Chapter 22
Selena
‘We’re in learning mode tonight,’ Benedict tells me as we weave our way through the vast, plant-filled space. ‘I want notes on everything you learn later.’
Tonight is a reception thrown by the Audacity Foundation, a huge non-profit funded in its entirety by the Sullivan family.
Unlike the de Veres, the Sullivans are new money: eight billion pounds of wealth created through construction in just two generations.
In a shocking move a couple of years ago, they announced that they’d be giving away six of that eight billion in philanthropic endeavours over the next twenty years.
The Audacity Foundation is apparently named for its audacious goals as much as for its equally audacious chief executive.
The steward of the family fortune, Gabriel Sullivan, put his wife in charge of the foundation—the entire thing was her idea, apparently—and named it after what he said was her defining characteristic.
This family owns the stud farm where my mother-in-law breeds her racehorses.
I don’t know much more than that, except for what I’ve come across in the press over the years.
I do know, from endless reading of the society pages, that Gabriel and his wife, Athena, are as gorgeous and glamorous as it gets—and this party looks like it will match that energy.
We’re high up in a glass building in the London Docklands, the cornerstone of the Sullivans’ construction empire.
While the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows is spectacular, looking out on the illuminated night skyline of Canary Wharf across the water, the space itself is hard to look away from.
Enormous potted palms and cheese plants, lit up to perfection, flirt with the reclaimed pillars punctuating the vast room, while the ever-changing lighting sends cascades of greens and pinks and yellows and blues across the well-heeled crowd, summoning feelings of being in a well-attended rainforest. The only wall not dressed in glass is instead a chaotically abundant living wall, its greenery enjoying a constant stream of water that cascades into a lengthy trough below.
The entire effect is organic and chic and strangely restorative, and it’s just one of the things Ben wants us to take note of this evening.
While his—our—jurisdiction in Oxford is a different beast from the Docklands, with largely different issues, there are undeniable pockets of social deprivation and environmental challenges.
What Audacity has achieved in two short years on both fronts is nothing short of staggering, and we’re here to network, to understand how we can repliCait some of its efforts in our home city.
Ben procures us some fresh champagne from a model-grade server and leads me through the throng to where Gabriel and Athena are chatting with a group of people around our age.
Philanthropy looks good on them—everyone is indecently attractive—but my eyes instantly lock onto Athena, whom I’ve only seen in Vogue and Bazaar.
I’m not entirely comfortable admitting this, but I’ve always had a strong attraction—and I mean that in the sense of being magnetically drawn—to beautiful women.
At school, I used to get super excited whenever a new girl was arriving.
I would hope and pray that she’d be pretty, and I’d want her to be my friend.
For a while—early teens, mainly—I thought I might be gay.
That seemed problematic, given my arranged engagement factor, but it turns out I wasn’t.
Not much about my girl crushes was sexual. They were mainly aesthetic.
Now, I know how shallow that sounds. It’s really not the kind of thing I’ll ever admit to in public.
But I still get that same thrill when I see a strikingly beautiful woman, and I still get that same tug of will she want to be my friend?
That’s exactly how I feel, seeing Athena Sullivan for the first time in the flesh.
She’s in a full-length column skirt made entirely from tiny, gold-painted feathers and an intricately crafted black velvet strapless top that showcases the huge gold collar around her neck.
The outfit has to be couture, or near enough.
It’s incredible. A second glance suggests it might be from Gossamer, a stunning London-based demi-couture brand.
The pale skin of her arms and shoulders and décolletage, very much on display tonight, is flawless.
Her auburn hair is swept up into an elaborate chignon and her eyes look enormous, thanks to their expertly applied green-gold makeup.
She may just be the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
Benedict steps up to the circle with zero self-consciousness and bro-hugs the extraordinarily handsome, dark-haired man next to Athena before stepping in to greet her with a double kiss.
‘Hello, Athena,’ he says with a filthy grin.
My entire body goes stiff.
We’ve only been married a month or two, but already I know that tone of voice. I know that indecent smile.
These two have had sex.
The conversation is witty and runs as quickly as the waterfall down that living wall.
There’s little talk of philanthropy and a lot of gossip, teasing, and inside jokes.
