by SR Jones
“Hi, darling, we will be there in five minutes,” I say smoothly, focusing on my husband.
“You better be,” Jasper answers.
“I will, darling, and I got a dress and shoes.”
“Good.” He hangs up with nothing else said.
Fucking asshole. God, I hate him. My jaw is tense as I stare out the window at the pretty streets and wonder how the hell I got into such a mess.
We arrive at the house, and I turn to Bohdan as he parks the car. “Listen,” I say to him. “We need to talk at some point. Clear the air, but I can’t right now. I have to go to this damn dinner party and make small talk.”
It’s the last thing I want to do.
“We can talk, baby, but nothing you say can make up for what happened.”
“Nothing happened,” I spit at him, “which you didn’t cause.”
His face hardens, and he climbs out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him hard enough to rock the car. He still comes around to my side, though, and holds my door for me, taking my bags.
“Thank you,” I say automatically. I’m so well trained.
We head into the house in total silence, and Bohdan deposits my bags on the counter. “If you don’t need me right now, I’ll be in my room.” He doesn’t address me but Jasper, who is seated at the table with a just fucked glow.
I grit my teeth.
“Of course, but I’d like you to be around for the party, if you don’t mind? You never know who might be doing this, even the man who is our guest.”
“Of course. Do you want me to sit in the dining room, or out in the hallway?”
I’m taking a long drink of water from a small bottle I’ve just opened when Jasper answers.
“Oh, eat with us. I’m sure you’ve got some fascinating stories.”
The water goes down the wrong way, and I start to choke. Jasper doesn’t move, but Bohdan comes to me and pats my back.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yes,” I splutter. “I am.”
“You ought to be careful,” Jasper says, giving me a hard look.
I take my water and leave the room. My heart is pounding, and my head is spinning. What is going on here? Does Jasper know about me and Bohdan? Is this a game? Maybe it is. There’s something going on with him for sure. If he does know, then I’m only safe for so long as Bohdan is here. Jasper is weirdly jealous of me even though he doesn’t want me for himself.
I hit my bedroom and see my hair stylist and makeup artist, Karen, smiling at me. Two-faced bitch. I don’t smile back like I normally would. Normally, I’m so scared of Jasper that I do all I can to have a quiet life. Now, though, with Bohdan in the house, I know Jasper can’t do anything significant to me. Oh, he could send Bohdan away, but firstly, that would put his cash cow in danger. And secondly, I’m honestly not sure Bohdan would go.
I’m stuck with two men who may both mean me harm, and I don’t know who I can trust. I know who I feel safest with, though, and it isn’t my husband. Unless Bohdan has changed drastically in the last few years, he’s not a sadist. Unlike Jasper.
“Jasper told me to go with a full look. Blow dry it out so it looks really voluminous. Then, with the makeup, he said to go for lots of gold and kohl on your eyes, if it would match the dress; if not, he said to change the color scheme up but keep it along those lines. What color is your dress?”
“Green with a gold brooch, so that will work fine,” I say. “Do you need me to wash my hair?”
She runs her hands through it. “No, it’ll actually style better if it’s a day out from being washed.”
I nod once and stick my wireless ear buds in and ignore her as she gets to work. If that bitch thinks I’m making small talk with the woman screwing my husband, she’s crazy, Not that I care per se, but it’s the principal of the thing.
She’s blonde, pretty, curvy, and she smells of something sweet like melon or pineapple. She’s bubble gum, and Daisy Dukes, and fun, and I’m hard edges, focus, and obsession. No wonder he wants her more.
Do I care? I smile to myself because I actually don’t. I’m simply grateful he doesn’t come to my bed. If he did, I don’t think I could have sex with him without throwing up. I wonder if he treats these women he screws the same way he treats me.
I doubt they’d put up with it. He didn’t treat me that way at first. He was clever, and he took a long time before he showed me his true colors. We were married, and he had total control over my career by the time I realized he was overbearing and controlling. That’s when I started to fight back. It’s when he started to fight back too, physically.
