11. Simone #2
He’s standing in the doorway of the gym, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed, watching me work out.
He's changed from the robe he was wearing this morning into tailored suit pants that hug his muscled hips and thighs perfectly, and a button-down that was likely accentuated with a tie and jacket earlier, but is now all that clings to his upper body.
His sleeves are rolled up, exposing muscular forearms, and his copper hair has fallen slightly forward, making the green of his eyes even more evident.
I set the weights down, my jaw tightening. I refuse to turn around and fully acknowledge his presence.
"Long enough." His gaze travels over my body in the mirror, taking in the sports bra and leggings I'm wearing, the sheen of sweat on my skin. I regret taking off my tank top earlier—there’s too much flesh on display for him now. "You're stronger than you look."
“I’m working on it.” I pick up the weights again. “You’re interrupting me.”
He chuckles, not moving an inch. “Am I? I’m just curious about your choice of workouts. I would have pegged you for a runner.”
“There’s nowhere for me to run.” I give him a sweet smile. “I thought getting stronger would be a better idea.”
“So you can kill me in my sleep?” He smirks, and I grit my teeth, hating how quickly he’s picked up on my inner thoughts.
"Maybe." I finish my set and stand, grabbing my water bottle as I finally turn to look at him. I’m all the way on the other side of the room, but I swear I can feel the heat of his body from here. His physical presence fills the space without him even fully stepping inside. "A girl can dream."
“Mm.” His smile spreads. “I like to hear that you’re dreaming about me, célie . That bodes well for our marriage.”
I set my water bottle down with a hard thunk , crossing my arms over my chest. “You like women who dream about your demise?”
Tristan shrugs. “Depends on how I go out.”
“Horribly,” I tell him flatly. “The kind of death that involves a closed casket.”
His eyebrow rises, that smirk still on his lips, as if the comment doesn’t faze him in the slightest. "I had no idea my wife was so bloodthirsty. It's actually kind of arousing."
“You’re sickening,” I inform him, and he gives a one-shouldered shrug, pushing off of the doorframe to walk closer to me.
I take a step back before I can stop myself, wanting to keep distance between us.
I hate him seeing me back down, but I don’t want him in my space.
I don’t want him taking advantage again.
“I like that you’re not afraid of me.” Tristan’s mouth twitches as he stops, surprisingly not coming into my personal space any further. “You look like you’re about to huck that water bottle at my head, and damn the consequences.”
I’m not afraid of him, I realize. I am afraid of some things—of what Konstantin might do if this marriage doesn’t work out, of how my body responds to my new husband, of my ability to keep my promise to myself not to enjoy his touch.
But I’m not afraid of Tristan himself, although my new husband is certainly deadly enough to warrant it.
I glare at him. “Maybe I am going to throw it.”
“Do it.” He looks unconcerned. “Go ahead.”
The challenge catches me off guard. "What?"
“Throw it at me and see what happens.” His expression is daring, and I glare at him because we both know I’m not going to. I have no idea what the consequences would be, but I’m not in the mood to find out right now, and he knows it as well as I do.
“Fuck off,” I snap, and Tristan’s smile turns satisfied, as if he knew this was how it was going to go the whole time. It makes me want to actually throw the stainless steel bottle at him even more. “Don’t you have better things to do than interrupt my workout?”
“At the moment?” He checks his watch. “No. Soon? Yes. I have a business meeting with Konstantin and my father that I’ll need to leave for shortly.”
So that’s why he’s not engaging. Not because he’d lost interest in tormenting me or doesn’t want me now that he’s gotten both my virginity and my climax, but because he doesn’t have the time. The realization makes my stomach drop.
He might still be easily bored. If he does still want more from me, he might not for long. But it’s the not knowing how long that will be that makes it all so much harder to deal with.
Tristan looks at me for a long moment. “By the way,” he says finally.
“I don’t care about you not joining me for breakfast. I’ll be gone for lunch most days.
But I do expect you to join me in the formal living room for dinner, appropriately dressed.
I’ve instructed Nora to serve dinner at seven-thirty sharp each evening. ”
I know he sees the way my jaw tightens, resentment and anger running through every fiber of my body. I can see the victorious glint in his eyes, knowing he’s gotten a rise out of me again.
