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Not that I’d expect her to be here—not my sweet, innocent wife.
But these people. It’s like they’re teenagers again.
And they’re probably being recorded.
Fuck. Where is she?
I head back upstairs, pull out my phone, and call Alessia once more. “Where are you?” I snap when I get her voicemail again, and I try to think what would make her run.
Someone from her recent past?
Maybe the traffickers.
Perhaps they have her. Again.
This is my darkest fear.
Hell. I find Tom and Joe. “Joe, please find Caroline and make sure she gets home in one piece. Tom, I can’t find Alessia.”
“Henry told me. She’s gone off to look for her in the other rooms. We’ll mount a search.” He grabs my upper arm and gives it a brief squeeze. “We’ll find her. Don’t fret, Trevethick.”
Fret! I’m going out of my fucking mind.
I nod in gratitude, unable to speak because there’s a slight risk I might lose it. Last time she disappeared—she’d been fucking kidnapped.
My phone rings and hope swells in my chest.
Fuck, it’s Oliver. I ignore the call.
* * *
Alessia sinks into the sumptuous leather of the Bentley SUV. The rear passenger door is super heavy, and she suspects the car is bulletproof. The driver gives her a cursory glance in the rearview mirror and, without saying a word, sets off into the night.
Only now, in the privacy of the vehicle, does Alessia allow herself to replay what she witnessed.
Maxim kissing another woman.
Kissing. Another. Woman.
Tears well in her eyes.
Caroline had warned her.
Darling, he’s slept with most of London.
Maryanne had tried to reassure her.
Reformed rakes make the best husbands.
Do they, though? Maybe they’ll always be rakes. But does this mean he loves her less?
I want the world to see that you’re mine.
Does it not work both ways?
Spouses have the same rights and duties toward each other. They should love and respect each other, maintain marital fidelity.
Their vows haunt her. Did they mean nothing to him?
O Zot. Was this inevitable? Her husband is just too promiscuous. Too handsome. Too charming.
A lump swells in her throat.
Her Mister. Her man.
She knew deep in her bones it would come to this.
She was never enough.
Alessia, you have been deluding yourself.
What will she do? Accept this? Leave? Alessia stares unseeing out of the window at the darkness between the lights of London.
Was it always going to come to this? A decision to stay or go? And for a moment, Alessia thinks of her mother and how her mother decided to stay… and her father is far worse than Maxim. Perhaps this is the lot of women as it has been for all time. The Albanian saying from the Kanun of Lekë Dukagjini springs to her mind: “Gruaja është një thes, e bërë për të duruar.”
A woman is a sack, made to endure.
* * *
I spot Grisha coming out of one of the sitting rooms and make my way toward him. “My wife? Where is she?”
“She’s gone home, Trevethick. You should take better care of her.”
What the hell? And I want to ask him why she left, but it’s none of his fucking business, though he seems to have made it so.
“What do you mean home?”
“She wanted to go home. I sent my car for her.” His simpering swagger makes me want to punch his stupid, arrogant face. “She was feeling unwell. You really need to—”
I walk away before I deck him and find Tom. “She’s gone home. Tell Joe to watch Caro. Last time I saw her, she was three sheets to the wind.”
“Will do, old boy. Glad you tracked down Alessia. I’ll check out that journalist you mentioned.”
“Thanks.”
In the cloakroom, I hand in my ticket and collect not just my coat but Alessia’s too. She’s left without her fucking coat. And she couldn’t be bothered to tell me.
What the hell?
What did I do?
Maybe she’s having second thoughts. I brought her to this den of iniquity and depravity, and she’s disgusted. Let’s face it, Alessia has not seen how the over-affluent can behave.
Fuck. I didn’t think of this.
I storm outside, past a blaze of flashlights from the paparazzi, and make my way down the road to grab a cab.
* * *
Much to Alessia’s relief, the Bentley draws up outside Maxim’s building. The driver climbs out and opens her door, holding his hand out for her.
“Thank you,” Alessia says as she takes it.
He nods and walks with her to the building. From her evening bag, she extracts the keys and unlocks the front door. Once she’s inside, the driver turns and clambers back into his vehicle.
It’s only as she calls for the elevator that she realizes that there are no paparazzi outside. They’re probably all still at Dimitri and Grisha’s.
Thank goodness.
In the elevator, she finds her phone and texts Grisha her thanks and to tell him that she’s arrived safely. There are a couple of missed calls from Maxim. She listens to his message as the elevator travels to the sixth floor.