When she’s done, I peer in the mirror and admire her handiwork. I must admit, she’s talented with makeup. I look striking. My eyes are huge in my face, the rest of it doll-like, all surrounded by a halo of red hair.
She looks at me and something strange passes over her pretty features. It’s not guilt, I don’t think; more like pity. My stomach sinks. “You know, you’re a seriously stunning woman. You deserve better.”
I want to ask why the hell she’s contributed to my being an object of pity if she feels that way, but she’s packing up and not looking at me, and frankly I don’t have the energy.
“Thank you, Karen.” I leave the room and head to the bathroom while she finishes. Once there I spray some perfume, clean my teeth, taking care not to mess up her lipstick, and then sit on the side of the bath and wait until I hear her go.
Once I have the room to myself again, I hurriedly get dressed, and then dither for ages on whether to add a bag.
I don’t need one, as I’m not leaving my home, but should I take one to the table? Something dressy and fabulous? Or go like this? I open one of the deep drawers that Jasper had put in and rifle through the clutches in there. I choose a metallic Dior and close the drawer.
Clothes don’t interest me much, but bags can be beautiful. I like bags. And they always fit. Clothes can make you look so much worse, but a good bag can only ever make you look better.
I pop the lip gloss of mine that Karen used on my mouth into the bag. I add my inhaler, in case my asthma flares up, and head downstairs.
Normally my breathing is very well controlled, but the stress of the past few days has me feeling that familiar tightness and the strange sensation as if I’m breathing through thick cotton.
When I hit the downstairs, I hear voices already from the dining room. I walk down the hallway, pause outside the door to collect myself, then head on in.
Chapter Twelve
Dasha
The first thing I notice upon entering the room is Bohdan. He’s wearing dark trousers and a white shirt, with the collar open showing his tan throat and a tiny bit of his upper chest. The sleeves are rolled up, and his forearms are so much bigger than they were. Strong. That’s the impression he gives now, one of strength. He’s got some faded bruises on his hands, and he looks like someone took a street fighter and dressed him up for the night. It’s undeniably sexy.
“Darling, come and have a drink before we eat.” Jasper holds out a glass of champagne, and I go and take it. I’ve never really liked the taste of this stuff, but I like the effect.
I sip at the drink and wait to be introduced. I’ve already glanced at the couple. The woman is striking, in her late twenties if I had to guess. The man is in his fifties and portly. His face is florid, and he is drinking his whisky fast.
“Dasha, meet Lilliana and Charles Dubouis.”
I shake their hands as we all make pleasantries. Lilliana smiles at me, and it’s warm. Genuine. “I have to confess,” she says, “I am a huge fan of yours, so you have me to blame for this boring business dinner. I told my husband that I’ve never seen anyone dance like you, and I meant it. You’re sublime.”
I blush and thank her. I’m not the best at dealing with praise.
Bohdan is sipping at what looks like vodka, and I can’t stop glancing at him. He’s so handsome in that outfit. He obliterates the other two men in this room with his pr
esence.
“You don’t have to apologize,” I tell Lilliana. “And that’s a truly lovely thing to say.”
“The first time I watched you dance, I was moved to tears,” she says. “Honestly, you’re supremely talented.”
“Well, thank you,” I say again, blushing more, my face heating. She’s lovely, but I’m so not used to such effusive praise. Bohdan moves toward us, and brushes by, his scent teasing me.
It’s not that oceanic one from earlier; this is different. Now he smells of woods and spice, and it’s darker and richer. He leans against the antique sideboard, crosses his legs at the ankles, and runs a hand over his jaw.
I follow the intensely masculine motion and try to ignore the pulse between my legs. It seems whenever he’s around, parts of me that have been dormant for a long time wake up. The watch at his wrist looks expensive, and I peer closer. It’s a Rolex, but I have no clue what kind. I don’t know much about watches. I don’t know much about luxury in general, despite drowning in it. Apart from bags, all the clothes I buy, I’m ordered to by Jasper. It takes the pleasure out of it when you’re told to do it by the same man who left you lying in a pile of stinking garbage.