The dark-haired goddess, Sophia, teases her hot, slightly older husband relentlessly.
They all do, in fact. Benedict and Brendan—Gabriel’s brother, who runs the family construction business—are undoubtedly the life and soul of the party.
While Sophia is vivacious as hell and Brendan’s wife Marlowe, a stunning blonde in current-season Erdem, seems incredibly sweet, it’s Athena I’m drawn to over and over.
I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone quite so self-assured.
Her brand of froideur is what I aspire to, but for me, it’s all an act, a relentless performance to hold people off. For her, I bet it’s simply who she is.
That’s not to say she isn’t simultaneously warm and delightful and socially adroit—she is all of those things—but she’s just so cool, in every way imaginable.
‘Why don’t you boys bugger off to the bar and surprise us with some cocktails?’ Sophia says with a go on, fuck off wave of her hand. It’s not a suggestion. ‘Feel free to take your time.’
They go, sheepishly and smilingly, Benedict dropping a lingering kiss on my lips before he follows them.
We’re still in PR mode, I suppose, especially when we’re out in public, but it feels real, and he looks insanely gorgeous tonight in a perfectly cut navy suit and crisp white shirt—no tie.
That said, I can’t shake off his clear history with Athena.
It’s bothering me so much that I can barely focus on the conversation.
‘Thank God they’re gone,’ Marlowe says as the other women close ranks around me. ‘I thought we’d never get you alone.’
‘Their levels of emotional intelligence really are confounding sometimes,’ Athena says with a tersely perplexed shake of her head.
‘I don’t think you realise’—Sophia lays a hand on my arm and I take a second to ogle the insane stack of gold, emerald, and diamonds on her finger—‘how much I rabbit-holed over your wedding. Bren and Marls were hosting a lovely New Year’s Eve party for us all, but Ethan could barely drag me away from the TV.
I had BBC News on for hours and hours while I watched every single TikTok I could get my hands on and texted these two relentlessly.
It was the best thing I’ve ever seen in my life.
And then at the party we all just stood around talking about it and watching the replays.
I forced Marlowe to put the news on in the kitchen and made it my entire personality for the night. ’
‘Facts.’ This from Marlowe.
That makes me smile a little. I feel very much on my guard still.
The pressure to keep up appearances, to avoid slipping from the agreed narrative, is real.
But it’s always welcome to see people taking such genuine delight in the whole thing, even if they can never know how genuinely un-delighted I felt for a large part of that day.
They saw a gimmick, a heist, if you like, while I lived a surrealist nightmare in the run-up.
‘So tell us,’ Athena urges, looking more enthralled than I’ve seen her so far. ‘Was it very romantic?’
No, actually, it was traumatic. It was a fucking disaster. I force a smile. ‘You could say that. Also quite dramatic. It all happened so quickly—between Christmas and New Year.’
‘Good Lord.’ Athena raises an elegant eyebrow. ‘That’s a lot. I have to say, your dress was divine. Top marks.’
This coming from the best-dressed woman at the party, sends a warm glow coursing through me. After all, I dress for other women, not for men.
‘Thank you,’ I say.
‘Must have been a hell of a shock to you. But it was clear from that kiss on the altar steps that he wanted you. And I suppose when Benedict wants something, he goes for it.’
They all exchange a knowing look. This is my chance to delve deeper. I reach up to pull on the long, sleek ponytail I’m sporting tonight and clear my throat.
‘So, you and Ben. You’ve… dated?’
‘God, no.’ She looks less horrified than affronted.
‘But you have some history,’ I persist. ‘I could tell by the way he greeted you. I just’—I shrug—‘want to know what I’m up against.’
The truth is, I’m still incredibly aware that, whatever Ben’s reasons were for stepping in and marrying me, they were not because he was in love with me.
Attracted, yes. In love, no. And while things are going well between us, in the bedroom, at least, I’m under no illusions that a man who was once a total fuckboy is now delighted to be stuck in a monogamous relationship.
I just wish I knew how long it would take before he got bored.
His past isn’t up for debate. His reputation precedes him and, God knows, he’s paraded enough women in front of me over the years that I’m under no illusions.
