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A crowd of journalists wait on the outskirts of the church lawn, held back by men in black suits who must be Damian’s security detail. There’s no bouquet to throw, not that I expect anyone would’ve wanted to catch cursed flowers, so we make our way to Damian’s waiting car fairly quickly. Thank God there’s no reception.
My husband’s hand is on my elbow as he guides me into the back of the car. The windows are tinted, and I sag in the seat, not having to keep vigilant under the scrutiny of the curious eyes and the unforgiving flashes of the cameras. When Damian tells his driver to take us to an upmarket restaurant in Sandton, my spirits sink. All I want is to escape to the luxury of privacy, but I won’t be so lucky. Pulling out the pins digging into my scalp, I remove the hat.
We don’t speak on the way to the restaurant or during the elevator ride to the top floor of the Sandton Center. Our reservation is at Nelsons where a meal is worth the equivalent of the average worker’s monthly wage. I refrain from pointing out it makes more sense to eat at Buccaneers downstairs for a tenth of the price and donate the saving he’d make to the starving beggars on the street corner. I doubt Damian is a charitable man.
A hostess seats us and spreads my napkin. Not three seconds later, the sommelier arrives with a bottle of Krug and an ice bucket. While he uncorks the bottle and pours two glasses, a waiter serves hors d’oeuvres.
When the staff is gone, Damian lifts his glass. “Congratulations, Mrs. Hart.” Then he says it again, “Mrs. Hart,” not as in testing the sound, but rubbing it in.
His smile is tight, but it’s the darkness of his expression that makes me not test him on this. As he presses the glass to his lips, holding my gaze, I take a sip. He looks at me with the same intensity from the church, except there’s an undercurrent of something darker, something more dangerous. I wait for the blow, but the fact that he says nothing about the dress only makes me tenser. He’s not going to just let it go.
He motions at the food on my plate. “Eat.”
My gaze flitters to the pastry topped with pink caviar mousse. Although I need to feed my body, I’m scared I’ll be sick again.
“Lina.”
My eyes snap back to his face at the way he says my name.
“I’ll feed you if I have to.”
Taking another sip of champagne, I swallow away the dryness in my mouth before putting the pastry on my tongue. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t waste such a delectable treat, but my stomach turns at the taste of the salty mousse. I chew and swallow, washing it down with some water.
“Don’t you like it?”
I dab the napkin to the corner of my mouth. “Just nerves.”
He nods, as if he understands, and it’s not entirely unkind.
The rest of the courses follow in a steady, well-paced flow, our menu pre-ordered, all the dishes extravagant.
I can’t stop myself from commenting on the arrogance of ordering on my behalf. “I suppose it’s a good thing I’m not allergic to shellfish.”
He fixes me with a knowing smile. “I know everything I need to know, including that you have no allergies and lobster is your favorite.”
The statement takes me aback, but I’m not going to ask how he obtained such knowledge.
Throughout the meal, he watches me, focusing on every bite I take and swallow, until I’m a self-conscious mess. He insists I clean everything off my plate. Thankfully, the portions are small, but by the end of the meal I feel like I’ll burst out of my dress. I decline his offer for coffee, and when I excuse myself to visit the ladies’ room, he’s on his feet before I am. Coming around the table, he extends a hand.
I stare at his proffered hand. “I’m sure I’ll find the way.”
“I’ll accompany you.”
Not in a position to argue, I accept his hand, letting him lead me to the ladies’ room. He doesn’t stop at the door as I expected but pushes it open and enters like he owns the place, pulling me behind him.
“What are you doing?” I exclaim.
A woman applying lipstick at the vanity gives us a startled look.
He shrugs at her. “Newlyweds.”
She flushes a little and then wilts under his stare before gathering her make-up and leaving us to it.
He opens the door of the first stall and steps aside. I wait for him to leave, but instead of budging he gets comfortable.
Crossing his arms and ankles, he leans his shoulder against the wall. “I suggest you get started, unless you want me to pull down your panties.”
“You can’t be serious. You’re going to stand here while I…?”
