34. Lavender
The following Friday.Also known as the day I officially reach the end of my tether, which has nothing to do with the dinner party Raif springs on me. He throws out the casual mention over another sumptuous breakfast—this one a a?ai smoothy bowl, because Fridays deserve to start well—quickly adding that all I’m responsible for is turning up at seven o’clock.
Canapes and cocktails are served on the terrace, overlooking a garden filled with a profusion of summer colors. White-aproned servers mill around, and Raif’s guest seem delighted by Daisy’s oddly formal manners. At least until she’s shuffled off upstairs into the care of Maria. Sam presides over the kitchen like the culinary maestro he is, and the catering crew does the rest, ultimately serving a four-course dinner in the formal dining room.
Raif is in excellent form, his hand pressed to the small of my back as he introduces me to everyone.
“George, have you met my gorgeous wife, Lavender?”
“Artemis, allow me to introduce you to my better half.”
“Melania, this is my darling, Lavender.”
It’s all very embarrassing and so over the top, but a tiny part of me loves the attention. His attention.
He escorts me to the dining room and pretends not to notice when I almost fall over my feet when I spot the photo of our wedding in a silver frame on the marble fire surround.
He pulls out my chair and kisses my cheek, the smile he sends me full of knowing. Like he felt what that did to me—internally, I mean. Not just shock but also the split second when I forgot this isn’t really my life.
As dinner progresses, Raif involves me in the conversation, whether or not I know what’s being spoken about. He coaxes me to taste the food from his plate—and again, there is just so much food—refreshes my drink and offers me wines with names I can’t even pronounce.
And Raif’s associates? Clients? Friends? They’re an odd bunch. It’s like he stuck his hand blindly into a bag of characters and pulled random ones out. Some of them seem like the kind of shady types you see on crime shows on TV, and others seem as though they’d be at home dining in Kensington Palace. Some drip obvious designer labels and diamonds, and others are classy and understated.
I’ve had people over for dinner before. I rustle up a mean paella, buy flowers, and fold pretty napkins. But my food is served around my tiny kitchen table, not a one set with Hermes tableware.
I’m seated next to the husband of a politician, who also happens also to be the daughter of one of Europe’s largest landowners. The couple are well into their sixties, well dressed and very pleasant. They tell me they don’t have children but dote on their three Siberian huskies. So much so that they’re currently having a house built at the end of their garden for those treasured pooches. Not a doghouse. A people house, complete with lounge, kitchen, dining room, and a bedroom each. Plus one extra in case a doggy friend sleeps over.
Mind-boggling. But they’ve promised to drop by the gallery next week. Apparently, Raif had suggested I’ve an eye for up-and-coming artists.
“Art is such a wonderful investment,” says the man, contemplating the wine in his glass.
“Same for freeport warehouses,” offers someone else from across the table. The man has teeth like piano keys and a silver-gray suit that looks like it’s been plucked straight out of the eighties. “Have you ever thought about holding an auction?” His tone is curiously mild for someone who reminds me of a shark.
“I don’t own an auction house. Or have the facilities. Or the experience. Or even {insert more waffle here}.” In other words, I supply him with at least eleven different ways to say no.
“I think he was trying to involve the gallery in money laundering,” I whisper incredulously to Raif when the conversation turns.
“Really?” His eyes seem all sparkle and dance.
“You!” I’d mutter, slapping his arm with my hand.
“I suppose I don’t need to tell you how freeport warehouses are a tax haven for the wealthy.”
“Are they really?”
I narrow my eyes when he adds, “Maybe you should explain it to me.”
“Something tells me you could probably explain the intricacies.”
He laughs, then steals a brief but entirely spontaneous kiss that makes my insides shimmer. His expression as he pulls away is not quite as buoyant. It’s like he’s engaged his poker face. But for what reason?
“Who is he, anyway?” I ask quickly. I don’t want the moment to end. I like being the center of his attention.
“Turkey Teef Keef,” he answers in an East End accent that would rival Albert’s, the old English bulldog.