But when I come face to face with said past in the form of a woman as staggeringly beautiful and accomplished as Athena Sullivan, no matter that she’s married, it has every last badly buried insecurity flocking to the surface.
Another knowing look passes between the three of them as I take a desperate mouthful of champagne, psyching myself up for her answer.
‘What you need to know about Athena,’ Sophia cuts in, ‘is that she’s a dirty bitch.’
Her words almost make me spit out my champagne, but Athena looks unperturbed by this slander. ‘Not untrue.’
‘So you’ve been with him,’ I press. I need to know what I’m dealing with here.
Facts I can handle. Well, no—I can’t handle them, but I have a better chance with the facts themselves than with the endless hours I’ll face later of spiralling and creating more and more far-fetched scenarios in my head if I don’t have all the information.
She makes a face as if trying to work out how to proceed.
‘Yes, but it’s not what you think,’ she says finally.
‘It’s a really good story.’ Sophia shimmies her golden shoulders in delight—she has a great tan—while Marlowe presses her lips together in an attempt not to laugh.
‘It was a group situation,’ Athena continues crisply. ‘Me and several guys.’ She sighs. ‘Your husband MCed the whole thing, essentially, and I jerked him off with my hand while another guy fucked me. But I was blindfolded, so technically speaking, I haven’t seen his dick.’
I stare at her. I’m pretty sure the only time I’ve been this lost for words in my life was when Xavier dumped me—and then when Ben proposed, come to think of it. But I’m struggling here, struggling to comprehend the words coming out of this incomparable woman’s lovely mouth.
‘You’ve broken her,’ Sophia says gleefully. ‘Go easy on her, darling. Not everyone is as depraved as you.’
‘As us, you mean,’ Athena says without missing a beat.
‘I definitely don’t understand,’ I manage. It comes out strangled.
‘When I first met Gabe, I was working as his executive assistant,’ she says. ‘But we were… Let’s just say we were fucking.’
I clear my throat and nod, trying to stay cool—on the surface, at least. I’ve always considered myself worldly, but sexually I’m most definitely not worldly, and I’m completely out of my depth here.
‘He knew how much I loved orgies, so he organised one for my birthday. Biggest surprise of my life. He used to be a priest, you see, so I never thought he’d be up for that.’
I blink and nod again. ‘Umm-hmm,’ I say politely. My face is flooding with heat.
‘He called me into a conference room,’ she continues.
‘My safe word was up on the screen, and there were a few guys in there. All hot. Your husband played MC. He called all the shots. They stripped me off and played pass the parcel.’ She pauses and makes meaningful eye contact. ‘I was the parcel,’ she says, deadpan.
I want to run for the hills. I am so excruciatingly uncomfortable.
My brain is pounding in my head; my heart is hammering behind my ribs.
My comfort zone this is not. And to think that Athena, the most implacable of women, likes being, what, gang-banged?
It’s unthinkable. I tell myself in a panic not to judge, but I can’t help being shocked.
I’ve never encountered anything like this before.
‘The parcel,’ I repeat dumbly.
‘They all had a chair, and she sat on a different dick every time the music changed,’ Sophia fills in happily. ‘Lucky bitch.’
My brain is officially broken. I just stare at Athena, who doesn’t seem bothered at all. How does she not care? How can she talk about this so openly?
‘Your husband,’ she says, ‘is a very talented man, let me tell you. He was hot as fuck in that room, controlled the whole thing. He’s very sexy—very masterful.’ She winks. She actually winks. ‘I’m sure you know this, but you’re in good hands.’
I titter politely. Of course I know I’m in good hands, but what’s far more obvious—and far more critical—is that I’m barely scratching the surface with this guy. He’s into this stuff? Orgies and the like? And, meanwhile, I’m mentally high-fiving myself every time I survive doggy style.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.
‘Of course, it was all organised through Alchemy,’ Athena says. ‘He honed his craft there, so to speak. No one can accuse Benedict of not having put in the hours, bless him. And you get to reap the benefits.’
I frown at her. Alchemy. ‘What’s Alchemy?’ I ask her.
They all stare at me in horror.
‘Oh, sweet Jesus,’ Marlowe whispers.