Fine jewels I have, but they mean nothing to me. I don’t like diamonds. Call me strange, but I genuinely don’t. They hold no interest for me. I glance at my wedding ring. It’s a yellow gold ring set with a huge aqua marine and two diamonds on either side. Jasper bought the ring because he said it reminded him of my eyes. I’d loved the ring back then for the gesture and the romance associated with it. Now, I hate it.
My wedding ring is plain, at my insistence. Jasper’s wedding band is yellow gold and simple too. Tonight, he’s wearing a pair of grey slacks, with a white shirt and a matching grey vest. His hair is slicked to one side, and his ever-present pipe is nearby, although thankfully not lit. The smell makes me gag.
Jasper looks like a relic from another era, and that’s the way he likes it. He doesn’t like modern fashion much. Jasper likes everything old school. He’s obsessed with Victorian era antiques and paintings. I can’t stand the furniture he buys. All that wood, so heavy and dark. I prefer things to be light and airy.
An image rises in my mind, unbidden of the tiny, sad little kitchens in the block of flats I lived in as a child. Ours was one of the better ones, as was Bohdan’s as it had two bedrooms, one of which doubled up as a lounge. Some of the others only had one room outside of the kitchen and bathroom. They were built in the Soviet era, but many are still being built to this day. They were depressing and small. I always felt trapped. God knows how Bohdan felt having to share his with that bastard of a father.
I glance at him, and he slowly lifts his blue gaze. Emotion hits me right in the gut, and I blink rapidly. We share so much. A past. A culture. An understanding.
We both came from hardship and made something of ourselves. We both know how hard those early years after the fall of the Soviet Union were. I was only a child when it happened and have no memory of the Soviet era, but I know what the decade that followed was like, and it was difficult.
Not for everyone. Some got very rich, others got by, but some of us, we floundered. My parents did. Eventually they split, from the stress I think. Then, thankfully, Mom had enough money to take us to London, and life started anew. I still love London. I adore that smell of the underground you get as you walk by a station, a faint burnt electric scent. I love the parks. The buildings. All of it. London gave me joy, life, and a chance.
Paris, I don’t love. Not because of the city itself, but all it signifies for me. This is the place my soul died.
We are all seated as the food is served. I have Lilliana opposite me, with Bohdan one side of me, and Charles the other. Jasper sits next to Lilliana.
Despite her stunning looks, I’m not remotely worried my husband will flirt with her. He never does. He screws the blondes, but he doesn’t flirt with them. I think he simply lays them down and takes what he wants. The way he did to me for a full year before he stopped coming near me.
The warmth of Bohdan next to me is enticing. I could simply lean to one side, like a listing ship, and rest my head on his shoulder.
For a crazy moment, I get the urge to do just that. I can’t. Jasper would go insane. He’d likely bash my skull in with the ornate candlesticks, witnesses be damned. I almost smile at the thought of how perplexed, then livid, he would be if I did such a thing.
The starter is a huge seafood platter, and I glower at Jasper. I hate seafood. He knows this. Why has he served it?
“Help yourselves, everyone,” he says.
I wait until everyone has served themselves, except for myself and Bohdan, so I can hopefully nibble a tiny bit, and no one will notice. Jasper isn’t eating his; instead, he’s watching our side of the table, but it’s not me he’s focused on but Bohdan.
“Are you going to have some?” Jasper asks. “This was very expensive.”
“No,” Bohdan says.
Not, no thank you. Simply no.
“Oh, but the chef went to such effort,” Jasper cajoles. “A tiny taste.”
“No,” Bohdan says again. “I don’t like it.”
“Ah, yes, I’m so sorry. I remember now.” Jasper gives Bohdan a small smile. “I forgot you told me, of course.”
