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“I’ll remind you that you’re a guest in my house who’ll do as I say.”
“A prisoner, you mean.”
“Five minutes, Sabella. After that, you’ll only have the tap water in your bathroom to drink.”
“Go to hell,” she says, spinning on her heel and stalking toward the stairs.
“I’m glad you didn’t have to cut it,” I call after her.
She stops and looks at me.
“It would’ve been a pity.” I mean that sincerely. “I like your hair long.”
A spiteful glee invades her eyes. “Then maybe I’ll cut it.”
“It’s your choice, but it’ll still be a pity.”
She’s about to mount the first step when the doorbell rings. She distracted me so completely that I failed to hear the cars arrive. Heidi is still nowhere in sight. She better be setting the starters on the table, or she’ll hear from me tonight.
“Go to your room, Sabella.”
Giving her my back, I pull my spine straight and school my features. My friendly expression is intact when I open the door wide to reveal a small party of people on the porch rubbing their hands in the cold.
“Right on time,” I say, stepping aside to let them in.
They file through the door, their banter loud as they comment on the welcome warmth of the house.
Gripping the shoulder of the man who leads the group, I shake his hand before greeting his wife. “Welcome to my home.”
He hands me a bottle of Scotch. “Here’s a little something for you. I believe it’s your favorite brand.”
I accept the gift with a gracious, “Thank you,” and leave it on the entrance table to greet the rest of them while they shrug off their coats and hang them on the stand.
My guests are business alliances, and it’s not ideal that Sabella sees their faces, but she stands rooted to the spot at the bottom of the stairs like a deer caught in headlights.
“Oh,” one of the wives says, giving a start when her gaze falls on Sabella. “I heard you got married.” She frowns as she takes in Sabella’s attire but then adds good-naturedly, “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”
“My wife had a small mishap. She won’t be joining us tonight.” I direct the next part at Sabella, saying with meaning, “If you’ll excuse her, she’d rather retire now.”
“Oh,” the woman says again, laying a hand on her neck.
“Excuse me,” Sabella mumbles, managing a smile before she flees up the stairs.
“Is she all right?” another wife asks.
“Perfectly fine.” I give them my most charming smile before indicating the dining room. “Shall we? My housekeeper outdid herself with the menu tonight.”
They glance at the top of the staircase as they pass me, but when we enter the dining room where pink caviar mousse and champagne are set out for starters, my wife is forgotten to everyone but me.
As the night drags on, it becomes increasingly difficult to pay attention to the conversation. My carefully cultivated charm is a useless weapon, my usual magic ineffective, because my thoughts are elsewhere, hijacked by an obstinate woman who bears my name. One who should soon bear my children. The more I fail to navigate the discussion, the more I blame her. The more I think about planting my seed inside her, the more I wish this dinner is over already.
I have a heavy hand with the wine and an even heavier one with the Scotch. It’s not before the bottle is empty that my guests summon their drivers who are waiting in the kitchen where it’s warm.
It’s well after two in the morning when I finally make my way upstairs. It’s too late to stop in front of Sabella’s bedroom door. I have too much alcohol in my blood to turn the key and push the handle down. Yet those reasons don’t stop me from entering and closing the door behind me. When I’ve locked the door again, I slip the key in my pocket.
The room is dark except for a sliver of moonlight that falls over the bed, illuminating the small shape under the covers. Of course she’d defy me, sneaking into the bed when I explicitly told her that luxury is reserved for dirty girls who beg on their knees.
The need to push her down and pin her underneath me isn’t just to punish her for her defiance. A part of that depraved urge is born from an anger that won’t let me go, an anger she ignited when she thought she could get away by marrying another man. By selling me out to Lavigne. It’s the worst kind of anger, a cold and bitter resentment for which there’s no medicine. It’s a poison that fills my veins. It’s a deadly creeper that winds around my chest and squeezes until there’s no air left in my lungs, until I’m clawing for oxygen and each breath is like inhaling fire. Until living is hell. And she will pay.