“Turkey Teeth Keith.” I shake my head, reproach leaking from my tone. “What kind of friends do you keep?”
“Useful ones,” he answers with a grin.
“Well, he sounds just delightful.”
“If you get the opportunity to shake his hand, do yourself a favor and count your fingers afterward.”
“I’d rather eat my own feet than have any part of him touch any part of me,” I retort. And I get that shimmery feeling in my chest again when he laughs.
The evening goes by in the flash of an eye, and Raif is in excellent form. So charming and convivial and just downright handsome. He shines, and people just seem to gravitate toward him. It’s not hard to understand why.
He’s attentiveness personified as far as his wife is concerned. And when he isn’t directing the conversation my way, I feel the weight of his gaze on me. More than once this evening, I’ve caught him looking at me as though no one else in the room exists to him.
We’ve had a rough couple of weeks, understandably. And while Raif owes me nothing—promised me nothing, nothing real at least—I’ve missed him. But as we close the door to the last of the stragglers, I feel wonderful.
“Your friends have really good manners.”
“How do you mean?”
“Ten o’clock and they’ve all chuffed off home.”
“It’s what happens when you’re getting on in years like me. You like to be in bed with your pipe—”
“Oh, is that what we’re calling it now?”
“I was going to say pipe and slippers, but then realized how stupid that sounded.”
But my mind is still stuck on pipe, and hissmile falters as though he seems to know.
“I wonder how Daisy is tonight,” he says, changing the topic, not so smoothly, as he seems to force his smile back into place.
It’s her first visitation with her dad this month. Apparently, he canceled the last two.
“She has her phone if she needs us.” Call only. Strictly no access to socials. She already seems to worry enough. “What time is she back tomorrow?”
“She has to be back before four, but she usually arrives way before then.”
“Oh.” I have thoughts about this, but they’re not to be aired right now. Not as I wrap my arms around his waist and lean in… for Raif to drop a kiss on my head.
The platonic kind.
Like my name is Daisy.
Or even Albert the bulldog.
“I liked the photo in the silver frame,” I whisper. “It was a nice touch.”
“I sent your mother a copy.”
“I’m sure she loved that.”
“Yes.” His hands behind his back, pull mine gently away. “I’ve got some work to do. You don’t need to wait up.”
I blink, wondering what the heck happened to our vibe, but he’s already disappearing down the long hallway.
How many nights now?I almost call after him as he disappears down the hallway. I bite my tongue instead. I won’t be that woman.
I go to sleep alone. Wake alone. And that pisses me off.
I make a beeline for the kitchen, pulling a random bottle from the temperature-controlled wine room. I’m so angry I end up leaving half the cork in the neck, but I’m beyond caring as I slosh the liquid into an ice cream sundae dish because I can’t. Find. A. Fucking. Glass!
If there’s a downside to being fed by a personal chef, this is it.
I take my wine sundae to the windows and stare out at the darkened garden. The house is silent, and I am lonely. And very, very pissed off as I let my anger keep me warm as I drink my wine, seethe, and plot.
Abandoning my cork-y cabernet in favor of a bottle of champagne, I take it and my ice cream sundae glass upstairs. In his bedroom, because it’s not nor will it ever be our bedroom, I prop both on the dresser, then connect my phone to the sound system. I crank it way up, safe in the knowledge that the house’s soundproofing won’t disturb Daisy.
Or my husband.
I have another plan for that.
I pop the cork, drink the foam from the bottle to prevent a spill, then top up my glass. Taylor Swift is my company of choice as I begin the hunt for the perfect outfit. I pull hanger after hanger from my side of the closet, dumping the mix of color and fabric on the bed. I don’t really need to pull all this stuff out. It’s not like I brought heaps of clothes, but I’m making a point.
I opt for something a girl might wear for partying; a nude tube dress overlaid by black mesh. It has a bustier top that cinches me in tight at the waist and makes the girls stand up and out, demanding attention. A swath of fabric cuts across my hips, accentuating their shape, before dropping like a curtain from one side to mid-thigh. Which is exactly how short it is. There really isn’t much to it, though it fits like I was poured into it.
