Ivy
Hand in hand, we walk through a gauntlet of photographers to the Deco 6 elevator. Mateo stops more than once to pose and joke with the eager paparazzi, seemingly a different man than who I’d married.
Which is unfortunate considering widows aren’t supposed to seek attention.
Rarely does a widow marry someone of celebrity status, because the risk is simply too great, and there are plenty of men who make a lot of money that keep a low profile.
The elevator stops at one of the top floors, and we walk out into a lavish foyer that has aquariums for walls.
A sense of dread needles me as I watch the beautifully colored fish dart through their tank, because I know what it’s like to be caged.
And not just my marriage.
My whole life has been controlled, my one hope being my first mark, because in order to make it out of the Sisterhood, you have to kill at least once. It’s their insurance policy to make sure you don’t run to the cops.
The hostess takes us to our seat and pours us two glasses of wine.
“You seem tense,” Mateo says, extending his hand across the table and folding it over mine.
Sometimes, honesty is the best policy.
“Well, I have spent the last three days half-naked in my room, so forgive me if I make poor company.”
“With a body like yours, you should be fully naked all the time.”
I arch a brow. “So you can leave it unattended?”
He smirks and licks his sinful lips. “So that’s why you’re upset with me.”
My cheeks flush with color. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Stop pretending as though you didn’t thoroughly enjoy what I did to you on our wedding night.”
I smile demurely, playing the role of innocent, young wife to perfection, because it’s what I’ve been trained to do.
Changing the subject, Mateo asks, “Tell me, Ivy, what would you fill your time with if you had a choice?”
“Wearing more clothes.”
“Then you should be happy to know your wardrobe should be arriving now.”
“My wardrobe?”
“I saw what you wore in your Chatter account, and it’s simply unacceptable for a woman of your status.”
“Do you take umbrage with my yoga pants or my sundress?”
“To both. No wife of mine will wear discards from the local Salvation Army.”
“They’re from Target!”
“As my wife, you have an image you must uphold, and tacky fabrics are a risk I cannot justify.”
I snort out a laugh. “If the public only knew the accommodations you kept me in.”
“Do you think your decor is cheap?”
Shrugging, I reply, “It’s…different. Lavish, yet macabre.”
