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“I’m good, thanks.”
“Okay.” She finger waves and skips out of the room.
“Lina.”
“Mm?”
Jana leans on the counter, her expression concerned. “Tell me she’s not moving in.”
“She’s short of money.”
“Not so short she can’t afford a new dress.”
“Maybe Zane gave her money.”
“Maybe he should’ve given her money for rent.”
“What are you saying?”
“Be careful of that one. You may want to keep a close eye on your husband with her around.”
“Don’t you like her?”
“Just saying. When you’re staff, people think you’re invisible, but I see things when I’m working, and I saw the way she looks at Mr. Hart.”
What would a wife in normal circumstances say? “I’ll keep it in mind.”
Maybe Anne is the distraction Damian needs. If she’s willing and eager, perhaps he’ll lose interest in playing cat and mouse games with me.
Damian
It’s barely dinnertime when I park in front of the house. I’m home earlier than expected. I rushed the meeting for one reason only. Lina is alone. Zane called to let me know he’s having dinner in town with Anne, wisely staying away from me tonight. I’m still upset about Anne’s move. I’m even more impatient to get inside. Damn, the things I want to do to my wife.
“Everything fine?” I ask Russell on my way in.
“Perfect, sir. Mrs. Hart is having dinner.”
“Good. Take a break.”
“Yes, sir.”
He leaves promptly.
Loosening my tie, I go straight to the dining room. In jail, I wanted nothing more than to dress in a power suit and tie, as if I had to prove with clothes who I could be. Now, the tie feels like a noose. I dump it on a chair in the hallway and unfasten the top two buttons of my shirt. Who the hell puts chairs in hallways, anyway? Who’s going to sit on them? In the doorframe of the dining room, I pause.
Lina is sitting at the place I chose for her, immediately to the left of the head of the table. Her head is bowed over a bowl. She’s spooning soup down her throat so fast she doesn’t notice me.
“Slow down.” I chuckle. “The soup isn’t going to run away.”
Pausing with the spoon halfway in the air, she averts her eyes before leaving the spoon in her side plate and dabbing a napkin to her mouth. “Sorry.”
Immediately, I want to bite my tongue. With her history, I want her to eat. Badly. “Please, don’t stop on my behalf. Pretend I’m not here.”
Her look is cutting. I don’t like where this is going. I don’t want her to think she needs permission to eat, or God forbid, to stop eating all together. Hunger strikes aren’t beyond her and force-feeding isn’t beneath me. I just prefer not to go there. Her back sets in a rigid posture, but I’m quietly relieved when she picks up the spoon again.
The clinking of her cutlery follows me into the kitchen where I serve myself a bowl of butternut soup before carrying it to the table.
As the meal progresses in silence, I use the opportunity to study her. She doesn’t strike me as someone scared of eating. On the contrary, she’s eating with gusto, fast, as if she’s worried the food will disappear.
“There’s a bat in the garden,” she says out of the blue.
Taken aback not as much by the remark than the fact that she spoke to me, it takes me a moment to formulate a reply. “I’ll have it removed.”
“No! They’re endangered.”
“I said removed, as in moved to a colony, not killed.”
“You shouldn’t move it. It may have a family here.”
That makes me smile. My wife is concerned about a bat family. “What do you propose I do?”
“You need bat boxes.”
“You happen to know about bat boxes,” I tease.
“I did some research today.”
“How?”
“I browsed some sites.”
Not having access to a computer, she must’ve used her phone. “Do you need a laptop?”
“The phone is enough.” As an afterthought, she adds half-heartedly, “Thanks.”
“Go ahead then. Get the boxes.”
“It’s going to cost five thousand for the boxes, and nine hundred for the installation.”
She really did do her research.
She toys with her napkin. “Will you give me permission to withdraw the money from my account?”
Absolutely not, but I’ll give her the money. “Tell the company to send me the bill.”
“Thanks,” she huffs.
It’s a sore point for her, the fact that she has to ask permission to use her money. How does it feel to be filthy rich, but unable to buy even an apple? I like to pay for everything she needs. It goes deeper than my desire to control her. I want to take care of her. I fucking love knowing I can provide her with whatever she requires. After drowning in poverty during my childhood, this is my obsession, my own private issue.
When she excuses herself to clear the soup bowls, I fetch the main meal. I carve the pork roast and serve us each a helping of vegetables. She attacks the food like a vulture, every now and again remembering to slow down. When she does, she shoots me a sidelong glance, but I pretend not to notice this oddity of a lady who’s been schooled in table manners at the most elitist of establishments. It doesn’t matter to me how she eats. For all I care, she can eat with her hands and slurp her soup, but I know where she attended school, and I know what they teach young ladies.
