Chapter 2
Silas
“What do you mean?” I asked, dumbly.
My sweet wife kicked off her heels and began to tear her pantyhose, rending them from thigh to ankle.
“Well, being faithful to you was a waste of time. At least that’s over now, and I don’t have to pretend anymore. Thank god, because I’ve missed the club.”
“Wait, what club?”
She balled up her shredded pantyhose and threw the remains in the garbage.
“Don’t worry about it, big boy.”
Big boy? What had gotten into my wife?
I couldn’t believe it. Paloma must be trying to be funny. There was no other explanation.
“What do you mean you married me for my money? If this is a joke, it isn’t a very good one,” I said sternly.
“What’s a joke is me thinking you were faithful.”
She laughed heartily. “You had me fooled there, Silas. That’s a point for you.”
I felt panicky. Was that what this was about?
“I do love you!” I protested. “I will be faithful now, I promise. I’m turning over a new leaf.”
“Me too,” Paloma said cheerfully.
She pulled at her scalp with both hands, like she was going to tear her hair out from the agony of my betrayal, and before my horrified eyes her entire head seemed to come off until I realized it was a long, shiny blonde wig she was shaking in her hand.
Underneath was an absolute mop of hair, cut chin-length, honey blonde but a total mess, highlighted with different bright colors—pink, blue, purple, random orangey-yellow strands.
“That hair was a wig?”
“Of course,” she said, shaking her head like a dog coming in from the pool.
“Nothing but the best for your fake wife. Now to wipe off this horrible perfume.”
“Why—would you wear a wig?”
She walked over to my home office and started rifling through a filing cabinet.
Hell—even her walk was different. My wife’s movements had always been very elegant, ladylike, and delicate. But suddenly Paloma’s hips were moving differently, slow and decadent, like rich caramel.
“To get you to marry me, of course.”
“But—for what point or purpose would you perpetuate this ruse?” I asked angrily, pulling at my tie.
It couldn’t be real. Silas Di Pietro did not get fooled.
“Money.”
“Money?”
“You have rather a lot of it,” she pointed out reproachfully, frowning at me with those full lips. “Far more than you know what to do with. I don’t feel guilty for deceiving you at all. You’re using your money for very stupid things.”
And for once in my life, I was completely speechless.
Everything was wrong. It was like I was in quicksand, falling. I had expected to be in control of this interview, gently and lovingly shepherding my wife through grief and despair to acknowledgment of my repentance. I had known how it all was going to go.
“But you love me,” I said, rather stupidly.
Paloma looked at me blankly for a moment, her luminous blue eyes wide. This was when she was going to tell me she had been joking.
Then she burst out in laughter.
“Ha. Hahahahaha. That’s a good one. I’m 27 and you’re 47. What even would we have in common? Think about it logically, Silas.”
My wife pulled off her little cream-colored cardigan to reveal a rather skimpy tank top, unsnapping her bra with a sigh of relief.
Usually she was so modest and demure she didn’t even want to change in front of me. . .
“But you were so sweet when we first met,” I protested.
Paloma only laughed heartily. “And I bet you think I barely wear any makeup, right? That my hair just naturally curls like this? That every wife wants to cater to her husband’s every whim?”
“Er. . . yes?”
I felt angry and bewildered. How had this happened to me? I prided myself on my dignity, discernment, and good character judgment.
And I could have sworn Paloma was exactly what she seemed to be—a sweet, submissive wife!
Her tits were still mouthwateringly perfect handfuls, and seeing them in the light like this was unfortunately making my dick twitch.
“What are you looking for?” I asked, as she grabbed a file folder.
“Our prenup, of course.”
“Prenup? I don’t want to get divorced!”
“But I do!” she chirped cheerfully. “And of course now that you’ve cheated you can’t deny me one.”
There was a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, like my entire world had turned upside down.
I had been prepared for tears. For heartbreak. Total devastation. For having to reassure my broken-hearted wife over and over again that I did love her. That I wanted to be with her. That my depraved desires had nothing to do with her.
I did not expect to see her humming happily as she contemplated a divorce.
“Ah, here it is. Divorce settlement. $5 million dollars. Not bad. Not bad at all. That’ll set me up nicely for a few years, maybe even longer if I invest it carefully. And there’ll be plenty for the Greenhill Rescue Society.”
The what? The name sounded vaguely familiar but I couldn’t place it, not with my usual razor-sharp mind feeling fuzzy with panic.
It made me sick to my stomach that she was even contemplating a separation. Or the prenup, which I had never in a million years expected to be held to.
“I do not want to get divorced,” I said, enunciating carefully. “I just want my wife back. I want my life back. I’ll give you anything you like. I’ll delete Whitleigh’s number. I’ll go to therapy.”
Paloma turned, holding her hands like a scale in front of her.
“Let’s see, on the one hand, you going to therapy. But on the other hand, me getting $5 million dollars,” she said. “Not a very difficult choice.”
“I love you!”
She snorted. “Of course you don’t. You don’t love anyone.”
“Yes, I do,” I insisted.
“Well, you definitely don’t love me. Paloma Di Pietro is a lie. She’s an imaginary creation. Nothing you’d want as a Governor’s wife, I can tell you that much. I even have a tramp stamp. It’s just covered up with makeup.”
“You have a what?”
She smirked at me, flicking her little pink tongue out saucily. “So run along and get the lawyers tomorrow, and we’ll get a quickie divorce.”
Then my wife turned aside. Like it didn’t matter what I had to say.
Like she didn’t give a fuck.
My thoughts felt jumbled, confused. But one thing was certain as she tucked the prenup under her arm.
“I do not agree to a divorce.”
She raised her eyebrows.
“Are you planning to fight this? I assure you you won’t succeed. I like money and I don’t like you.”
Who was this woman standing in front of me, talking to me bold as brass? Even my legislative aides, my closest associates, didn’t dare contradict me like this.
“What do you even care? You have way more fucking money. You’ll barely notice the $5 million. It’s a good deal for you. Take it and I won’t make any trouble.”
She held out her hand to me, the beautiful engagement ring I’d bought her twinkling in the light. It had been carefully hand-crafted and designed, diamonds and sapphires in the shape of an opening flower, to match my wife’s shy, but radiant, blossoming.
“It’s not about the money,” I ground out. “I love you.”
Paloma frowned and pulled her hand back. Then her face cleared and she shrugged, patting me impersonally on the shoulder as she walked by.
“It doesn’t matter. I’ll make sure you have no choice but to give me a divorce.”
“Wait, what does that mean?” I asked.
But she’d already disappeared down the hallway, and in the distance I heard a door slam shut.