After that brief moment of being stunned, displeasure crept in—Natalie had violated my rules. Bought this kind of seductive clothing.
I gripped the jewelry box tighter and moved silently around the foot of the bed to her side. I bent down and grabbed her ankle.
Natalie jolted violently, like she'd been electrocuted.
"Ah—" She whipped around, her blue eyes full of shock and panic.
"Richard?" She tried to pull her foot back, but my fingers tightened. She couldn't move. Her ankle was so slender I could circle it with one hand. "Why are you back early?"
"Joseph said you were sick." My fingers traced her ankle. Her skin was cool. Temperature normal.
My gaze swept across her face. Flushed cheeks, bright eyes—no sign of illness.
"Cold's gone?"
"Already better," she tugged again. "Did your work go well?"
Her tone was stiff. Obviously deflecting. I knew her too well. I released her ankle and placed the navy velvet jewelry box on the sheet beside her hand.
"For you."
She looked at the box but didn't touch it. Her face showed none of the delight I'd anticipated. Instead, she gave me a pointed look. The reaction fed my growing irritation.
"I believe I've said," my voice dropped lower, "these loud colors—these immodest clothes—they don't suit your position. They should be thrown out."
She was silent for two seconds, then turned her face away. "I like it. So I bought it."
My jaw tensed. My eyes darkened. Natalie had never contradicted me this directly before.
Anger flared. But before the anger, something more primal surged. The red dress made her skin look blindingly white. Her lazy posture gave me an unobstructed view of her curves. Though I'd seen her naked countless times, I had to admit—this Natalie was more tempting than ever.
This was completely different from the usual "Mrs. Winston" who sat quietly at the breakfast table in cream turtleneck cashmere. But that was my wife. That was the Natalie I knew—the one I could control.
"Go change." My tone left no room for argument. "Now."
She looked at me for several seconds.
Those seconds felt like centuries.
Then, slowly, she climbed off the bed. The red silk slipped from her shoulder with a soft rustle. She stepped barefoot onto the carpet—toes first, then the whole sole—grabbed the cream robe draped nearby, and walked toward the bathroom. Didn't glance at the jewelry box once.
The bathroom door closed. Light flickered on behind the frosted glass. Only a blurred shadow moving.
I stood there, staring at that door with burning eyes.
Her scent still lingered in the air. The sheets held the impression where she'd lain. A few blonde strands on the pillow. That red silhouette still blazed in my mind.
Minutes later, the door opened. Natalie emerged.
The cream robe covered her to the neck, tied neatly at the waist, the two ends hanging at identical lengths. Eyes downcast,she passed by me, lifted the corner of the covers, slid in, and turned her back to me.
I stared at the exposed nape of her neck. She probably wanted to fake sleep, but her acting was terrible. So I asked. "Why didn't you tell me you were sick?"
Natalie's head stayed still. "Didn't think it was necessary."
"Whether it's necessary is my call."
I braced my arm beside her. The mattress dipped.