Jasper is playing games because it’s what he does. It’s a way for him to test people out and find their weaknesses. He found mine easily enough. The need to keep dancing, the obsession with my craft, my mother being wholly reliant on me financially these days. These are all my weaknesses. He knew straight away the thing to do to control me was threaten my mother, then my livelihood by threatening my feet.
I wonder what Bohdan’s weaknesses are? Jasper has just found out what they are not. Bohdan doesn’t care about being polite.
We all eat, me only nibbling at some fruit and a tiny bit of lobster meat, but Bohdan eats nothing.
“The fruit is good,” Jasper says. “You can’t taste the seafood on it.”
Bohdan grins, reaches out, and picks up a piece of melon with his fingers, before popping it into his mouth and chewing ostentatiously. He swallows, wipes his fingers on his napkin and shrugs. “Yeah, it is good.”
I bite back a smile. These two are playing a game, but I think for once Jasper might have met his match.
The main course arrives soon after, and it’s beef bourguignon, which I love. The vegetables are perfection, crisp and fresh. The meat is lovely too, all tender and rich.
We have red wine with it, and I sip at mine, wanting for once to get absolutely wasted, but knowing I can’t. I must dance tomorrow.
“So, Bohdan, where are you from?” Jasper asks.
I freeze. No way will Jasper think it is coincidence that Bohdan is from the same area of St. Petersburg as me.
“Moscow,” Bohdan says smoothly.
“So fascinating that you’re Russian too,” Jasper replies, as he sips at his wine.
“Not really, there’s a lot of us,” Bohdan says. He wipes his mouth with his napkin, a movement I follow out of the corner of my eye and sips at the wine. “It’s one of the reasons I was given the job.”
“It is?” Jasper asks.
“Yes, you see, if the worst were to happen and your wife and I find ourselves in a dangerous situation, we can communicate in Russian, and hopefully whoever the sick fuck … excuse me, the sick person is who is harassing her, they won’t understand.”
“I’d love to visit Russia,” Lilliana says.
“It’s very beautiful in Moscow in the winter.” Bohdan smiles at her.
“Not as beautiful as St. Petersburg,” I say softly.
“Ah no, the jewel of Russia indeed.” Bohdan raises his glass at me.
The jewel. He used to call me his jewel. I look away from him and at my plate.
“So,” Lilliana says with a small laugh. “Shall we discuss business?”
I lift my head. “Yes, of course, if you wish to.”
“We want to sponsor y
ou to do a solo show,” she says, no preamble.
“I think it would be a huge hit. Huge. You’re a bona fide star on the dance scene, and Charles has the money, and I have the connections to make you even more of one.”
I’d love to do it, but I don’t want to give Jasper the satisfaction of knowing how much. If he sees how much I want it, he’ll be more likely to take it away from me.
“It’s a truly amazing offer,” I say. “And I’m more grateful than I can say, but can I think about it for a few days? I have a lot of things coming up, and I’m not sure when I could fit it in.”
“Darling.” Jasper’s voice holds that warning I hate so much. “I think it’s a wonderful opportunity, and other things can be moved around.”
I wave my hand in the air. “Oh, well, if you think so then, of course. You’re the one who arranges everything.”
He smiles, and I do too, secretly in the knowledge he now thinks this is his idea and against my wishes, when in reality, I want it so very much.
After a long and boring talk between Jasper and Charles over dessert, our guests finally decide to leave. Jasper sometimes likes me to stay up and partake of small talk after meals like this, but this evening as soon as the door closes behind Lilliana and Charles, he stalks away from me and up the stairs.
“I have work to do, goodnight.” He tosses those words over his shoulder, not even looking at me.
Night, darling, I think.
I walk to the kitchen and stop when I see Bohdan manning the coffee maker.
“You want a macchiato?” he asks.
“A what?” I only drink small black coffees. I need to stay slim.
“Don’t worry about it; just let me make you one.”
He starts the machine up and does all sorts of alchemy as it spits and hisses and steams. Then he hands me a tall glass cup, layered with something frothy.
I sip at it, and my eyes close. Oh my god!
