Delilah
Present Day
“A proper wife should be as obedient as a slave.” —ARISTOTLE
Raindrops splat loudly on the car roof, much heavier than normal for this time of year.
The city lights blur as I look out the window, but I don’t let it dampen my spirit.
Gabriel travels to the capital on business often, but it’s rare I get to tag along.
There’s so much to look at—bright signs, people hustling down the sidewalks to get out of the rain, skyscrapers on every block.
After the celebration we hosted at our house, the High Lords decided Gabriel deserved a more official party—a masquerade, to be precise—in the Northwest’s capital.
Many of the higher ranking officials will be in attendance, and Gabriel’s bouncing leg is the only indication that he’s nervous at all for tonight.
I reach over and place my hand on his thigh, the material of his tuxedo trousers warm beneath my palm. “You’re gonna do great.”
He grabs my wrist tightly and tugs me toward him, the silky material of my black evening gown sliding across the bench seat. He buries his face in my neck, breathing me in. I decide to use the opportunity to help him relax, and I reach for his crotch, rubbing him through his pants.
“Delilah.”
I smile. “Yes?”
“If I wanted a whore, I would have one.” His tone is so sharp I can practically feel the sting on my skin. He digs his carton of cigarettes out of his pocket and lights one, cracking the window so he doesn’t fill the cabin with smoke.
My face flushes and I pull away, sliding back over on the bench to look out the window. It’s rare he doesn’t want me to pleasure him, so he must be feeling more anxious than I thought.
He sighs, like the distance I put between us annoys him. “Delilah.”
I ignore him, even though I know it will cost me.
“Delilah,” he repeats, more harshly this time.
A single tear slides down my cheek, which I quickly dab away to keep my makeup intact. Still, I don’t respond.
His sudden grip on my elbow is bruising, and he yanks me back over to him so hard I muffle a cry. “Look at me when I speak to you!” he warns.
I do as he says, noting the slightly crazed look in his eyes. “I’m sorry, sir.”
He releases his grip with a sneer, taking another drag of his cigarette. “God, you’re so manipulative. Always saying what you think I want to hear.”
I rub the spot he was holding absentmindedly. “I just want to make you happy.”
He scoffs. “You want to make me happy? Then do what you’re fucking supposed to do, and give me a child.”
My mouth opens and closes, too shocked to find an appropriate response. I knew he resented me for not being able to bear him children, but he’s never said it out loud before. “I’m doing everything I can.”
“Well, it’s not enough.” He looks away from me, fists clenched.
It’s not enough. I’m not enough. “If you want a child that badly, maybe you should start considering alternatives.” It’s the most I’ve ever talked back to him, but I’m tired of feeling like more of a failure than I already do.
We’re not the first couple to experience infertility, after all.
Some use surrogates, some adopt. There are options.
“Maybe I will.” He may as well have slapped me. It’s not like I don’t know about the other women he has at his beck and call, but that’s just sex. Having a child with someone else is another matter entirely.
I bite my lip, refusing to let any more tears escape.
“We’re here, sir.” The driver breaks the tension in the backseat, hopping out with an umbrella to escort us into the building.
I paste a smile on my face and put my mask—sparkly and black to match my dress—on, prepared to keep up appearances for the evening.
Gabriel loops his arm around my waist, apparently resigned to do the same.
We hand our coats to the attendant and enter the massive hotel ballroom, and the sheer number of people in attendance is staggering.
The dim lighting, loud music, and hundreds of bodies makes the atmosphere feel warm, almost humid, and I’m grateful for the lightweight material of my dress.
Even without masks, I wouldn’t recognize most of the people here, and my steps falter as I notice the women serving drinks are barely clothed.
One of the waitresses walks by while making lustful eyes at Gabriel, and his eyes track her movements unabashedly.
It’s one thing to know my husband enjoys the company of other women.
Witnessing it, however, is always unpleasant.
The waitress approaches him as if I don’t even exist, handing him a short glass with amber liquid.
She smiles seductively and then saunters off, swaying her hips.
Gabriel downs the drink in one gulp before pulling me toward the front of the room with him.
I fist a handful of my dress and hold it up so I don’t trip as I hurry after him, cursing these heels.
He finds the table with our name cards, and I notice the new title of High Lord on his.
“Sit,” he orders me, pointing at the place setting with my name card.
I obey, and he stalks off, either to find another drink or other High Lords to socialize with, leaving me alone at the table.
There are other wives seated at their tables, none of whom I recognize, though it’s hard to tell with their masks.
I offer one of them a small smile when our eyes connect, and she returns it with a shrug.
We may not officially be called The Sisterhood, but I like to think there’s a general sense of camaraderie among the wives, for the most part.
Aside from certain sisters who are simply unbearable to be around—like Sister Robert—I am grateful for the few friends I’ve made over the years.
Without them, I fear I’d be rather isolated.
Gabriel comes and sits next to me, his eyes already turning glassy, and the evening commences when a middle-aged man I don’t recognize gets on the stage and speaks into the microphone.
“Welcome, brothers! Tonight, we celebrate High Lord Gabriel, the youngest brother to achieve such an esteemed title.” The crowd applauds and cheers, until the speaker holds up his hand to silence them.
“Thanks to Brother Gabriel, the Brotherhood has expanded its reach and influence, with the hope that one day, others will see the truth in our ways and adopt our practices for themselves.” More cheering, while some men lean over from their tables and pat my husband on the back, shaking his shoulders.
“Without further ado, the man of the hour, Gabriel Sinclair!”
A bright white spotlight finds our table, shining on Gabriel as he makes his way up to the stage to the soundtrack of thunderous applause.
When he gets to the microphone, he shakes hands with the lord who introduced him before looking out at the crowd.
