Chapter 4
Silas
The bed in the guest room was shit, and I’d slept like shit and I’d gone to work the next morning feeling like shit.
Usually Paloma awoke before me every morning to make my breakfast, and I’d take a shower and get dressed to the lovely, comforting sounds of coffee percolating and bacon sizzling.
Now all I heard was a surprisingly loud snore emitting from the big master bedroom, and when I peeped in the open door, she was lying starfished across the king-sized bed.
“Serve you right if I did divorce you,” I said bitterly.
But she slept on.
How had she managed to pull the wool over my eyes so thoroughly? Was she even a virgin?
Angry, I contemplated agreeing to what Paloma wanted. But when I got to my office at the Capitol Building, waving aside my security and staff members, I was infuriated to realize my wife had added a little note to our shared Google calendar.
Silas Di Pietro, 8:00 am
Get a divorce
The hell! Absolutely not.
I refused anything of the sort.
My wife was not going to divorce me. If she wanted to be a bratty little dealmaker, I’d make a deal.
How much for things to go back to the way they used to be?
I worked distractedly on the upcoming budget. I didn’t care about any of this shit. Meals on Wheels?
They were going to have to give me some kickbacks if they wanted a line in this budget.
I was in no mood for this.
All my thoughts were on Paloma. What was she going to do next?
And I realized that for once in my career, I had no idea what to do. I just knew she was going to strike first.
So it shouldn’t have been a surprise when my Chief of Staff Mario Anton came rushing into the room.
“Boss, you need to look at this.”
“What the hell’s wrong?” I snarled.
“Your wife—” he panted.
Shit.
He fumbled for the button and turned on the television sitting at the corner of my desk.
The local news was live-streaming at Le Aubergine, the hottest French restaurant in town.
But what would that have to do with my wife? She never went there.
But I knew who did!
That was the restaurant Whitleigh always went for her daily Cobb salad.
And suddenly, I saw her.
Whitleigh was sitting at a table looking petrified and in front of her was Paloma, hands on her hips and her finger in Whitleigh’s face.
Shit.
“She’s sleeping with my husband!” Paloma sobbed. “They were caught having secret assignations at hotels!”
Whitleigh’s eyes were wide and panicked.
Come on, can’t you think on your feet? I thought scornfully. Say something!
There was nothing I abhorred more than weakness, and you could see it all over Whitleigh. My wife was methodically breaking her into tiny little pieces.
Paloma was weeping gustily as the cameras all clicked greedily on the melodramatic spectacle.
Oh, my political enemies were going to dine on this!
For a moment I was absolutely furious.
How dare she! This was going to sink my ratings, make me look like an absolute dog.
But then Paloma’s eyes tipped to the nearest camera, her lids sleepy, languid, despite the shaking, babbling Whitleigh in front of her, a taunting little smirk on my wife’s lips.
She was jeopardizing my entire political career, with her wild pink-streaked hair, and she didn’t care. She didn’t give a fuck.
For a moment I would have signed anything she gave me.
But there was something in her eyes. . .
Below the laughter, below the petty revenge I unfortunately deserved, below the suddenly heavy eyeliner.
A will of steel.
Something in the soul I forgot existed stirred.
She had played me at my own game and she was winning.
I thought I was a master of manipulation. I ran the whole goddamn state.
But she was beating the fucking piss out of me.
She was nothing like I had imagined she was. Nothing like the woman I married.
But as my loins began to stir and my cock to stiffen until precum dripped from the tip, I knew I wanted her more than ever. Anyone who could fool me this effectively was a motherfucking genius.
Paloma swooned dramatically as the cameras flashed, and one of her friends I didn’t recognize caught her.
They were a tall person with a white-blonde pixie cut and a sparkly suit, their face covered in sparkly glitter.
“The Governor’s wife! Her heart is broken!”
“I’m sorry,” Whitleigh begged as she broke like the weakling she was. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to!”
“Well!” Paloma said, looking around. “Let’s just go down to the Governor’s office and see what he has to say for himself!”
And my blood rose with the challenge, feeling simultaneously feral with need and desperate enough to do anything.
