by Hanna Peach
Girl Wife Prisoner (A Good Wife #1)
By Hanna Peach
Girl Wife Prisoner: a novel / by Hanna Peach. – 1st Ed.
First Digital Edition: September 2015
Published by Gypsy Publishing
Copyright 2015 Hanna Peach
Cover art copyright 2015 Romac Designs: http://romacdesigns.com. All Rights Reserved Hanna Peach. Stock images: shutterstock
Proofreading services by Proof Positive: http://proofpositivepro.com.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it wasn’t purchased for your use only, then please delete and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
To John Truby,
I wrote the first draft of this novel in less than a month thanks to you and your amazing teachings ~ Story Masterclass, London 2015.
A million times, thank you.
1
Most women faced their first day of marriage with an anxious, giddy excitement, but I only felt trepidation scurrying around the insides of my body like a swarm of ants, for today…I would meet my husband.
The leather of the limousine seat was hard, the new leather smell still clinging to the overly air-conditioned air. The rest of the interior was wood paneling and chrome.
Outside, through the heavily tinted windows, trees and gates rolled by, the afternoon sun out in the cloudless Californian sky. The United States of America; the land of promise…
I didn’t know where we were going. Somewhere a few hours northwest from Los Angeles was all I knew. The driver had the black partition up between us, so I couldn’t see him nor could I hear him.
In my hand I clutched my husband’s business card, a thick, expensive cream rectangle embossed with gold lettering:
Drake Blackwell
C.E.O.
Blackwell Industries
I had expected my new husband to be waiting at the small airfield where I landed in the private jet he had sent for me. Instead, the chauffeur was there. He handed the business card to me when he approached, a paper stand-in.
Perhaps I could send Mr. Blackwell an origami chocho, the Japanese word for butterfly, in my place as a reply. Would he get my joke? More importantly, would he laugh?
I was dragged from my thoughts when the limousine pulled up to a set of tall iron gates that disappeared out of my limited window view. There was a moment’s pause in which my heart crawled into my throat before the gates began to open.
We crawled down a long gravel driveway lined with solemn trunks and thick shrouds of leaves. It seemed to me that the air in here grew colder. I barely breathed as we passed through this dark tunnel.
We made it through to the sunlight on other side. The limo curled around the circular motor court, a marble fountain and statue in the center, and rolled to a perfectly smooth stop. I unlocked my door, pushing it open slightly, until I remembered that I shouldn’t be doing things like this for myself anymore.
The driver hurried to my side and pulled the door open. I guessed him to be in his early thirties, wearing a full suit even in this heat, showing only his chocolate hands and the bright face under his cap. When I met his gaze, his cocoa eyes were wide. I almost made a joke, something about also being on Mr. Blackwell’s staff, but he looked away too quickly. I held my tongue.
I stepped out and straightened, shading my eyes to the sun. On my shoulder was a small handmade cloth bag containing my new passport and a few toiletries, the only things I had been allowed to bring with me.
“Welcome to Blackwell Manor, Mrs. Blackwell,” the driver said.
It took a second for my brain to register that he was talking to me. I was Mrs. Blackwell. The name hung about me like an ill-fitting coat.
I didn’t reply. I was too busy staring at the monstrosity that was to be my new home.
The building was so large I had to turn my head from side to side and up and down to take it all in. Even so, the two projecting wings of the house spanned so wide they disappeared out of my view. It was three stories of gray slabs of stone with a dark, steeply pitched roof, spires and turrets, and ornamental sculptures and gargoyles edging the thing like morbid cake decorations. It sat like an alien among the peaceful trees surrounding it.
For the first time since I started down this irreversible path, this thought entered my mind:
Run.
I didn’t have time. The front door opened and a figure stepped out.
2
It wasn’t my husband, but a woman, golden-skinned from the sun and her long hair was so blonde it was almost silver. Over her slim body she wore a tight, short cream skirt suit with a pink business shirt underneath. A wide cream leather belt cinched in her waist, accentuating her large breasts.
Where was Mr. Blackwell? Where was my husband? My insides tightened.
This feeling was exacerbated when she stopped in front of me, towering over me in her shiny blood-colored stiletto heels, a matching clutch in her manicured hand. She was pretty but she was wearing too much makeup, her cheekbones were shaded in, and a set of thick fake lashes protruded from her eyes like she stole a pair of butterfly’s wings and stuck them right on.
She gave me a sticky pink smile. “Riko,” she said in a slightly nasally accent. I grimaced. Riko is not my name. “I’m Sasha van Scheurs, Drake’s personal assistant. Unfortunately, Drake is tied up in meetings all afternoon and can’t be here to greet you.”
“Mr. Blackwell,” I said.
“Excuse me?” Despite her obvious confusion, her painted eyebrows didn’t move at all.
“You shall refer to my husband by his proper title: Mr. Blackwell. And you will address me only as Mrs. Blackwell.” I couldn’t help myself but to add, “After all, you’re merely an assistant running his errands for him and not a personal friend.”
