Imust have fallen into a deep sleep because I wake up suddenly to an insistent knocking. It yanks me from the depths of my exhaustion, and I bolt upright on a massive bed with a gasp. My heart is slamming against my ribs. Where the hell am I? The vast and beautiful room swims into focus.
Ah yes, I’m in Carolyn’s life.
And someone is urgently knocking on the door.
I hurry towards the sound. Outside, the housekeeper stands, her face pinched with unhappiness, arms crossed over her apron. “Dinner is about to be served ,and everyone is already seated at the dinner table, Madam. Will you not be joining them? Are you perhaps not well?" she asks, but her voice is not concerned, and she is having difficulty reining her irritation in. Looks like I've already committed a grave sin.
Carolyn didn't mention there was a strict dinner time—her briefings skipped the mundane rituals, focusing on the big lies. Still, I didn't know I'd nap this long; I must have been bushed, the day's whirlwind draining me more than I realized, body and mind collapsing under the weight.
"I'm sorry," I mumble, rubbing my eyes. “I fell asleep. Must have been tired. I’ll come down now. Thank you for coming to call me.”
She is taken aback by my apology, but she just nods curtly and turns away.
I close the door and run into the massive walk-in closet. It is lit by soft recessed lights that flicker on automatically. Racks of dresses gleam like treasures. I grab the nearest one I can find—a red and white polka dot thin-strap, soft cotton sundress from Diane von Furstenberg. The fabric feels cool and breezy as I hurriedly slip it on over my head. It hugs my boobs a little too snugly, but the hem swirls demurely around my knees.
I glance in the full-length mirror, and I wonder if this look is inappropriate. The polka dots are playful, almost flirty. Maybe rich people dress in suits even at home, with starched collars and pearls for dinner. This summery slip of a thing that feels too casual, too revealing, but it’s too late to change now.
I slip into high-heeled sandals and rush out. I run lightly down the curving stairs and only slow down as the dining room comes into view. As I enter it, I'm struck once again by how regal they all are—they look like they belong in a painting, Frances at one end in her cashmere twinset, pearls glowing softly, Freya beside her with her curls tied in ribbons, Blake at the head, dark and beautiful just like in the dream. The butler, his face vaguely forbidding, is standing to attention against a massive painting. A waiter wearing white gloves is reaching for a plate under a covered silver dome.
"Sorry, I'm late," I apologize as I head over to the seat at the table that has been set for me.
No one answers me. Oh dear.
I note his mom and daughter are sitting side by side, chatting softly, but I, the wife, am all the way at the opposite end, isolated, like an afterthought. A chasm in between. I'mbeginning to get why Carolyn doesn't like them, this deliberate distance, the way they close ranks without her. But I shouldn’t judge so fast. What if it isn't their fault? What if it is Carolyn's behavior that built this wall, brick by bitter brick?
I'm served immediately by the waiter. Deferentially, he places a plate before me with a soft clink. I notice immediately that while the others are eating fish with deliciously golden potatoes on the side, I'm given a small green salad with pink curls of seafood dressed in a light vinaigrette. It is clearly the kind of thing Carolyn ate to stay thin.
I try not to scrunch my nose at it, hesitating with the fork in hand, poking at a leaf. But what the hell? I’m not eating this food for the next three months. I should start the way I mean to carry on. I put my fork down and turn to the waiter.
"Could I have what the rest of the family is eating, please?"
Everyone freezes with shock. For a moment, they all turn to stare at me. Frances's brows lift, Freya's eyes are wide with surprise, and Blake's gaze is wary.
I ignore them all and keep my chin up as my plate is removed, though inside my pulse is racing. Have I just shattered another fragile piece of this façade?
Chapter Thirteen
BLAKE
Igive my mother a look across the table, subtle but pointed, because if there's anything out of place, she'll notice. I expect her sharp eyes to miss nothing after a lifetime of navigating her world of wealth and whispers. I wonder if that faint arch of her brow as Carolyn entered is her picking up on the shift, or just the usual disdain she has for her daughter-in-law.
But I definitely do.
It's hitting me like a slow burn, starting from the moment she stepped into the dining room slightly disheveled in a way that's so unlike her, that it stops my breath for a second.
To start with Carolyn is never this casual at dinnertime. Every night she dresses like we're dining at one of the best restaurants in town, layers of couture labels stacked on top of each other. But here she is in a light polka dot sundress—thin straps slipping over her shoulders, the light cotton hugging her curves in a way that's… almost playful, the hem swirling as she moves. Her strawberry-blonde bob is tousled as if she just woke up, strands catching the chandelier's warm glow. No makeup, orat least none that I can see. She usually slaps on the full works. Nope, tonight it’s just flushed cheeks and deeply blue eyes.
Yeah, that’s another thing. When was the last time she apologized for anything.
She looks breathtaking, raw and real in a way she's never been. The way that dress holds her breasts. God, I can't look away, the fabric stretching just enough to outline their full swell, nipples faintly visible through the thin material in the room's soft light. Being around a lot of socialites all my life—women who've nipped and tucked themselves into perfection on Fifth Avenue—I know what fake breasts look like. Perfectly round and hard looking. Like one tennis ball cut in half and stuffed under stretched skin. But these… these have to be the most full, most naturally gorgeous looking breasts I've ever seen. They seem to be soft and heavy, moving with her breath in a way that's mesmerizing.
They draw my eyes despite myself.
For the love of God, I’m staring at them, I realize with a jolt. I pull my gaze away from the way the polka dots shift over her curves, and I can't believe it: I feel myself getting hard. Hot blood is rushing south, unbidden, and my trousers tighten uncomfortably under the table. The dining room feels warmer suddenly, and it makes my skin prickle as I shift in my seat.
Shocked, I stare at her openly, feeling my blood stir for the first time since... ever, really. What on earth is wrong with me? I don’t even like this woman. And the only thing in our future is a divorce.
This had been partly a business relationship from the start. Why not? She was accomplished in bed, and she was polished enough to fit the role of the perfect society wife on paper, and more importantly, I really thought she cared about Freya. But then, I never felt anything for her beyond that initial sexual spark. Never this raw pull, this heat coiling low in my gut like alive wire. Then, a bit of plastic surgery, of all things, I'm suddenly attracted? Am I that shallow? The thought twists in my mind. Maybe there's something wrong with me, some glitch in my wiring. She's been a stranger in my bed for almost two years and yet I am responding to her as if she is someone I’ve just met.
