PAIGE
Anger is a funny emotion.
It starts deep in the pit of your stomach, seeping out through your limbs, turning into tense shoulders and clenched teeth and frustration without an outlet.
I don’t like being angry.
It’s not who I am. I am the happy, upbeat, strong one. The one who always keeps moving and never sits or stops or feels.I picked up the pieces after my parents’ death. Cleaned out the house, planned the funeral, showed up to Mather & Wilde and fought against my uncle.
Anger? It’s useless. Unproductive. To be angry means that you acknowledge you’ve been hurt, that you’ve been injured, and I’ve never allowed myself to do that.
But I’m angry now. I’ve been angry at Raphaël Montclair for months, so that’s not new. I’ve called him every name in the book in my head, and plenty to his face. I’ve detested his business tactics, his methodology, his smug face and how handsome he is.
It’s a cold sort of anger.
This one isn’t.
I’m standing on the bow of the large boat Karim hasrented for us. It’s cutting across Lake Como like the blue water is butter, with high mountains rising on either side. Lights hang alongside the vessel, and behind me I can hear the sound of laughing wedding guests.
Strangers and semi-strangers alike, celebrating the end of our two-day wedding weekend. It’s the final performance.
It’s been a good performance, too. I’d spent most of today with guests. Breakfast with Rafe’s mother had been a whirlwind, and I’d enjoyed it more than I thought I would. She knew my marriage wasn’t based on love but didn’t seem to have anything against it. It was refreshing. We’d bonded over our mutual love of the sea.
My son makes very rational decisions. I’m glad he finally made an irrational one,she’d said, in a surprisingly insightful moment bracketed by gossip and croissants.
Her son, who is now off somewhere on the boat charming guests.
The wind brushes through my hair. I’ve left it in a low ponytail tonight, and I’m wearing a white mini dress, as befits the bride. But not even the cool wind can calm the flames licking my insides.
I woke up in his arms, saw him hard, and felt victorious. Until I saw it. The fresh hickey on his neck.
He must have snuck out again.
We agreedon celibacy, but he broke the pact and snuck out again. Was it on the night of his bachelor party? The guys were up later than we were. I don’t know what they did or where they went after that. If any of his old friends are actually lovers.
Yesterday at our wedding, he kissed me in front of all those people witha hickey on his neckfrom someoneelse.
My hand tightens around my glass. If his sleeping around got out, it would jeopardize everything. The whole reason we’re putting on a spectacle for the world is to fight thenewspapers and my uncle’s lawsuit that our marriage is only for business reasons.
He’s the love of my life.
A single photo of Rafe kissing someone who isn’t me, and it would all collapse.
I wonder if they’re local. If it’s a beautiful Italian woman with long dark hair, who’s lovely and kind and understands his lifestyle. Is it a guest at the wedding? He added people to the wedding list. Maybe he’s sleeping with one of his staff. His friends. A designer who works for him. A convenient little arrangement that he wasn’t going to stop just because of the ring he’s now wearing.
He kissed me like he wanted to. He woke holding me, he washard. I saw it. Does he do all of that with someone else? How does he kiss her?
I drain the last of my spritz.
I can’t believe I enjoyed kissing him. I can’t believe I’ve let myself play tennis with him in the mornings, or work with him on Mather & Wilde’s changes, or havefunarguing with him.
He broke his promise, and he’s going to pay for it.
I can never trust Raphaël Montclair.
So I take the wedding rings off my left hand and slip them into my clutch. It’s one I bought with his money. Outrageously expensive, obscenely pretty and by a designer who might be on this very boat tonight.
And then I go hunting.
