Chapter 9
Elara
I didn’t remember falling asleep. One second I was staring at Julian’s last text message, and the next I was in a heavy, dreamless dark, sinking into the mattress like I hadn’t slept in years. That peace lasted all of maybe three minutes.
A hand shook my shoulder. “Elara. Wake up.”
My eyes snapped open to see Alastair standing over me. He was already dressed in a pink sweater and khakis. I wanted to throw something at him on principle. Light from the hallway sliced across my face, and I flinched, throwing an arm over my eyes.
“Get up. Get dressed.”
I peeled my arm back, squinting at the clock. It was 5:58 AM. I felt the anger creep up my spine. I was not a morning person on the best of days, but today was Saturday. I slept in on Saturdays. My own bed, my own sanctuary, was twenty minutes away. I’d stayed here out of obligation, and now I was being punished for it.
“Go to hell,” I mumbled.
“Get up now, Elara. We’ve been invited to golf by Julian Hale.”
Julian. Of course. This was his “renegotiation.” An ambush at dawn. A move designed to prove he could pull strings that yanked me out of bed and into his world whenever he wished.
“By the man-boy? Tell him I’ll see him at a civilized hour.”
I didn’t move. A second later, cold shock exploded across my face. I gasped, jackknifing upright and spluttering. He’d thrown the entire contents of the water glass from my nightstand at me. Droplets slid from my hairline down my neck, soaking my silk camisole. I wiped my eyes, seeing him standing there with an empty glass and a petty smirk.
“Hurry up,” he said, turning on his heel. “He’s expecting us at the club in an hour. Don’t embarrass me.”
The door slammed. I sat there dripping, my fury so white-hot it blurred the edges of the room. My silk-pressed hair was already reverting. I swung my legs out of bed, let the water dry on my skin, and marched downstairs.
I found them in the formal dining room. The scent of coffee and expensive perfume hit me. They were a picture of affluent normalcy. Mr. Ashworth was hidden behind his newspaper. Mrs. Ashworth was buttering toast. Alastair was leaning into Brielle, whispering something that made her giggle. She was in golf wear too—a pink polo that strained over her belly.
They all looked up as I stood in the doorway. My gaze locked on Alastair.
“What are you doing?” he asked impatiently. “I said get dressed.”
I didn’t speak. I walked to the table, my eyes scanning the silver and the china until they landed on the cut-crystal glass of fresh orange juice by his plate. Perfect.
In one smooth motion, I picked up his glass.
“Elara, don’t you da—”
I flung the juice directly into his face.
It hit him with a wet smack, dripping from his eyebrows and soaking the pristine pink collar of his shirt. A collective gasp sucked the air from the room. Alastair shot to his feet, his chair screeching.
“YOU PSYCHO BITCH!”
“You soaked me first!” I roared back. “You wake me up at dawn for a power trip to play golf with a man who hates you, and you have the nerve to throw water in my face? Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“I’m your husband!”
“You’re a fucking child! One who can’t even keep his mistress a secret without my help!”
“You’re jealous!” he yelled, juice dripping onto the Persian rug.
“Oh, please! Past, present, or future—I don’t want you. What the fuck is there to be jealous of? You’re transparent as glass. You want me to be jealous because your ego can’t handle that I don’t give a damn about you, you narcissist!”
His pupils dilated. He raised his hand—quickly, with the ugly certainty of a man who believes he has the right to lash out. I didn’t flinch.
“Are you going to hit me?” I challenged, my voice deadly soft. “I fucking dare you. I’ll be the last bitch you ever touch.”
