I punch the pillow and turn, pulling sheets closer. This marriage will be a massive success if Sebastian doesn’t do anything to embarrass or humiliate me.
Even the scales.
His motto was simple eleven years ago, and I don’t think it’s changed since.
Well, it is what it is.Focus on the positive.I conjure up all the things he’s getting from this union. The company he loves. A brand-new market for Sebastian Jewelry.
And later, once I’m done expatriating everything out of Nesovia, I’ll give Sebastian whatever he wants, including a divorce if he wants to be free to be with Gabriella.
You always have to make sacrifices. Nobody gets everything they want.
I just wish it didn’t sound so self-serving in my head.
Chapter 13
Sebastian
When I open my eyes the next morning, it’s barely a quarter past five. I sit up and roll my neck. It’s my strict workday routine to be up before six. My head is a bit foggy from the lack of sleep. I can’t blame the unfamiliar bed, since there’s nothing wrong with it, just like there’s nothing wrong with the huge, sprawling mansion. It’s the laundry detergent. It smells unfamiliar. And it reminds me of Luce.
Which still is no reason to not sleep like a baby, especially after I jerked off to see if that’d help, but there you go. Shit happens.
After grabbing a quick shower, I pull some workout clothes from the suitcase the Aylster concierge sent last night and step out into the long, quiet hall. Luce’s suite is on the opposite end, past the winding staircase.
Having separate bedrooms isn’t something I ever thought I’d put up with in a marriage, but this isn’t an ordinary situation. Luce makes me feel things that I’ve never felt before, none of them logical or orderly. Thinking about it now, I shouldn’t have expected her to look at me the way she did Jason, and I certainly shouldn’t have lost my cool or made my point in the limo, even if it did feel perfect.
Even now, as I recall how she melted and sighed, and my dick swells. But I’ll be damned if I sneak into her bed for a repeat.
Not a repeat. You have condoms now.
Ah, yes. The ever-efficient concierge stuck a box into the suitcase. I should be pleased at the considerate gesture, but right now everything exasperates me.
Luce’s home is a massive two-story structure with a basement. She took me around the entire place. Seven bedrooms, ten baths, a five-car garage for everyday use, an enormous twenty-five-car garage that can be converted into a ballroom for entertaining, a living room that overlooks the garden. She said one of the bedrooms is being converted into a home office for me—another considerate gesture I hadn’t anticipated. To be honest, nothing is really what I expected.
There are two kitchens, both of which would make any chef weep with envy, and two fully stocked pantries. A well-equipped home gym and a theater in the basement. And she told me I was welcome to make use of anything as I saw fit, except for the garage-cum-ballroom, because she doesn’t like to have a lot of people over without notice.
There isn’t a hint of orgies or any sort of carnal excess. Every surface is spotless, the air fresh and clean. The paintings on the wall are classy modern pieces that I might’ve hung in my own home.
A miniature bronze by François occupies a nook in the living room near some floating shelves. Luce gazed at it fondly when she showed me around. “Isn’t it just gorgeous? My favorite. I wish I had more of his work.”
She must be a super fan to own a piece at all. François offers almost all his works to Catherine Davis, chief art collector for the billionaire Barron Sterling. Most people never get a chance to own a François, even if they’re swimming in money. Once a piece goes into Barron Sterling’s collection, it doesn’t come out. And he almost never invites people to his private gallery, so you don’t get to see them, either.
I head to Luce’s home gym. It’s probably rarely used, if ever. Most people love the idea of having a gym, but not using it. The former makes you feel virtuous, while the latter actually requires exertion.
When I step inside, music is playing. I spot Luce on the treadmill in front of a mirrored wall. She isn’t doing what many women in my social circle like to do—put on a full makeup, a tight pink tank top and tights, then leisurely move around, occasionally doing a pro forma set but mostly posing and taking selfies to post on Instagram. Luce’s long legs move rapidly on the belt, and sweat mists over her flushed face. A quick look at the treadmill panel says she’s been at it for half an hour.
“Hi,” she pants between rapid breaths.
“Hell,” I mutter. Her labored breathing reminds me of the limo ride. My blood heats.
“If you want to run, I have fifteen more minutes.”
“I don’t.” Her ass looks fantastic.
“Okay.”
She’s a little breathless, which, of course, is normal for someone who’s exercising. I shouldn’t have a reaction, but my blood starts to flow in the wrong direction: south.
“Why are you up so early?” I say, annoyed that she’s in the gym and I’m getting turned on by looking at her.
