Chapter 6
6
“ E liza, that’s such a pretty name,” the brunette across the table from me says in an accent that I can’t quite place, taking another swig of wine from her glass. She swallows it down, beaming a dazzling smile as her gaze slides between me and Roman. “Where did you two meet, again?”
“Family friends,” he replies, not missing a beat.
The ‘associate’ of Roman’s that we’re dining with this evening is a man named Anton, and the excessively perky brunette currently seated across from me is his wife, Cherie. The two of them are clearly still in the honeymoon phase, because they haven’t been able to keep their hands off each other since we arrived at the restaurant to meet them, making this whole interaction even more awkward.
“Aww,” Cherie coos, gazing at me thoughtfully. “Well, you’re much prettier than the last one.”
The last one?
I turn to look at Roman in question, but he completely ignores me, just as he has since we embarked on this double date from hell.
At least I didn’t have to wear red. Clara put me in a tasteful black cocktail dress, my hair neatly pinned back and my makeup understated, yet flawless. I begrudgingly allowed the housemaid to dress me up like Roman’s doll, intent on gaining his approval if only to avoid a repeat of last night’s torture. I mean, what’s the point in pushing back if I’m going to pull a runaway bride? As far as I’m concerned, I’ll keep my head down and play my part– within reason– while biding my time until I can make a clean escape. All I have to do until then is survive my husband’s mood swings.
The Roman I’m out with tonight isn’t the taunting, unhinged man from last night. He’s cold and aloof, just as he was when we stood before the priest yesterday and when he caught me feeding his dog earlier. He’s completely indifferent toward me, and I’m glad for it– though I haven’t let my guard down just in case the other version of him rears his ugly head.
“Anton, tell me you have good news regarding the shipments from Carvallo,” Roman says, running his finger back and forth along the rim of his whiskey glass.
“Apparently there was a small hiccup with customs,” Anton responds with a wince. “My men assure me that it will all be sorted out within twenty-four hours.”
“And what am I supposed to tell Alexei in the meantime?”
I stare down at the enormous rock glittering on my ring finger as the men continue talking shop, mesmerized by the way it catches the light. Roman handed me the ring box as soon as we got in the car, along with a demand that I wear it from now on as a way to substantiate this sham of a marriage. The diamond itself is exquisitely beautiful, its gaudy size undoubtedly a power move on Roman’s part to flex his wealth in front of his colleague. I didn’t argue about putting it on, though– it’s clearly worth a fortune, so my new husband’s ego will fund my new life once I manage to escape him.
That’s how I’m looking at everything now; as a potential building block in my plan. This dinner, for example– if taking me out and parading me around his friends is going to be a regular thing, I can use it to my advantage. It’d probably be a whole lot easier to slip away from a crowded restaurant as opposed to his remote estate.
Of course, that’ll depend on whether he usually dines as we are now; in a private room with minimal interruption from wait staff. We even entered through the back door of the restaurant, which indicates one of two things: either my new husband is a very private person, or he’s paranoid.
Private, I can work with. Paranoid is a wildcard.
“And what of Lipovsky?” Anton asks, slinging an arm over his wife’s shoulders and drawing her in closer to his side.
I can’t help but watch the way Roman keeps twisting the platinum wedding band around his ring finger, wondering if it feels like a shackle to him, too. “What about him?” he grumbles, the low, threatening tone of his voice sending a shiver up my spine.
Anton shrinks back slightly, telling me which of these men must be running the show when it comes to whatever business they’re embroiled in together. He shifts his weight on his chair, pulling his wife in even closer and looking decidedly uncomfortable. “What if he refuses?”
“He’ll come to heel,” Roman murmurs, still twisting the band around his finger absently. “I have something he wants.”
The door on the far side of the room swings open, a young blonde waitress stepping inside. She struts over to our table on her too-tall heels until she’s planted herself right beside Roman, smiling down at him in delighted recognition.
