Chapter 8 #2
It felt like a warning. He was showing me what he was capable of, what he could accomplish, what he was unafraid to do. I pulled away from the doorway, my heart thumping away in my chest and my face suddenly all warm. I couldn’t decide if it was from fear or pure curiosity.
* * *
My eyes lingered on my ringless finger. The weight of that piece of jewelry had been gone for a couple weeks now.
Gordon had said he’d get me a new one—we had to keep up appearances, after all.
That trip to the store had yet to come, but that wasn’t exactly a concern of mine.
Deep down, I liked that feeling of the ring no longer being on my finger, because for a little while, I got to pretend like I was no longer Mrs. Cavendish.
“We’re going to be late if you keep staring off into the distance like that,” Gordon said to my side.
When I was alone. When I was alone, I got to pretend like I wasn’t his.
“Right. I’m sorry.” I gave Gordon a curt nod, slowly opening the door of his Aston Martin.
My black heels hit the pavement of the parking lot, and I heard Gordon talking to the valet behind me. By the time I reached around the side of the car, the young man had already hopped inside, giving me a friendly nod through the open window.
“Let’s go inside,” Gordon said, straightening up the buttons on his suit jacket. “I don’t like keeping your parents waiting.”
I let him lead the way into L’Amuse, my hands busy picking up the long train of my Prada dress.
The high neckline wasn’t comfortable either, but Gordon—and my parents—liked for me to dress up all sleek and classy.
As we moved up the stairs and spoke to the ma?tre d’, all I could think about was what Bridger said the other day.
About how I looked boring. I felt boring.
I hated that he was right.
My head shook, hoping those thoughts would fly right out of my brain as Gordon led us to a table in the center of the room.
Soft, light music was in the air, a pretty crystal chandelier hanging right above us.
There sat my mother and father—Walter and Angelica Ashford—their eyes on each other until Gordon cleared his throat.
They both turned to face me, not a hint of fondness on their faces as they eyed me. Gordon, though? They loved him.
“Gordon,” my father said as he stood up. He immediately reached an arm out for Gordon, the two of them shaking hands as they chuckled heartily.
I was left to hold back a wince at the scene.
Gordon was closer to my father’s age than mine, and as they stood there making small talk in their boring black designer suits, that point was just emphasized.
They both played their roles well. Boring, old, suited up lawyers; all gray, thinning hair and eyes that didn’t really light up.
“It’s been so long,” my father said. “How was New York? I saw that you were working with that Morrison fellow. That investment banker. It was all over the news. He got himself into a lot of trouble, didn’t he?”
“Ah, I can’t talk too much about that.” Gordon laughed, all deep and hearty. “All I’ll say is that it was an interesting case. Long and tiring, but interesting nonetheless.”
Interesting meant money, and money always made my parents’ eyes light up.
“I’m sure it was.” My father nodded before turning to me, and just like that, all of that light that had been in his brown eyes faded away. “Juliette,” he said lowly. “How have you been?”
This was where I had to pretend. Where I had to put to use what little acting skills I had. Fake smile stretching across my lips, I nodded. “I’ve been good. Fine. How about you and Mom?” I let my eyes fall to my mother’s. “How’s everything with you two?”
“Me and your father just got back from Venice,” she said with a smile. Her hair was a little longer since I last saw her, her black locks sleek and straight against her pale skin. “Such a lovely time. We would have loved for you to join us, Gordon. I suppose you’re too busy with work.”
Gordon nodded as we all took our seats. “The office has been a little intense lately.”
“That’s a beautiful dress, Juliette.” Mom nodded at the black material hugging my body. “Did Gordon pick it out? You know what great taste he has.”
“I did buy a few things in New York for her,” Gordon said. “Some Tiffany pieces mostly. I spoiled myself with a Rolex or two. Or three or four. It’s a shame about those…”
“A shame?” Dad looked at me with a frown. “Juliette, what did you do? Did you break something? You’re always breaking things. I thought you were out of that old habit…”
Great. A trip down memory lane and the waiter hadn’t even poured us our drinks yet.
I did break things on occasion around the house—like most kids.
Like all kids, really. A vase or two and a statue here and there had indeed crashed to the floor thanks to me, and my parents had never let me forget it.
When you were an Ashford, you couldn’t mess up, even as a wide-eyed child.
“She didn’t break anything,” Gordon answered for me. “Not this time, at least.”
