AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Almost as if she can read my thoughts, she shakes her head. “You think someone like me can’t possibly be cultured?”
“I never said that.”
“But you thought it, just like the woman in the dress shop,” she says.
I had noticed the way the saleswoman looked at her. I had let it go the minute the woman noticed my finely cut suit and made presumptions about my wealth. That’s just the way life was for me—never denied access to anything because I was wealthy. Never mind that it wasn’t because of my own accomplishments. It wasn’t even because of my father’s accomplishments. The money came from my mother’s family.
I open my mouth to protest, but she’s not wrong. I’m rewarded with a satisfied smirk.
“Besides, I prefer A Moveable Feast,” she says, playing with a loose piece of string at the bottom of her sweater, and I’m a pig – an insatiable pig who’s only thought is unraveling her sweater to expose what I already know is beneath it – and because I know, I want it all the more.
I’m well aware that I’ve only known her for a day, but I can’t stop thinking about her. My heavy stare makes her cheeks turn a darker shade of pink. I rented the Paris Hotel’s Eiffel Tower observatory after our wedding. I could say it was to make her happy, but selfishly, it was so I could lift the full skirt of her wedding dress to reveal the one thing that always brings me to my knees.
“So, you do love Paris.” I set the glass of whiskey down and cross my arms over my chest in satisfaction.
“I never said I didn’t like the city, just that I didn’t want to see it.” She stops playing with the string and rests her hands on either side of the arm rest.
“Ah, the Paris syndrome,” I say, reminded of our conversation in the ‘fake’ Eiffel tower. She had explained that it’s when something doesn’t live up to your expectations.
Her eyes track the glass of whiskey in my hand as I take another healthy drink. She doesn’t have to say anything, because I can feel her disdain. She should be glad I’m drinking, because if I weren’t, I don’t think I’d be as charming or as accommodating.
I already know I’m not a good person, that I drink too much, and I have yet to discover a redeeming quality about myself, but I still don’t like how she looks at me.
“Would you like a drink?” I ask, ready to signal to the stewardess, but she shakes her head.
“I don’t drink much,” she admits.
“You’re missing out,” I say, turning the glass around in my hand, the beveled crystal capturing the dim light of the cab.
She scoffs, props her chin up with the palm of her hand, and looks out the window where there’s nothing but the twinkling lights of a city below.
“I know what you must think of me,” I say, setting the glass down.
I roll up the sleeve of my dress shirt while propping my ankle over the opposite thigh. I didn’t bother changing, except to discard my suit jacket, opting to wait until I got home.
Home.
The thought of it makes my chest tight. Not because I’m sure I’ll have to face Rausch – at least maybe not today or tomorrow, but at some point soon – but because I will have to face the quiet of the hallways and picture frames holding memories.
“I don’t think anything of you,” she says, clear defiance in her tone, and without looking away from the window.
“Of course you do.”
She turns, her critical blue eyes assessing me. I’m not sure what she sees, but I feel compelled to know, I am desperate to know exactly what she thinks, because she is unreadable and I don’t like it.
“Let’s not pretend that you care what I think.”
I let out a breath, raising the glass of whiskey to my lips yet again. “I think you’d feel better if you just said it.”
Our marriage might have been built on the foundation of revenge and spite, but at least it won’t be built on lies.
“Do you want me to say that it’s okay to act like a degenerate because your parents died?”
When I set the glass down rather roughly, she looks as though she wants to retract those words. The figurative band around my chest tightens a little bit more. I wanted to know, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. “You don’t know me,” I say tightly.
“That’s right, I don’t, so tell me what you so desperately want to hear.” She leans forward as if she’s waiting for me to speak.
I stand up from my seat and pace the cabin. “Fuck, Evan,” I instinctively shorten her name like I do with Alistair’s sometimes when I’m angry or frustrated. I notice her blanch as if the nickname is a gentle shake into a place she doesn’t want to go.
