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“This landscaping is gorgeous,” says Harper as we exit the car. “The sheer number of plants! The home is lovely, too, but it can’t compare to the beauty of our villa.” She draws up short. “Your villa, I mean. Nothing of the Satyros empire belongs to me, of course.”
“Of course it’s your home,” I say quietly. I don’t add anything about the future. That will remain up to her.
“For now.” She smiles and looks away.
Warm lights lend a welcoming glow to the house as we walk up the stairs to the entrance. Harper stiffens when I take her hand. She tries to tug it away, but I tighten my grip just enough to let her know I want to keep it. The strength I exert isn’t enough to hold her fast, but just enough that she’d cause a scene if she wanted to wrench her hand free. She glares at me, resentment clear on her face.
Well, I can’t argue with her. Our usual performance involves walking together, but we have had a tacit agreement to avoid touching as much as possible. So what? She’s my wife, and after her reaction to that massage today, I’ll touch her hand. I know part of her likes my touch.
People fill the home’s large salon, and I catch sight of the wait staff circulating among the guests. Their crisp white uniforms are a stark contrast to the glittering finery of the guests. Harper looks as good as any of them, or better. But I know she couldn’t name a designer to save her life. It was another oddity that set her apart from the women in my social circles. She probably doesn’t think I appreciate that about her, but I’d rather she name rare plants than designers any day.
Within moments, we mix into the party, and Harper maintains at least the façade of a happily married woman enjoying a night of sophisticated company. I know her enough that I’m sure curling up in the huge tub with a paperback calls to her as the sister of our host babbles on incessantly about the new wardrobe she’s commissioning. Somewhere between hearing about every detail of importing the correct fabrics to arranging to bring the designer directly to Trini Island, I watch as Harper manages to finish a glass of champagne and slowly slip away from the small group of vapid women surrounding Hestia Kakos.
“Hello,” says a familiar voice, breaking my concentration.
“Maia,” I answer. “It’s been a while.”
Her black bandage dress hugs her curves. Curves I know all too well.
Harper
I retreat to an alcove to survey the partygoers, willing to admit only to myself that I’m searching for Jayson. Some of the men in the room may be his height or have similar hairstyles or frames, but only Jayson makes my heart stutter when my gaze finally finds him. His back is to me, but I would know him anywhere.
My heart skips another beat when I see his companion. Heat suffuses my face, and I lean against the wall for support. The last time I saw Maia Papadas, she wasn’t wearing a sexy black bandage dress.
She wasn’t wearing a thing.
During the last trip to the island, when I half-convinced myself I was in love with Jayson, despite his lack of awareness of my existence, I spent a lot of time moping in the gardens surrounding the villa. One afternoon, I wandered the paths, looking for a place to sit and pour out the adolescent whining of my heart into my secret journal, when I heard passionate moaning.
Curiosity overwhelmed me, and ignoring the voice of caution, I stopped to seek out the source. Peeking through a thick growth of short Chaste trees, I saw two bodies entwined in a passionate embrace: Jayson lying on his back, his hands cupping Maia’s breasts as she rode him.
Devastated, I fled from the scene and locked myself in the room I’d been assigned for the vacation. For the rest of the trip, I didn’t set foot in the garden, and neither did I speak to Jayson. He clearly hadn’t noticed, but it made me sick to my stomach even to look at him.
With the passing of time, I realized his actions were normal and healthy, and that he hadn’t betrayed me. Suffice it to say, I got over it.
Or at least I thought I had.
It’s a shock to react so strongly to the mere sight of my husband talking to his former lover.
Or... maybe she isn’t his former anything? Perhaps they continued their relationship. What do I know about Maia? Nothing. For that matter, I know very little about Jayson’s personal life. He’s never shown it to me. Until this trip, he’s been mostly occupied with work.
My stomach turns and I look away from them, randomly walking up to another group. They’re gossiping, so I tune them out and focus on the rim of my glass, until one of the women says Maia’s name.
“Disgraceful,” says another woman.
Maybe it’s the champagne or maybe it’s just morbid curiosity, but before I can stop myself I ask, “Why is she disgraceful?”
“Her husband was barely dead before she was on the hunt for another one,” says a woman with an English accent. “There is more than speculation that she was looking before Stavros died. And besides, he was much older than she was, so his death wasn’t exactly unexpected.”
Nodding despite myself, I’m surprised to hear them condemning the other woman. These kinds of actions aren’t unheard of among their circles.
“Everyone thought she had her claws in Salus Valokis.”
“Many women breathed a sigh of relief,” interjects a stunning Greek woman in her mid-forties, who looks like she’s never had to worry about competing for men’s attention.
“Until he married his assistant without a hint of warning,” says the Englishwoman, who was sporting a wedding ring set with a diamond the size of an ice cube.
“Seems like she’s on the hunt again.” They cluck and shake their heads.