“Most kids break stuff,” I offered quietly. “You think I was the first kid to ever break something?”
“Don’t talk back to your parents,” Gordon said, voice sharp and harsh. Then he turned back to them. “We were robbed recently.”
My parents gasped, eyes widening at that news.
“What do you mean?” my father asked, leaning forward in his seat. “You didn’t say anything about that.”
“It was a fairly recent event,” Gordon explained. “It happened just the other week. They stole quite a bit. Some laptops, most of my watches, all the cash we had in the safe. They’re probably selling my watches on the street as we speak.”
“Juliette, why didn’t you say anything?” my mother snapped at me. Like I was the one responsible for that event. Thank you, Bridger. “You never told us.”
“You should have let us know.” My father narrowed his eyes my way.
“The cops did everything they could,” I said, giving them a shrug.
“And they have no idea who it was?” he asked, eyes right on me.
“No.” I shook my head. “Not at all.”
“It could be a targeted crime,” he said. “They could have picked your home on purpose. Maybe you know them, Gordon. Maybe an old client?”
“Goodness.” My mom pressed a hand to her chest. “You can’t trust anyone these days. There are criminals just gallivanting all over this city…”
“You need to be careful, Gordon,” my father said, giving his head a shake. “Especially with you two still trying.”
My eyes flew to the menu when he said that. I could see it from the corner of my eye. Gordon tensing up and sitting a little straighter. I hadn’t forgotten our fight and apparently neither had he. Good. Maybe he’d experience a little bit of guilt or shame for once.
“What’s everyone eating?” I asked. “The swordfish looks good.”
“No,” Gordon snapped. “No swordfish.”
Right. He was still desperately trying to get me pregnant.
“You should know better, Juliette,” Mom said, clicking her tongue.
“What should I eat then?” I asked bitterly.
“Have the soup,” Gordon said.
I became wallpaper after that. My husband discussed all of his exciting adventures in New York, along with his newly renovated office, his new Rolls Royce, the new property he bought in Ibiza.
So exciting. I tried to join, tried to force my way into the discussion, but Gordon sent me a glare whenever I attempted to play the role of the attentive wife, and honestly, I should have known better and just shut up.
The food arrived and I focused on my pumpkin soup, the liquid not nearly enough to make me feel full and satisfied, but it tasted good, so I was thankful for that.
I hated this. Hated pretending, hated having to sit in some fancy restaurant eating food I didn’t want in a dress that was uncomfortable with people that didn’t like me.
I hated the boring, stuffy conversation.
It was hard to not miss who I used to be.
The girl who once believed she’d escape Chicago and be happy and paint. With Bridger next to me.
Seconds away from wincing at the thought of him, I felt something or someone squeezing at my thigh. My eyes flickered over to the right, spotting a dark eyed Gordon staring right at me.
“Juliette, he asked you a question,” he said, teeth gritted into a forced smile.
“Oh.” I cleared my throat. He who?
Looking up from my almost empty bowl of soup, I spotted a familiar face.
Gray, sleek hair and brown eyes looked back at me.
A man I was sure I had met before but didn’t have it in me to care about in that moment.
He was all dressed up in a suit and I was sure I was supposed to remember his name, but Gordon introduced me to so many of his associates that it was hard to keep track.
Gordon rolled his eyes. “You remember Graham Beaumont. Parker’s brother.”
I forced a smile. “Of course. Hello, Mr. Beaumont. So nice to see you again.”
“You too,” the old man said with a grin. “We missed you at that Sotheby’s auction last month. They had the most stunning Michele della Valle pieces there. Gordon said you weren’t feeling too well.”
I remembered that day. I mostly remembered how hard Gordon had slapped me in the morning. The backhand was so hard and fast that even every piece of ice in the fridge couldn’t get the swelling down. I couldn’t admit to that, though, so instead I sent him a smile that I prayed wouldn’t look forced.
“I’m sad I missed it,” I said.
“You should have made an effort and showed up,” my mother scolded. “Juliette, sometimes it feels like you never try. You weren’t at that charity ball at the start of the year, either. Don’t you care about making a good impression?”
“I say the same thing,” Gordon said.
“Can you stop?” I asked softly.
“What was that?” Gordon squeezed my thigh tight. His hand pushed up my dress, his sharp nails digging into the slither of skin he had exposed.
“Nothing,” I said quickly.
“It sounded like you said something.” Gordon eyed me closely. “Or am I wrong?”