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“Sub-penthouse,” Lydia cuts me off.
“Thank you.” I smile.
I am going to kill that motherfucking lying piece-of-shit husband of mine.
I punch at the button to the sub-penthouse with more force than necessary, swearing under my breath.
He keeps his whore on the floor below mine. All the nights he runs off forbusiness,he’s likely traveling downstairs to fuck his mistress before coming home and doing the same to me.
My chest is heaving.
Pulling my phone from my bag, I shoot Cat a text telling her I have a migraine and cancel lunch. Next, I text Andre and tell him the same.
The elevator opens, and I step intoGabriella’sapartment. It’s nice. Display-home nice. Sparse of personal items and decorated with minimalist furniture. Not unlike Vincent’s. Not unlikemine.
“Thank fuck,” a voice groans. “Seriously, Vincent, I need a fucking shower—” Her feet come to an abrupt halt as she steps into the room. “Who the fuck are you?” she asks rudely.
“Who the fuck are you?” I retort.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “I asked you first.”
She looks younger than me, and I frown. She’s beautiful, and not just in a way that would force a double take if you passed her on the street. You’d be bewitched into staring. She’d steal your breath. Desire aroused by a simple meeting of eyes. She’s exquisite, and I hate the way envy reduces my self-worth almost immediately.
Are you fucking her?
No.
Technicality, I guess. He’ll wait until she’s of age.
“Whoever you are,” she speaks again. “You shouldn’t be here.” There’s a hint of panic in her tone. One that erases her abruptness.
“Shouldn’t I? My husband iskeepingyou.”
Her shoulders drop in an outward show of relief. “You’re Bianca.”
I laugh, the sound more sneering than jovial. “Well, at least he talks to you.”
Another stab of jealousy, one that slices deeper than the thought of him fucking her brought. She means more to him than I do. Enough that he’lltalkto her. In reality,I’mthe whore. He fucks me and shares his thoughts with her. My hands shake. I wish I never came up here. I wish my need to break my own fucking heart for knowledge I knew I didn’t want wasn’t so fucking strong.
“Fuck him and his disrespect for keeping hisgoomahin the same fucking building as his wife.”
“I don’t know what that word means.”
I growl in frustration. “It means mistress, Gabriella. His side piece.”
Her lip twists in distaste.
“Oh, I’m sorry. Is that word not savory enough for you?”
Maybe I’d be nicer if I thought she was as oblivious to my existence as I originally was to hers. But she knows who I am. She knows Vincent has a wife, and that’s an act not in the slightest deserving of forgiveness. For her or him.
“No, it’s not,” she responds with scorn. “It’s fucking offensive.”
“That’s offensive.” I laugh. Loudly. “That’soffensive,” I scream. “Not the fact that my husband keeps an underage girl as his fuckingwhore.”
“Enough.”
I startle at the cold tone of Vincent’s voice.