It”s a dress that demands attention and puts ideas into a man’s head, according to the last man to hit on me.
A sharp, black flick of liner and a vivid slash of red to my lips. Bare legs, slathered with a moisturizer containing a subtle shimmer. Killer heels. A tiny purse. My hair pulled back into a high assassin’s ponytail. It’s not just the dress that demands attention.
Opening the glass doors to the Juliet balcony, I pull them wide before throwing back a little more champagne. A sundae glass is quite a generous pour, but Dutch courage is the order of the evening as I slide my phone from the dresser.
Friday evening, 11:07 p.m., and I’m ordering a cab. I take a seat on the velvet bench at the bottom of the bed, decorously arrange my legs, and curl my fingers around the edge of the seat. All that’s left to do is wait.
I probably should’ve chosen an evening when we hadn’t gone out for dinner or maybe a day that isn’t the start of a weekend because it’s almost midnight, and I’ve fidgeted plenty, when my cab app pings with an arrival notification.
Which I ignore.
Minutes tick by and a car honks.
Voices follow. Spanish words.
The sound of the electric gates gliding open.
More talking, then a shout as Leo calls something across the garden.
Anticipation tumbles through my insides when I glance at the open windows and pull a face. They might be a bit too obvious. A quick tiptoed dash across the room, and I rectify that, my butt thumping down on the bench just in time as footsteps out in the hallway match the tattoo of my heart.
I close my eyes and bob my head, pretending to be lost in the music.
“Lavender?”
Count to three—no, make it five.
I sense the door widening and open them as Raif steps inside. “You’re dressed?”
No flies on you, mate. I bite my tongue against that sarcasm. “There you are.” A flutter of my thick, blackened lashes a little, I paint on a smile. “Sorry, were you going to bed?”
“You’re obviously not,” he says as he takes in my outfit. My bare legs, bare shoulders, my not quite bared breasts. I feel every inch of his perusal.
And it is heavenly.
By the way…
“I’m going out tonight.” More head bobbing. To coin another of Taylor’s lyrics, I fucking shimmer. Also, I polish up. Nice.
The music lowers suddenly. “There’s a cab outside waiting for you. Care to tell—”
“Fab!” I jump up and slide my purse from the bench. Fab? Marriage has turned me into one of those women who say that unironically. “I must’ve missed the app’s notification.” A couple of swaying steps toward him, and I tip up on my toes, sliding my hand around the back of his neck with the intention of bringing his cheek closer to my lips. “Don’t wait up.” My words sound perky, my lips not quite meeting his skin as his fingers slide around my wrist.
“Out where?”
“Just out.”
“I’ll say it again. Where?”
Five words delivered in five beats, his eyes burning like coals.
My insides flip deliciously. I thrust my hands behind me to stop them from going rogue. Touching him up isn’t part of my play.
“I’m going dancing with Tod if you must know.” I give a provocative tilt to my head. “Like my dress? Maybe you can give me your opinion on the faux fur stole I have to go with it,” I say, tugging at the top of the bodice. “The dress is nice, but the stole elevates it to this whole mob wife vibe.”
“Mob wife?”
“Yeah, it’s a thing. Only, it might be too warm to wear it,” I add as though disappointed.
He gives his head a shake, not like he disagrees. More like disbelief. “You won’t need to dress up like a mob wife because if you go out dressed like that, you’ll find yourself married to a criminal. Because I’ll murder Tod and make it look like a fucking accident.”
“That’s funny, but I have a cab waiting.”
“You had a cab waiting.”
“That’s bullshit!” I announce, channeling my teenage self. I try to tug my arm from him. No bueno. My blood heats instantly, my temper with it, even if this, or something like this, was my aim. “Fine. I’ll get an Uber,” I say, twisting away. He lets me go, and my heart bangs like a steel drum as, my back to him, I pull out my phone. “Hey!” I complain as he whips it from my grip, tossing it onto the bed.
“You’re not going anywhere.”