“Good evening, Mr. Volkov. Teresa’s shift just ended, so I’ll be taking care of you for the rest of the night,” she purrs, resting a hand on his forearm. “Can I bring you anything from the bar?”
I don’t miss the way she leans in, putting her tits at eye level with his face, nor the way her eyes dart over to clock the ring on his left hand, though she doesn’t spare me a glance.
“Two Macallans,” he replies smoothly. “Thanks, Paige.”
She beams a smile at him, spinning on her heels and walking away, swishing her hips a little too much for my taste.
“I wanted some more wine,” Cherie pouts, looking after the waitress wistfully. Then she turns her pout on me, saying, “Eliza, don’t you want more wine?”
“She’s had enough,” Roman answers for me, and though I’ve been on my best behavior all evening, for some reason that declaration is the final straw that makes me push back.
“Actually, I think I would like some more,” I say, smiling sweetly as I turn to Roman, the diamond on my finger glittering in the light as I place my hand gently atop his.
He slides his hand out from underneath mine like my touch burns him, the muscle in his jaw feathering as he glares back at me.
I know I’m playing with fire, but now that I’ve resolved I’m going to escape him, I’m not quite as afraid of getting burned. What’s another scar to me, anyways?
The door to the room swings open again, the waitress returning with two glasses of whiskey in her hands. “Here you go,” she says as she approaches the table and sets one in front of each of the men, her eyes lingering on my husband. She flashes him a coy smile as she turns away, heading back the way she came from.
“Paige.”
She stops in her tracks at the sound of her name falling from Roman’s lips, whipping back around like an excitable puppy.
“Yes, Mr. Volkov?” she asks, her heels clipping the stone floor as she rushes back over.
His eyes dart my way for the briefest moment. “The ladies would like more wine. A bottle of your best merlot, please.”
“We just got some new bottles delivered from Italy,” the waitress replies, leaning in eagerly and batting her lashes. Then she boldly sets her hand on top of his, right over the damned wedding band he’s sporting.
He doesn’t pull his hand away from beneath hers , though.
“I’d be happy to take you down to the cellar if you’d like to select it yourself,” she adds.
Is she serious right now?
It takes a great deal of effort for me not to gape at the audacity of this woman. Granted, our marriage is nothing but a hoax, but she’s blatantly propositioning a married man in front of his wife, for fucks sake.
To my surprise, Roman suddenly pushes his chair back, rising to his feet and buttoning his suit coat. “Sure, why not?”
The waitress grins like she’s won the damn lottery, shuffling closer to him and gesturing for the door. “Right this way, sir,” she chirps, leading him out of the private dining room.
Wait, is he really about to leave me alone with his friends to go fuck this waitress?
The click of the door closing behind them gives me my answer, and my stomach bottoms out as I turn my uncomfortable gaze back on Anton and Cherie, the latter giving me a look so pitying that it makes me want to run out of the room screaming.
“I do love Italian wine,” I sigh, reaching out for my glass and downing the last sip.
“Anton took me to Italy last year,” Cherie gushes, fingers toying with the stem of her own glass. “We had some of the best wine there, and we shipped some back, too. We’ve still got a few bottles left, the two of you must come to our place for dinner sometime so you can try it!”
“Oh, absolutely,” I smile, feigning the same enthusiasm.
Cherie begins to regale me with a story about their trip to Italy while I do my best to maintain my composure as the minutes crawl by.
It’s not the fact that Roman’s off fucking someone else. I couldn’t care less where he sticks his dick, so long as it’s not in me. But the fact that I’m forced to sit here making awkward conversation with a pair of strangers while we all know what he’s off doing is beyond humiliating.
And here I thought the display at dinner last night was the most debasing thing he could do to me.
A good ten minutes pass before Roman and the waitress reappear, along with a fancy bottle of wine boasting a label I can’t even pronounce.
I don’t even look at him as he retakes his seat beside me, nor when my glass is replenished after the bottle is uncorked.
For the rest of the evening, I sit there beside him sipping my wine, playing the role he told me to ascribe to from our first meeting.
I’m seen, and not heard.