calista in a tone laden with ice. “So many men we know keep mistresses. If one falls pregnant, the woman usually takes money and disappears from his life. Regardless of the circumstances of conception, I find it admirable that Salus has lived up to his responsibility.”
“I agree,” I say, surprising myself by contributing to the discussion. “I know it isn’t healthy for a child to grow up with parents who argue all the time, or who are miserable, but children need both parents — particularly when they are young. In that situation, I think you have to set aside what you want and think of your child, at least during the formative years.”
Jayson is frowning at me, his dark eyes looking even darker than usual. “You disagree?” I ask.
He shakes his head, his voice husky when he says, “No. No, I definitely do not.”
His intense gaze disturbs me and I quickly look away, once more sinking into comforting conversation with Calista. It pleases me to notice Jayson isn’t so eager to speak with Maia now, though whether that’s because of the other woman’s behavior or because he keeps staring at me, a thoughtful look on his face. What ideas are in his head? Should I be worried?
We arrive back at the villa late. Too much champagne and a little too much wine with dinner has left me feeling mellow. The shock and anger at discovering Jayson’s previous engagement in public has mostly faded, and I don’t pull away when he puts a hand on the small of my back as we walk up the marble stairs.
“That’s better,” he says as we climb the steps to the second floor.
I cock my head to look at him. “What’s better?”
“You’re no longer acting like my touch burns you.”
“I have no idea what y
ou’re talking about.” I try to hide my blush.
“Liar,” he says with a soft chuckle. “A polar bear would have been warmer to me than you were this evening.”
“That’s silly.” Waving a hand to dismiss the whole idea, my stomach knots.
We step onto the landing, and he surprises me by taking my hand. Jayson stops, pulling me around to face him in a stance that could become intimate in a second. “I don’t know what I did to offend you, but I’m pleased you’re no longer in a snit.”
I gasp. “A snit? It wasn’t a snit, and you know what you did.”
He frowns. “I haven’t a clue, Harper mou.”
I pull away, continuing determinedly toward the master suite. “You can’t be that dense, Jayson. And I’m not your Harper.”
He doesn’t reply until we enter the bedroom. His hands on my shoulders make me freeze, but it’s the softness of his voice that keeps me from moving away. “Please, tell me why you’re upset, Harper.”
I turn slowly to face him. “I was humiliated. You cozying up with your ex-fiancée had all the gossips going, and embarrassed me in front of everyone.”
Jayson scowls. “These women have nothing better to do than talk about people?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t give me that. Men are just as bad, and you know it.”
After a moment, he nods. “I see. And I apologize if you were humiliated.”
“Thank you.” He seems so open tonight, with a gentleness I’ve never seen. Somehow the courage rises in me to ask, “Were you really going to marry Maia?”
His expression hardens, but he says, “Yes. I was much younger then.”
Pushing my luck, I say, “What happened?”
He frowns. “I realized our relationship couldn’t last a lifetime. It was too superficial. She must’ve reached the same conclusion, because she married someone else within weeks of ending our engagement.”
I mull over his words. “Wait, who ended it? You or her?”
With a sigh of impatience, he tugs at his tie. “What does it matter now, Harper? That was years ago.”