“I’m not your prisoner,” I retort. “You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I can.” I back up two shuffling steps as he crowds me. “Under this roof, my word is law.”
I burst out laughing. “Okay, Dad.”
“You want to play that game, princess? Fine, I’ll put you over my fucking knee.”
Conflicted. So conflicted. The images that flash through my head? Ten out of ten. My body draped over his. His hand sliding. A reprimanding sharp sting. Only… I once overheard Whit and Mimi playing this game. And that’s a lady boner killer right there.
“Not tonight, thanks,” I answer belatedly, flouncing past him. “It’s not like this is a real marriage,” I toss over my shoulder as I reach for the door handle. “And even if it was—”
His palm slams the door shut.
“This marriage is very real,” he grinds out, hauling his arm around my waist. His front pressed to my back feels hot, hard, and way overdue.
He whips my clutch from my hand. From the sound, it lands on the velvet bench. “Today is not a good day to test your luck.”
“My luck? My luck ran out the day I met you.”
It’s his turn to laugh now. Such a bitter, unhappy sound.
Effortlessly, he lifts me from my feet. Half a dozen long steps, and he deposits me on the bed, face down. “Isn’t that the truth?” His answer is a harsh whisper in my ear, and I gasp at the drag of his teeth, everything inside me pulling inward like a vacuum. But then my body cools as his begins to retract.
“We’ll talk about this in the morning.”
Cool body, hot head.
“Get fucked,” I announce, rolling to my back. My legs lie over the side, my torso raised as I rest on my forearms. “I’m going, and there isn’t a thing you can do to stop me. Unless…” My gaze drinks him in. Black pants and shirt. Clothing, hair, eyes, and mood all from the same color palette. “Do you have a better offer to make me?”
“So this is what it’s all about?”
“I don’t want the carrot anymore.” I drop my gaze deliberately. “I want the stick.”
“You’re so transparent.”
Despite this being my plan, discomfort pricks at me. “Yeah? Well, you’re boring.”
His head twitches back—just a little, but I see it.
“Boring!” I say again, louder now.
The mattress bounces as his big hands land next to my head. Not one part of his body touches mine, though his lips are just an inch away.
“You might look like a dream, princess, but you are a nightmare. Hell in a black dress and fuck-me heels.”
“I’ll keep them on if you want.”
“What the fuck am I doing?” He jerks away, then he’s on his feet. Moving away, moving back. Raking a hand through his hair.
“Give in,” I demand, lifting my chin. “Please,” I add, my tone softer as I slide my hand down my body. It takes every ounce of courage I possess to let my legs fall open. To curl my fingers under the hem of my dress. “I know you want me.” My body thrums with a heady mix of anticipation, angst, and want, as I drag the hem higher.
“Stop.” His jaw tightens, and his lips firm, but his eyes? They tell another story.
They covet.
“You want me. You want this,” I hiss as I press my hand between my legs. “Don’t be scared to touch me.”
“I’m not—”
“Liar. Ahh…” I drop my head back and undulate into my hand. “Come and feel how I ache for you.”
“You don’t know what you’re saying, what you’re asking for.”
“I know you think I’m broken, but I’m not.”
“That’s not true.” He swings away, half pivoting back. “I don’t think that.”
“Then give me a reason to stay, Raif.”
“You’re going nowhere,” he growls. “We have a contract.”
“We don’t have shit. But we could.”
“My life was so fucking simple before you.”
“Sorry you got the wrong sister,” I whisper as my eyes flutter closed—not because I’m touching myself, enjoying myself, but because it hurts. It all hurts.
I control the situation. I control the narrative. I say what happens.
I repeat my silent mantra, not really sure I believe it at this point.
“I got the right sister,” he says eventually. “I just don’t deserve her.”
My heart quickens. Maybe I’m hearing things. I know I’m not. It was an inadvertent truth, a piece of himself, of his feelings, that he hadn’t meant to share.
I turn my head and look at him, really look at him. Poor Raif. He looks so wretched.
“You owe me,” I whisper, my eyes never leaving his. “And I want my wedding night.”