I don’t know how to deal with this man. I can’t find it in myself to be indifferent to his behavior—to the way he acts as if he owns me, to the infuriating fact that he does own everything that’s familiar to me now.
The idea of him instructing Nora on dinnertimes and anything else to do with the house makes my head want to explode, but the fact is that he can do so, and is within his right to.
He’s the master of this house now, just as my father was when he was alive. But my father earned all of this, and Tristan stole it.
Stole me .
“Fine.” I manage a pleasant smile, but I know Tristan isn’t fooled. “I’ll be there.”
“See that you are.” He looks at me once more, his gaze flicking over my body, and then he turns on his heel and strides out, leaving me nearly trembling with frustrated rage.
That evening, as I stand in front of my closet deciding what to wear for dinner, I consider purposely flouting his instructions and wearing jeans and a T-shirt, just to piss him off.
But I have my own intentions for dinner tonight, and making Tristan angry won’t help anything.
For once, I decide to go along with his wishes and dress formally for dinner.
Nothing about my look is seductive, though.
I opt for what could be called ‘ice queen chic’: a fitted black dress that reaches my knees with an asymmetrical ruffle and thin straps at my shoulders.
I pull my hair back in a slick, tight bun, and only do the most minimal makeup—a hair-thin cat-eye, nude lipstick.
Tristan is already at the table when I walk into the dining room, five minutes before the appointed time.
The table is set for two—which looks ridiculous in the huge dining room.
The table can easily seat thirty without the leaves added, and a crystal chandelier above it illuminates the cream and gold wallpaper and antique decorations on the walls.
It’s meant to look palatial, and it’s also meant for dinner parties.
Even my father had dinners with me in the smaller, informal dining room when there wasn’t a party or business meal happening.
I know what Tristan is doing. I can see it in the look in his eyes when he sits up and acknowledges my presence as I walk in, the set of his shoulders and jaw. This is posturing, him establishing his position here, and it irritates me to no end.
I don’t mind letting him know it, either.
“You know,” I tell him smoothly as I sit down at his right, not bothering to wait for him to stand and pull out my chair.
“I’m well aware that you own this estate and mansion and everything outside of and within it now, Tristan.
We don’t have to eat at one end of a long table like a ridiculous caricature of a king and queen for me to be convinced. ”
“Maybe I like it in here. It’s spacious.” He reaches for the decanter of wine that’s sitting between us, pouring me a glass without my asking. It’s red, which is my preference, but right now I wish I preferred white just so I could tell him that.
It’s never been in my nature to be purposefully contrary; that would never have worked with my father.
But I can’t help it with him. It’s infuriating to see him sitting where my father would have sat at a dinner party, looking completely at home in surroundings that took my family generations to acquire.
“Well, you can do what you want.” I reach for the wine glass, taking a decisive sip. “Even if it’s ridiculous.”
“I can.” He reaches for his own wine, surveying me as if he’s sizing up an opponent. “I can do exactly as I please now, Simone. This is my house. My staff. You are my wife.”
Mine . The sound of his voice reverberates down to my bones. He makes me feel owned, and I can’t help but chafe against it, because I don’t want to be owned by anyone.
We both go silent for a moment as the first course is brought in—a pumpkin soup that I don’t have any taste for.
There’s no such thing as soup season in Florida, and it’s still hot enough that I’m put off by the thought of eating anything that isn’t cold.
I push the bowl aside, focusing on the Caesar salad that’s brought in with it.
I wait for Tristan to take a bite and for the staff to leave again before I speak, taking a deep breath. “We need to talk about something,” I tell him firmly, reaching for my wine glass.
His gaze lifts to meet mine. “I can’t wait to find out what,” he deadpans, and I glare at him.
“It’s about our arrangement.”
Tristan snickers under his breath. “You mean our marriage?”
"Our arrangement," I repeat firmly, and I see the corners of his mouth twitch. His amusement with me, as if I’m a constantly misbehaving but adorable pet, makes me want to slap him. “I downloaded an app to track my cycle, and I’ve looked into how to tell what days of the month I’m most fertile.
How to take my temperature, etcetera. Since our marriage is consummated and the only other purpose for…
intercourse is to provide an heir, there’s no need for you to visit my room outside of those specific days. ”