8. Elizabeth
— ? —
Elizabeth
I come down to breakfast the next morning prepared for war.
I’ve barely slept, tossing and turning in sheets that felt too cold, too empty, replaying every second of the night before. The kiss. The way his body felt on top of mine. The cold finality of his rejection.
This never happened.
Fine. If he wants to pretend nothing changed, I can play that game too.
Jarec is already at the table when I arrive, his coffee untouched, shadows under his eyes that suggest he slept as poorly as I did. He looks up when I enter, and something complicated crosses his face.
“About last night-”
“It never happened,” I say, cutting him off with his own words. My voice is steady, cold as the ice I’m channeling. “Isn’t that what you said?”
He stares at me for a long moment. I watch him register the chill in my tone, the careful blankness of my expression, the wall I’ve built between us overnight.
“Elizabeth-”
“I believe that’s the official position.” I sit down and reach for the coffee, pouring with hands that absolutely do not shake. “So there’s nothing to discuss. Is there.”
It’s not a question.
Something flickers across his face that might be regret, might be relief, might be something else entirely. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again.
“No,” he says finally, quietly. “I suppose there isn’t.”
We finish breakfast in silence. He leaves for the office without another word, and I sit alone at the table, my untouched coffee growing cold, my heart pounding with a fury I refuse to acknowledge.
***
The Coastal Society’s Autumn Benefit is tonight.
My second society event since I became Elizabeth Fairweather, and this time I have no intention of fading into the background.
I spend the afternoon preparing. A long bath, oils that make my skin gleam, hair dried and styled until it falls in soft waves around my shoulders. Makeup darker than I usually wear - smoky eyes, red lips, the face of a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
And then the dress.
Emerald silk. The one I spotted at the back of the closet last time, still hanging there like a dare. Low back, low front, a slit that shows my leg to mid-thigh. It’s nothing like the careful, tasteful options that surround it.
It’s a statement.
If he won’t look at me, I’ll make sure someone else does.
I study myself in the mirror, turning to see every angle. The woman who stares back is almost unrecognizable - bold, dangerous, the kind of woman who takes what she wants instead of waiting for it to be offered.
I like her.
I think it’s time everyone else met her too.
***
The yacht club glitters with wealth and whispers, and I walk into the middle of it like I own the place.
Heads turn.
I feel the weight of every stare, hear the sharp intake of breath as people register the emerald dress, the exposed back, the slit that shows my leg with every step. This is not the forgettable wife they saw at the first gala. This is not someone who fades into the background.
This is someone who demands to be seen.
Jarec appears beside me a moment later, his hand reaching for my elbow - but he stops short of touching me, fingers hovering in the air like he’s afraid of what might happen if he makes contact.
“What the hell are you wearing?” His voice is low, strained.
“A dress.” I turn to face him, letting the movement show off the slit, the plunge of the neckline, the skin I’ve left exposed. “Don’t you like it?”
His eyes sweep down my body before he can stop himself. I watch him take in the way the silk clings to my curves, the glimpse of thigh, the shadow of cleavage. His jaw tightens.
“That wasn’t in the options I had sent.”
“I found it in my closet. Same as last time.” I smile, sweet and sharp. “Unless you’d like me to go home and change?”
We both know he can’t ask that. Not here, surrounded by exactly the kind of people who would notice, who would talk, who would speculate about why the Fairweather bride was sent home to put on more clothes.
“You know exactly what you’re doing,” he says quietly.
“Yes.” I hold his gaze. “I do.”
Something dangerous flickers in his expression. Then Victoria appears at his elbow, and the moment shatters.
“Darling!” Her voice carries across the crowd. “You look positively tense. Is everything alright?”
She’s in silver again, elegant and understated, everything I’m not. Her hand lands on Jarec’s arm with the ease of long practice, and she steers him away from me without a second glance.
I watch them go.
Then I turn toward the bar, and I go hunting.
***
“Mrs. Fairweather, I presume?”
I turn to find a man at my elbow. Tall, classically handsome, with dark hair silvering at the temples and a smile that promises trouble. I recognize him from the first gala - Ignatius Windmere, old money and older charm, known for collecting beautiful things.
“Mr. Windmere.”
“Ignatius, please.” His eyes sweep over me with open appreciation, lingering on the emerald silk, the exposed skin, the deliberate display I’ve made of myself. “And might I say, you are absolutely stunning tonight. That dress is a crime against every other woman in this room.”
I feel the weight of other eyes on me - Jarec’s, from across the room, burning into my back like a brand.
“You’re very kind.”
“I’m very honest.” He offers his hand. “I don’t suppose you’d honor me with a dance?”
I glance over my shoulder. Jarec is watching. Victoria is talking, gesturing, demanding his attention, but his eyes are fixed on me. On Ignatius. On the hand being offered.
“I’d love to,” I say, and let Ignatius lead me to the floor.
