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The more I time I spent in this house, the more the rumors made sense—Senator Wolfe Keaton was destined for greatness. I would be a first lady and probably before I hit thirty.
Wolfe rose up nice and early today to get to the regional airport on time and even made plans to go to DC over the weekend for some important meetings.
He didn’t include me in his plans, and I very much doubted he cared if I died, other than the unwanted headline it would likely create.
Under my ivy-laced window, tucked in the heart of the mansion’s garden, I tended to my new plants and vegetables, surprised by how they’d managed to survive without any water for a couple of days.
Summer had been cruel so far, scorching hotter than the typical Chicago Augusts. Then again, everything about the past couple of weeks had been crazy.
The weather seemed to fall in line with the rest of my frayed life. But my new garden was resilient, and I realized as I crouched down to weed the new vine tomatoes, so was I.
I carried two bags of fertilizer to the spot underneath my window and rummaged through the small shed located on the corner of the yard to find some more old seeds and empty pots.
Whoever was assigned with the task of taking care of this garden had obviously been given the instructions to make it look manicured and pleasant but only minimally so.
It was green, but reserved. Beautiful, yet unbearably sad. Not unlike its owner.
Unlike its owner, though, I craved to cultivate the garden with my green thumb. I had plenty of attention and devotion, and nothing and no one to give it to.
After I placed all the material in a neat line, I examined the shears in my hand. I grabbed them from the shed, explaining to Ms. Sterling that I needed to cut the fertilizer bag open, waiting for the tiny elderly woman to turn her back to me.
Now, as the blades of the clippers twinkled under the sun, and the unsuspecting Ms. Sterling was in the kitchen, berating the poor cook for buying the wrong type of fish for dinner (still hoping I’d grace Senator Keaton with my presence at dinner tonight, no doubt) my opportunity had finally arrived.
I crept my way back into the house, passing through the sleek chrome kitchen. I took the stairs two at a time, slipping into the west wing to Keaton’s bedroom. I’d been there once before, when I eavesdropped on him and the pretty journalist.
I hurried into his bedroom, knowing that Wolfe had at least another hour before he got home. Even with his jet-setting lifestyle, he still wasn’t above escaping the Chicago traffic.
Whereas my room had been decorated with glitz, oozing of Hollywood’s regency era, Wolfe’s room was elegant, reserved, and plainly furnished.
Dramatic black and white curtains dripped across the wide windows, a black channel-quilted leather headboard and coal-hued nightstands stood out from each side of the bed.
The walls were painted a deep gray, the color of his eyes, and a sole crystal chandelier dripped from the center of the ceiling, seemingly bowing down to the powerful man who occupied the room.
He had no TV, no chests of drawers, and no mirrors. He did have a bar cabinet, not to my surprise, considering he’d marry booze if it were legal in the state of Illinois.
I trudged to his walk-in closet, snapping the shears chirpily in my hand with newfound energy as I swung the doors open. The black oak shelves stood out against the cool white marble of the floor.
Dozens of suits sorted by colors, cuts, and designs hung in neat, dense lines, perfectly ironed and ready to be worn.
He had hundreds of scarves folded in precision, enough shoes to open a Bottega Veneta store, and blazers and pea coats galore.
I knew what I was looking for first.
His tie rack contained over a hundred ties. Once I found it, I serenely began to snip his upmarket ties in half, taking a somewhat bizarre liking to watching their fabric drop at my feet like orange and rust-colored leaves in the fall.
Snip, snip, snip, snip, snip.
The sound was comforting.
So much so, that I forgot how hungry I was.
Wolfe Keaton had screwed Angelo’s date. I couldn’t—and wouldn’t—avenge his indiscretions by cheating on him, but I damn well could make sure that he didn’t have anything to wear tomorrow morning except for his stupid smug expression.
After I finished the task of cutting all his ties, I moved on to his crisp dress shirts.
He had some nerve to assume I would ever touch him, I thought bitterly as I tore through rich, smooth fabrics in crème, swan white, and baby blue.
Consummating our marriage was expected. But despite Wolfe’s good looks, I detested his playboy way of life, awful reputation, and the fact he had slept with so many women already.