Her lips pinched, resembling the backside of the stray dogs that would often come to our door back looking for scraps. Even though the rest of her face remained motionless, I felt the rage vibrating off her. The driver sniggered behind me, hiding it with a series of coughs.
“Is there a problem, Miss van Slur?” I said, very deliberately.
To her credit, Sasha only took another second to compose herself. “No problem, Mrs. Blackwell.”
“Proceed then.”
“Follow me. Please.” Sasha turned with a whip of her hair and stormed up the steps to the front door, her blonde mane and ass both swaying with fury.
I followed, smiling to myself. As we approached the entry door it swung open. A woman, perhaps in her forties, her back board-straight and her chin held high, was holding the door open. A conservative black dress sat on her plump form and a pristine white apron circled her waist. I couldn’t help but wonder how she kept it so clean.
She ignored Sasha and focused on me, beaming as I stopped before her. “Mrs. Blackwell,” she said, her voice shaking with obvious pleasure. She took my hand in both of hers and I was treated to such an enthusiastic handshake that it rattled the teeth in my skull. “We are so pleased you’ve arrived.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m Loretta, the head housekeeper here. If you need anything, anything at all, or have any problems, come straight to me.”
“I’m Noriko. And thank you. Again.”
“Welcome home.”
Home. This word echoed around in my head like a gong.
“
Please,” she said, “come in.”
My low-heeled shoes echoed as I stepped into the marble of the entryway. I had to hold back my gasp as I raised my eyes up.
Inside, the manor was even more obscene. The entryway soared up all three stories with thick marble pillars and a gliding stairway that wrapped around it. Further in were more hallways and marble.
The door clicked shut, casting out the sun and leaving me in the white-cold glare of the huge crystal chandelier hanging down like a wasp’s nest.
“There’s no need for you to come with us,” Sasha said, addressing Loretta. She then turned her contempt towards me, thinly veiled by a fake smile. “I can take our new guest.”
Sasha led me up the staircase and we spiraled up and round.
“So, Mrs. Blackwell,” she said. My guard immediately went up. “It was quite a whirlwind romance you two must have had.”
“Indeed.”
“You met in Japan?”
“Yes.”
“How exactly did you meet?”
I almost stumbled up my next step, but I corrected myself at the last second. I didn’t know what Mr. Blackwell had told people.
“We met…through mutual friends.” This was the safest thing I could think of to say.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Where did you meet? I’m sure it’s a wonderfully romantic story.”
“At a party,” I lied.
“Oh. Really.”
“Yes.”
“I thought you two met at a gallery.”
Shit. I messed up. But damn Mr. Blackwell for not exactly giving me a heads up on what he was telling people. “I think we initially met at a gallery but we only became acquainted at the party.”
“I see.”
Sasha glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, a smug sly look on her face like she had caught me out. I tried to ignore it.
We reached the top of the stairs and she waved her arm out. “The top floor is the family residences.” I glanced up and down the two wide and wood-paneled hallways, one brightly lit, the other shrouded in darkness. “You and Mr. Blackwell are in the east wing. Come along.”
I followed her down the eastern corridor, glancing back at the other dark hallway. “Who lives in the west wing?”
Sasha stopped suddenly and turned to stare at me, her eyes widening before narrowing. I had said something stupid. I knew it. But I couldn’t think what.
“No one lives in the west wing.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, “Not anymore.”
Something felt like it prickled the base of my spine. No one lives in the west wing. Not anymore. What did that mean? But I refused to ask her.
Sasha gave me one more weighted look before carrying on. The hallways were several meters wide, walls lined with paintings. At regular intervals short sections jutted into the walls, displaying a sculpture piece or a green potted plant. This place felt like a museum. Or an art gallery. Not a home.
Sasha took an excruciatingly long time to walk down this hallway, stopping to talk about the various paintings or art pieces as we walked past them.
“…and this is a real Monet.” She waved her hand at a framed painting of waterlilies.
I didn’t know much about art. But I thought the way the artist had somehow captured the light reflecting off the water was simply gorgeous. Mr. Blackwell had refined tastes.
“We bought this one in Paris a few years ago on a business trip.” She laughed. “At first the gallery wouldn’t sell it to us. But Dra− Mr. Blackwell can be so persuasive when he wants something, you know?”
It wasn’t lost on me that she was talking about him so personally. For a moment I wondered if they were sleeping together. Then I let that idea go. If they were carrying on an affair she wouldn’t be so desperate to show off how close they were, she would be trying to hide it.
Part way down the hallway Sasha stopped at a pale blue door, raised cream detailing curling along the inside of the frame. “This is your room,” she said. “Mr. Blackwell’s room is next door to yours, further down the hall.”
“Mr. Blackwell’s room?”
“Yes, my dear.” Her voice was condescendingly sweet, letting me know she knew our marriage was a sham.
I stared levelly back at her. I would not let her get to me. “You may open the door now.”
