And when he suggested that I stay at his country estate, I'd been beyond livid.
"But wouldn't it be annoying for you to commute to London each day?" I pressed with crossed arms and a voice dripping with venom.
He'd looked startled at the suggestion—one I knew he would never even consider. "Well, it wouldn't be practical, no. So I could come to see you on the weekends." From the way his eyes flickered around the room, I knew that was a lie.
So I locked him out of our honeymoon penthouse suite and told him to get lost. I was sure by now he thought my father's hotels weren't worth all this trouble.
But nothing prepared me for the indignant rage that came when he still unceremoniously dumped me off at his country estate. I was straight on the phone to my parents, ranting about how I was being treated. But if I thought I'd find a sympathetic ear from them, I was wildly mistaken.
"Darling, your father and I don't want to get in between a married couple or interfere with their tiffs," my mother gently said. "One must learn how to compromise in marriage."
My father was no better, though he had always been hands-off when it came to what he considered “female dramatics.”
I was sure that when and if a union like my parents' occurred, it would be with someone I had built up a friendship and attraction with over time. And then, eventually, it would turn into something more. So I was already pissed to all hell at being strong-armed into a union before my time, and I was thoroughly pissed that it was to someone I barely knew or liked.
However, despite all that, I was still willing to buck up and carry on, to make the best of it, and eventually we'd see common ground. Perhaps then, over time, that common ground might turn into like, then respect, then…
But we couldn't bloody well do that if I was stuck in Keating, and he was God knows where! Evidently, I was the only mature one in this non-existent relationship.
Well, stuff him.
I spent two months racking up his credit card with all sorts of frivolous charges. I purchased everything from a new designer wardrobe to jewellery and shoes. I then donated most of it to the local charity shop. When that failed to poke the bear, I decided to buy one—literally. An animal charity I supported offered the option to "adopt" a grizzly bear, so I selected the maximum charge. The donation came with a certificate and a plush toy, and since I was in a mood, I sent that stuffed bear to his office, which probably didn't do much to dispel the notion that I wasn't a petulant teenager.
And then I found the perfect gift for him—the ability to sponsor a donkey. I donated five thousand pounds and named the donkey Alessio. I sent him a photo of his namesake with a message:
"An ass for an arse. Your ‘wife’, Millie."
Nothing.
But it still amused me to no end that a donkey was roaming about in his honour.
After those two months, I started to get cabin fever. I spent my days staring out my window like a depressed wife waiting for her husband's return. I ignored calls from my parents, still too miffed at them to speak, but then annoyed that they didn't bother to visit me.
I had to admit, Alessio's property was gorgeous, and I'd been itching to get my hands on the horses I saw roaming around. So, deciding that the only person I was punishing was myself, I broke my self-imposed exile and stepped out for a walk around his large estate.
Gravel crunched under my shoes as I roamed the property, smiling at a gardener pruning trees and another property manager carting around a wheelbarrow. They all gave me second glances of surprise, probably shocked to finally see me emerge from my sulking. Christ, they must all think I was some spoiled brat.
After finding the paddocks empty, I kept walking around the corner until I came across large stables where the horses were kept. I made a beeline to the entrance, eager to do something useful.
"Hey there, sweet angel," I purred to a beautiful chestnut horse. I held my hand out, letting it sniff me before I slowly stroked its smooth neck. A sad smile curved my mouth as I moved closer to the animal. I missed my horse. I also missed my chickens, sheep, and two goats. I was an animal lover and had big plans that involved my love for them. I'd promised my father to hold off on them for a while until I settled into married life—but I would actually need to have a present husband to practice that. I wondered if there was a local vet or animal shelter nearby where I could resume my volunteer work.
A loud clang had me jumping, and I immediately stroked the horse's neck to soothe it. I turned to where the sound came from and spied a tall blond male picking up some hay that had fallen off his wheelbarrow.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," I called out. I immediately picked up a pitchfork to assist him. "I must've startled you."
His cheeks reddened before he gave me an embarrassed smile. “It's alright, Mrs Ferrante.”
I hid a grimace. “Please, call me Millie.” I certainly did not feel like a married woman, and I was sure as muck that my husband was not behaving like a married man. “Do you work for Mr—for Alessio?”
I stabbed at the last of the fallen hay before dusting off my hands.
“Yeah." He cleared his throat, still not meeting my gaze. "I'm Tom. My mum's his housekeeper, and my dad's the property manager.”
"Oh, I see. I've met your mum," I acknowledged, thinking back to the kind blonde woman who Alessio had introduced me to before he crawled back into his Aston Martin and sped on out of here.
"I'm so sorry that I haven't been out to meet you all. I've been a little out of sorts lately." Understatement of the bloody year. "But I'm feeling a lot better now. Are these horses for riding?"
He nodded. "Mr Ferrante doesn't really ride anymore, but his little brother and nieces sometimes come 'round for a ride when they're in England."