***
Ignatius dances like a man who’s had lessons, confident and sure, one hand warm on my lower back where the dress leaves my skin bare. He holds me closer than strictly proper, murmuring compliments in my ear, and I lean into him with a smile I don’t entirely have to fake.
“Your husband is going to kill me,” he says, amusement coloring his voice.
“My husband barely knows I exist.”
“Oh, I very much doubt that.” Ignatius spins me, then pulls me back, closer than before. “He’s been staring at us since we stepped onto the floor. If looks could kill, I’d already be dead.”
I don’t turn to look. Don’t give Jarec the satisfaction of knowing I care.
“He can stare all he wants.”
“Dangerous words.” Ignatius dips me slightly, his hand sliding a fraction lower on my back. “Though I suspect you know exactly how dangerous. That dress isn’t an accident.”
“No,” I admit. “It isn’t.”
“Good.” His smile sharpens with appreciation. “I do love a woman who plays to win.”
The music swells, and we dance. I laugh at his jokes, let him hold me close, lean into his warmth like he’s the only man in the room. And the whole time, I feel Jarec’s eyes on me like a physical touch, burning and possessive and utterly furious.
Good.
Let him see what it feels like to watch someone else touch what’s his.
***
The dance ends. Ignatius bows over my hand, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that lingers a moment too long.
“Thank you for the dance, Mrs. Fairweather. If your husband ever fails to appreciate what he has, do let me know.”
“I will,” I promise, and I’m surprised to find I almost mean it.
I excuse myself, heading for the powder room. I need a moment to catch my breath, to steady myself, to process the reckless thing I’ve just done.
I don’t make it.
A hand closes around my arm, grip firm, and suddenly I’m being pulled off the main floor, through a door I hadn’t noticed, into a dark hallway that smells like old wood and expensive cigars.
My back hits the wall. A body cages me in, hands braced on either side of my head, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off him, can smell whiskey and cedar and barely contained rage.
“What the fuck was that?”
Jarec’s voice is low, dangerous, nothing like the controlled cool I’ve come to expect. His eyes are dark, almost black in the dim light, and there’s a muscle jumping in his jaw.
“A dance.” I keep my voice light, even as my heart pounds. “People do that at galas. It’s rather the point.”
“You let him put his hands on you.”
“He asked. I accepted. I believe that’s how dancing works.”
“He touched your back.” His voice drops lower, rougher. “His hand was on your bare skin. I could see it from across the room.”
“At least he looks at me.” The words come out sharper than I intended, carrying weeks of hurt. “At least he talks to me. At least he acts like I exist instead of treating me like furniture he’s obligated to keep.”
“I don’t-”
“You look through me, Jarec. Every single day. You flinch when I touch you. You run to Victoria the moment she crooks her finger. You kissed me last night like you were dying for it and then told me to forget it ever happened.” I’m breathing hard now, the words tumbling out.
“So yes. I danced with another man. I let him put his hands on me. Because at least someone in this godforsaken place acts like I’m worth touching. ”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Jarec stares at me, something cracking behind his eyes. Then he moves.
He presses me harder against the wall, his body flush against mine, and I feel every hard inch of him. His hands find my hips, pulling me against him, and he grinds into me once, deliberate and filthy.
“Is this what you wanted?” His mouth finds my ear, breath hot against my skin. “You wanted me to notice? To see some other man’s hands on what belongs to me?”
“I don’t belong to you.”
“Don’t you?” His teeth graze my earlobe, and I shudder despite myself.
“You’re my wife. You wear my ring. You live in my house.
” His hips roll against mine again, and I feel how hard he is, feel the thick length of him pressing against my belly.
“And right now, you’re dripping for me. I can smell how wet you are. ”
The words hit me like lightning, crude and devastating. I should be offended. Should push him away, slap him, do something to assert my dignity.
Instead, I whimper.
“Just from one dance,” he murmurs, voice dark as sin. “One dance you used to punish me, and you’re already soaking through your pretty panties. Aren’t you?”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” His lips brush my jaw, my cheekbone, the corner of my mouth. “You hate that you want me. There’s a difference.”
He pulls back slightly, and I see his face in the dim light - flushed, hungry, barely controlled. For one wild moment I think he’s going to kiss me properly, going to finish what he started last night, going to take what we both want.
Then he steps away.
He adjusts himself with practiced ease, like nothing happened, like he didn’t just pin me to a wall and whisper filthy things in my ear. His expression smooths back into cool marble.
“The dance was a mistake,” he says quietly. “Don’t do it again.”
He walks back toward the ballroom. Toward Victoria, who’s waiting with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
I stay against the wall, legs shaking, heart racing, furious and aroused and more confused than ever.
What the hell is this?
What kind of man rejects you and claims you in the same breath? What kind of marriage is this, where he won’t touch me but can’t stand to see anyone else try?
I don’t have answers.
I only have questions.
And the unbearable, shameful knowledge that he was right - I’m soaking through my panties, aching for a man who won’t let himself have me.