She scowled for a split second before hiding it. She pushed open the door, speaking through her teeth. “After you, Mrs. Blackwell.”
The room was massive, the tall ceilings making it seem cave-like. The walls had been painted cream and pale blue to match the door. Elegantly shaped yet uncomfortable looking cream chairs were arranged in the center of the room around a low glass table. More tables were dotted about with large empty Japanese vases placed upon them.
White shelves covered one side of the room, holding collections of books. As I moved further into the room I noticed all the book spines were either cream or pale brown and there were no creases on them. These books had been chosen to fit the décor.
In the center of the room I spun around, frowning. Something vital was missing. “Where’s the bed?” I asked.
Sasha gave off a curt laugh. “This is your formal living area. Your bedroom is through your private living area.” She walked to another door and pushed it open.
Another living area?
It turned out that my “bedroom” wasn’t a room. It was an apartment, a collection of several large rooms: two living areas, a bathroom off each one, and a bedroom with a private ensuite. The whole thing was bigger than the house that fit my parents and us five children, just big enough to contain us and our lives, but it was cozy and full of love. My stomach panged, craving to feel the warmth of my home again.
I pushed those thoughts away. I couldn’t think about it. That wasn’t my home anymore. This was.
Sasha opened a set of double doors in my bedroom. It was my closet, another huge room with mostly empty shelves and hangers sitting like bones along silver rails.
“Mr. Blackwell asked me to help him by picking out a few outfits for you to wear, as you didn’t bring anything with you.”
I eyed the few limp kimonos hanging in the otherwise sparse wardrobe. No pants, no shirts. I looked down at my simple black pants teamed with a fading emerald tunic.
“All kimonos,” I said. “How…inspired of you.”
“Goodness,” she let out a soft little laugh, “I had to shop in the girl’s section in some stores; they didn’t have your size. I hope these will suit you for now.”
“It will have to do.”
“The only thing is, it appears I got your bra size wrong. I’ve known Mr. Blackwell for years now and, just between us girls, he does normally choose to date women with more curves. Naturally I assumed you’d be…bigger.”
My cheeks and my barely-there breasts burned under her scrutiny. “He didn’t choose to date me,” I said quietly. “He married me.”
“Oh, Mrs. Blackwell, please don’t take offence. I merely thought I’d offer up my friendly advice just in case you decided to…improve your appearance for your new husband. LA – that’s short for Los Angeles if you didn’t know – is only a few hours away and has a myriad of excellent surgeons.”
I turned to face her front on, my hands in fists by my side. She stiffened, but her smile was still plastered on. I gave her the biggest, fakest smile I could, one to rival her own, one that hurt my cheeks to hold. “Perhaps,” I said, “you can tell me who did all your work. So I can avoid your mistake in using him.”
Sasha’s mouth dropped open.
Internally, I reveled in her shock, I danced about in her discomfort. Take that, you plastic bitch. Something about this woman brought out the worst in me.
She swallowed away my attack. Looking down at me over her nose, she said, “I thought you Japanese girls were supposed to be demure or something.”
…you Japanese girls…
I should have her fired.
I should have her
thrown out of my house.
But something in her words made my stomach jumble with fear, overriding my anger. I thought you Japanese girls were supposed to be demure or something.
I had almost given myself away. Mr. Blackwell thought he was getting a quiet, insipid, perfect little Japanese girl as a wife. A good wife. If he were to realize the truth he would annul the marriage…
I couldn’t let that happen.
I forced myself to bow my head. “Miss. van Scheurs, I do apologize. I didn’t sleep on the plane. I’m delirious. I don’t know what I’m saying.”
“Sure,” she said, but I could hear the suspicion in her voice. “It’s already forgotten.”
That was a lie. Sasha van Scheurs wouldn’t forget anything she might be able to use against me.
* * *
Tonight was my wedding night. My husband would be expecting things from me. I needed to make sure he was happy.
After showering, I stood, dried and naked, in my closet. At the other end was a full-length mirror, making this stark near-empty space seem twice as long. It reflected me in it, my almond eyes looking like a startled doe’s, my long dark hair falling like a curtain to the small of my back, and my fragile-looking body with slight wrists, slim hips and budding breasts, barely a dusting of hair between my legs.
I had been called beautiful before. I knew this was why I had been selected. I hadn’t given much thought to my beauty until recently.
I gave up on the bras. As Sasha said, she had gotten the sizes all wrong. I would just have to forgo one. Thankfully the underwear was in my size. I pawed through all the scraps of lace distributed over several drawers − they were not ones I would have bought for myself.
Finally I chose one in white and slipped it on. White is the bridal color after all. I debated on stockings and garter belt, but after minutes of struggling I gave up on them. Mr. Blackwell should be home any minute now. I had to hurry.
I grabbed a silk kimono in black and cyan, cranes and lilies patterned across it, and wrapped it around myself, tying it closed with a neat bow. It was short, stopping barely an inch under my butt cheeks, showing off my slim legs. Perhaps this was meant to be a shirt.