“Thank you, brothers. I’m honored to be here tonight, and to be a part of such a momentous time for our organization. ”
Gabriel goes on and on, speaking about the bright future, other exciting developments in the works, thanking the lords he looks up to; no wonder he was nervous earlier, I had no idea he would be even speaking tonight, but it’s obvious he rehearsed.
I knew he was getting a promotion, but I didn’t realize quite how big of a deal it is for him.
He never talks to me about his work, and wives aren’t really afforded the knowledge of the inner workings of the Brotherhood.
He concludes his speech with, “All right, enough talk. Let’s show these other territories how the Northwest throws a party!”
More clapping and hollering erupts to an almost-deafening level as Gabriel jogs down the stairs and back over to our table. He leans down to grab his scotch—which somehow got refilled while he was giving his speech without my noticing—and whispers in my ear, “Behave yourself, Delilah.”
I look up at him and smile to hide my annoyance. As if I would need a reminder. “Of course, sir.”
He leaves me at the table once again, joining a group of men as the music starts playing, the beat thumping so loud my heart seems to sync to its rhythm. Several men and women move to the dance floor, grinding on each other provocatively.
I don’t really want to spend the whole night sitting alone, so I wander over to the refreshments table and grab a glass of champagne.
Wives aren’t normally permitted to drink on account of always trying to get pregnant, but no one seems to notice, least of all Gabriel.
He’s got a beautiful, half-naked woman hanging all over him, his arm wrapped around her tiny waist casually.
Jealousy burns through me, hot and angry. I’m his wife, why am I not there next to him? Why am I not the object of his affections? Why do the lords even bother bringing their wives along to these events if they’re just going to pretend like we don’t exist?
I down the rest of my glass, then another, and a third for good measure.
If Gabriel found out, he’d be furious, but the effects of the alcohol are already affecting my judgement, and I can’t find the space to care.
I watch the couples on the dance floor, studying the women—none of them wives—and how they move.
Lips turned up in a sultry smile, body fluid and sensual, looking like they’re actually enjoying themselves.
At the Institute, we weren’t taught how to be sexy, or even about our own pleasure, and I can’t help but feel like maybe I’m missing out.
But even having thoughts like these go against everything I’ve been taught, and I immediately feel guilty.
I’ve been given a beautiful life. I’m safe and provided for.
I shouldn’t be complaining about anything, even if it’s just in my head.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I startle, some of my champagne sloshing over the edge of my glass as I look over at the owner of the voice.
My eyes find a broad chest instead of a face, and I have to crane my neck to find the man’s eyes several inches above my own.
He’s dressed similarly to the other lords, and his simple black mask covers most of his face, leaving only his eyes and jawline exposed.
The prettiest hazel eyes stare down at me, shades of green and brown swirl in his irises in a way that’s almost hypnotizing.
His hair is longer than most men tend to keep it, slightly wavy on top and light brown, and his mouth pulls back in a smile, exposing his perfect teeth.
I realize I’ve been ogling him and immediately drop my eyes, cheeks aflame. “Yes, sir?”
I can hear the amusement in his voice, warm and kind, so unlike how most men speak to me. “I was wondering if you’d like to dance?”
My eyes widen as I look back up at him in shock, noticing his easy-going grin and relaxed posture.
No other man has ever asked me to dance before, besides Gabriel.
I search for my husband in the crowded room, finding him in the same spot as before, only now, the woman is perched on his lap as he palms her ass possessively.
My jealousy is reignited at the sight, but I’m still not angry enough to risk being caught in the arms of another man.
I turn back toward the stranger. “I’m afraid my husband would be displeased with me, sir. ”
“Your husband… you mean the man with his hands all over another woman’s body?” The handsome stranger speaks about Gabriel with a sneer.
I rear back in shock, suddenly defensive. “My husband is the reason we’re celebrating.”
The stranger clenches his jaw. “Believe me, miss, I’m well aware of your husband’s accomplishments.”
My brow furrows at his tone. I don’t know who he is, but there’s clearly something different about him, something that makes my brain scream danger. I hike up my dress and set down my glass. “If you’ll excuse me.”
I turn to leave, but the stranger grabs my hand, his touch surprisingly gentle. “You didn’t answer my question.”
I’m mesmerized by the feeling of his thumb brushing softly over the back of my hand.
My eyes dart back and forth between his, searching, before I look over my shoulder again, this time to find Gabriel’s eyes on me, burning bright with anger.
I yank my hand out of the stranger’s grasp with haste and stutter an excuse. “I-I’m sorry. I can’t.”
I push my way through the hoard of guests, the alcohol in my veins making my movements sluggish and clumsy.
I look over my shoulder again to find Gabriel stalking after me, his face dark with rage.
He catches up to me in the corner of the room, grabbing my elbow hard enough to leave a bruise and pushing me against the wall with his body.
His breath is hot on my face, and I wonder how many drinks he’s had tonight. “What the fuck were you doing?”
“I was just grabbing a glass of champagne—”
“Who were you speaking to?” Gabriel towers over me, forcing me to shrink further into the wall.
I go to turn my head to look for the stranger again, but Gabriel grabs my cheeks with his hand. “I don’t know,” I answer, my words slurred from the position they’re forced into.
“Why was he touching you?” Spit from his mouth lands on my cheek, but I can’t recoil.
“I—”
He doesn’t let me respond, only slams my head into the wall, hard enough that black spots pepper my vision for a moment.
“No one touches what’s mine.”
The alcohol must be making me overly emotional because tears slide down my cheeks and my chin wobbles. “I’m sorry!”
Gabriel releases me and stomps off, not even sparing me a backwards glance. I wrap my arms around my shaking form and stumble out of the room, utterly humiliated.