Then she reaches for the straps of her dress.
“What the hell are you doing?” I’m moving before I realize it, crossing the deck in three quick strides.
But I’m too late. She pulls the fabric down just enough to expose herself completely, giving thirty drunk strangers a view that should belong to her husband alone.
The men on the other boat go wild, cheering while she laughs and waves like some kind of deranged beauty queen.
I grab her shoulders and spin her around, pulling her against my chest to block their view. “Cover yourself. Now.”
“Why?” She looks up at me with fake innocence, making no move to fix her dress. “They seemed to enjoy the show.”
“Because you’re my wife.”
“So?”
“So you don’t belong to them. You belong to me.”
Her eyes flash with triumph, like this is exactly the reaction she wanted. “I don’t belong to anyone.”
“Yes, you do.” I haul her toward the cabin door, ignoring her protests. “And it’s time you learned that.” I push her into the cabin and turn the deadbolt with a sharp click.
“You can’t lock me in here!” she shouts, pounding on the door.
“Watch me.”
I return to the deck, where Ronnie is pretending he didn’t see anything. The party boat has moved on, but I can still hear their laughter carrying across the water.
“Everything alright, sir?” Ronnie asks.
“Fine. Just keep us on course.”
The rest of the trip passes in blessed silence, though I can hear Kasimira moving around in the cabin. By the time we reach the city marina, my jaw aches from clenching it so hard.
I unlock the cabin door to find her sitting on the small sofa, her dress properly arranged and her expression murderous.
“Enjoy your tantrum?” she asks sweetly.
“Move.”
At the lawyer’s office, Kasimira signs documents without reading them, her pen moving across papers that transfer ownership of properties worth fifty million dollars.
“This feels familiar,” she murmurs after signing the third deed.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just…déjà vu, I guess.”
I file that comment away for later consideration.
The lunch afterward is tense but civil. She asks about her net worth in a casual manner, and I tell her a number that makes her whistle appreciatively.
“Fifty-three million dollars,” she repeats. “Not bad for a fake marriage.”
“It isn’t fake.”
We return to the yacht in silence, the trip back to the estate passing without incident. She stays inside the cabin by choice this time, and I spend the thirty minutes trying to figure out why her little stunt bothered me so much.
I know why. I just don’t want to admit it.
