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I hide a grimace by turning to take another glass of champagne from a waiter, who holds out a silver tray and then moves on.
“It’s disgraceful how she continues to pursue Salus,” says the older Greek woman.
As one, all the women turn their gazes to Maia, who is still talking to Jayson. “Maybe she has found a new victim,” says the Englishwoman.
The older woman shakes her head. “There is nothing new about that victim, Liv. Jayson Satyros and Maia were once engaged.”
I choke on my sip of champagne.
“My dear, are you all right?” asks the older woman.
I nod. “I’m fine, thank you.”
“I pity his wife,” says the youngest woman. “He keeps her hidden away, and now he is openly humiliating her with his ex-fiancée.”
The Englishwoman scoffs. “I hardly think he’s humiliating his wife by talking to someone he knows.”
“Perhaps, Liv, you still don’t fully understand our ways,” says the older woman, not unkindly. “Many Greek husbands are philanderers, and Greek wives are expected to turn a blind eye. Look at those two and tell me their conversation is perfectly innocent.”
Trying to detach my perceptions from the equation, I eye my husband and the other woman as impassively as possible. Maia leans in close to Jayson, her hand on his shoulder possessively. While Jayson doesn’t appear to be as eager to touch her, he’s definitely not backing away.
“Excuse us. We’re being terribly rude to discuss this in front of you without the benefit of proper introductions,” says the third woman suddenly, turning to look at me. “I am Sophie Russo. This is Calista Kakos,” she says, gesturing to the older woman, “and Olivia Volakis.”
The Englishwoman extends the hand with the heavy rings. “It’s actually Harcourt-Volakis, and I prefer Liv.”
I take her hand,
putting off the moment where I must reveal my identity as the wife to be pitied. “Are you related to Salus?”
She nods, sending waves of black hair rippling around her face. “I’m married to his brother, Ioseph.”
Aware that they’re waiting for my name, I release Liv’s hand, take a long drink of champagne, and say, “My name is Harper Satyros. I’m the wife of Jayson Satyros.” As the other women gasp and quickly look away in their discomfort, I drain the glass of champagne and stroll away, hoping I look half as composed as I strive to, instead of revealing the tattered mass of nerves I am on the inside.
Seeking sanctuary in a tiny but exquisite powder room, I lock the door and lean against the counter. It feels impossible to process what I’ve learned and to restore my calm. I shouldn’t feel so betrayed that Jayson never told me about the engagement. Ours isn’t a normal marriage, so I have no right to be upset at such a revelation.
Or to feel jealous seeing the two of them together.
Meeting my eyes in the mirror, my lips tighten.
However. I am entitled to respect and to be treated like his wife in public. Humiliating me was never part of the deal. Sure, he hasn’t yet crossed any big lines of impropriety, but Jayson is dancing at the edge. That much is clear from the conversation I came upon. It crosses my mind to saunter back into the party to Jayson and Maia, thread my arms around Jayson, and kiss him senseless, just to remind everyone exactly who he’s married to.
Instead, I open my purse and grab my lipstick, tracing the lines of my mouth with a color that is dark as blood. If I were Jayson’s true wife, I wouldn’t have any compunction about reminding Maia of that fact, but the sad thing is that it would be hypocritical to do such a thing when Jayson and I both know our marriage is coming to an end.
With a small pang in my chest, I take a deep breath and leave the powder room, surprised by the flow of traffic passing. The guests are moving to another room, so I guess it’s time for dinner. I refuse to look for Jayson and join the procession with my head held high.
I jump slightly when someone places an arm around my waist. But then I instantly recognize Jayson’s touch and scent. I want to melt into him, to breathe him in, to feel his hands on me again. Still, I won’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.
“There you are. I was trying to find you,” he says.
“I’m sure,” I answer icily.
Jayson frowns as we enter a large dining room arranged with multiple tables, complete with place cards. Servants in black tuxedos mill about, helping guests find their spots. “Is something wrong, Harper?”
With a shrug, I answer, “No, not at all.” Turning my head from him, I look for our seats, and groan quietly when I see Calista and Caesar Kakos seated at the head table, along with a younger man who appeared to be dateless, and three open spots. At least Hestia isn’t seated there. I’m in no mood to hear more about her goddamn couture wardrobe.
Sliding into my seat, ignoring Jayson’s assistance, I glance at the remaining name card. It’s somehow unsurprising to see Maia Papadas in elegant script on the crisp white paper. Is it a random accident that Jayson’s ex-fiancée was also assigned to our table, or had she arranged it with one of the servants?
Or had he?
