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I swear, I had the best orgasms of my life. —Darling
I never would have pegged you as kinky. More of a vanilla type. —Ellie
Actually, I take that back. I’ve read the books you write, so I can’t say I’m surprised. —Ellie
My stories ranged from soft to dark romances with strong BDSM elements. I didn’t like to limit myself.
Do you want to meet up for coffee tomorrow? We can devise a plan to take down your husband and his criminal family. Muahahaha. —Ellie
I laughed, but it was cut short when I heard low murmurs and the caw of an animal. I frowned, realizing I was close to the kitchen. I tiptoed carefully and rounded the corner just in time to hear the noise of clanging pots and… Céline cussing?
I entered the kitchen and witnessed pure chaos in the making.
Two cooks ran after a loose, haywire chicken, who screamed at the top of its lungs.
Céline was right behind them, releasing a sort of battle cry as she leapt for the chicken. She narrowly missed it but caught its feathers. “Come here, you stupidpoulet!”
I watched the entire thing with something akin to horror.
Then my mother-in-law pulled out a gun from her Versace dress and shot the chicken in the back of the head.
I shrieked, slapping a hand over my mouth, my knees buckling.
Céline grabbed the dead chicken by the neck and raised it in the air like a prize won at the carnival. A maniac-like glint reflected in her eyes and blood coated her hands. “Aha!”
I gagged out loud.
She blinked bashfully when she spotted me. “Do you eat meat, Darla? We’re having creamy Tuscan chicken tonight.”
Not only did I marry into a family of criminals, but they were deranged psychopaths too.
Dinner was at 7:00 p.m.
After spending the rest of the day making some edits to my new novel, I resigned myself to my fate: creamy Tuscan chicken, courtesy of Céline De la Croix’s terrifying kill.
A maid knocked on my door an hour ago to let me know dinner’s dress code was black tie.
Zeno had studied my style and shopping habits because my walk-in closet was filled with brand-new gowns and work-friendly suits. The walls were bolted with shelves housing an impressive line-up of shoes and diamond jewelry laid on velvet stands. There was also a black leather suitcase tucked in the corner with my name embossed in cursive.
Gingerly, I flipped open the locks and my mouth dried up.
A multitude of sex toys—ball gags, blindfolds, dildos, floggers, nipple clamps, and so much more—greeted me. A thought filleted through my mind; Zeno would have wanted to use these on me the next time we fucked.
Ignoring how I’d already told him there wouldn’t be a second time, I slipped into a white floor-length dress with a crisp silhouette and adorned my lobes with yellow diamond earrings. My black hair was styled in loose waves down my back and I took the time to apply red lips with soft bronze eye makeup.
I stared at my reflection in the vanity with a faint smile.
I did look pretty.
Beautiful, even.
As I blotted my lipstick, I wondered for the millionth timewhyI spent so much of my life never feeling enough?
Why do we allow society’s standards to wield the way we feel about ourselves?
Why did I allow my mother’s judgements to make me feel less than I ever was?
My pondering was shortened when the same maid from before arrived to escort me downstairs. We entered the state-of-the-art kitchen and I was surprised to see the entire family huddled around the vast island, focus riveted on the wall with a giant TV showcasing hockey night in Canada.