“Get that sex therapist on the phone!” I barked at Mario. “Tell him he has 8.5 minutes to get down here or I’m going to pull his license!”
If Paloma wanted a scene, I’d give her a scene. I’d give her proof of my love and devotion.
“He can’t make it!” Mario wailed as I paced my office floor. “What’s your plan, boss? This is a PR nightmare!”
Shit shit shit.
The restaurant was right down the street, and I heard loud, excited noises as Paloma came into view out my window, marching up to the front door of the Capitol Building with a defiant look on her face, trailed by a very reluctant Whitleigh who looked like she was about to cry, Paloma’s friend, and about a dozen or so news reporters.
I had a choice. I could try to salvage my political career by denying everything. Or I could do something Paloma didn’t expect.
Admit fault and take all the blame.
I ripped my door open and scanned up and down the hallway.
“You!” I barked at the janitor, an older Scotchman with a face like a fish. “Come with me.”
I waved the man over as he ambled suspiciously up to me.
“I need you to do me a favor. Could you pretend to be my therapist in front of the cameras? I’ll make it worth your while.”
He blew out his long white mustache.
“W-e-e-e-e-e-ll, I guess I could. For a small fee to be determined later. The name’s Robert MacDonald.”
I took off my coat.
“Here. Put this on and look intellectual. $5,000 if my wife buys that you’re a psychiatrist.”
Pulling him behind me, I marched to the front door. I would not be caught by Paloma cowering in my office. It was time to make my countermove.
I opened the door to be confronted with dozens of microphones shoved in my face and reporters shouting questions.
“Is it true you cheated on your wife?”
“Do you have anything to say in response to these allegations?”
Paloma was busy wiping away a beautiful fake tear with a delicate lace handkerchief. She was wearing a pretty pearl pink suit set with a skirt, but it didn’t fool me now. She was a devious conniving woman and I was going to have to be at the top of my game to match her.
“I admit everything,” I said, my heart pounding. “I made a mistake, but I am committed to my wife and our marriage. I am so committed I’ve even arranged to hire a personal therapist, and he will be on-call day and night for me to work on myself and undoing my toxic masculinity.”
I jerked my head over at the security guards, and they began to clear out the crowds of loudly objecting reporters as I drew Paloma inside.
“Ready for a divorce yet?” she asked, her eyes sparkling.
“Is that your friend?” I countered, hoping to get Paloma’s favor that way. “Can I get them a beverage? Or a job as the Cultural Affairs Officer?”
She narrowed her eyes. “Their name is Rowan and nice try, big shot. Where’s those divorce papers?”
“I’d really like to make this work.”
She shook me off. “Don’t make me laugh. Just go find another Stepford wife.”
“I don’t want a Stepford wife. I want you.”
She rolled her eyes.
“What kind of stuff are you into?” I insisted. “Give me a chance and we can work it out.”
She tapped her fingers on her arm and the movement shifted her little pink suit jacket just a bit so I could see under there she was absolutely bare-ass naked. No chemise, no blouse, no bra, nothing. Just bare soft luscious breasts rubbing against the fabric.
“Tell me, Silas. Why didn’t you just ask to spank me?”
I was startled by the question.
“I didn’t think it was a very appropriate and gentlemanly thing for me to ask of my wife,” I said stiffly.
Paloma smirked again, tossing her hair.
She really had the most ridiculous hair, all different colors where she’d tried different hair dyes—pinks and blues and purples and orangey-yellow where the dye was coming out. Why was I so obsessed with her?
My love for the old Paloma had been a pure, holy thing. A quiet, tender devotion. My feelings for the new Paloma were that I wanted to seize her and fuck her against the wall of the Capitol Building. I wanted to imprint myself under her skin. I wanted to beg her for one more chance.
I felt something wholly unfamiliar—a craven, weak desperation for her approval.
A feeling like I’d do anything to keep her.
“And that’s why we’d never work,” she snorted. “Because the things I like to do aren’t gentlemanly at all. Now run along and spank your girlfriend and don’t bother me.”