It becomes the pattern we establish over the next couple days. I spend as much time as possible out of the house, and when I do come home, we avoid each other like we’re invisible. She can’t see me, and I can’t see her.
No words are spoken. No eye contact is made. We damn sure don’t touch each other.
We ignore the ever growing tension by pretending the other doesn’t exist at all.
It’s not ’til the next Saturday that we’re forced to play nice. It’s the night of the NYPD charity fundraiser and there’s no way we’ll make it through the night without pretending to be the happy, in love, married couple the public thinks we are.
We ride in the back of a towncar, soaking up the last few moments where we can be ourselves tonight—we can outright ignore each other.
The silence is tense and uncomfortable, thick enough to choke on. She glares out the window at the passing city lights, her jaw tight and posture rigid.
I fiddle with my phone, scrolling through emails I’m not really reading just to have something to do during the drive.
But there’s one truth I can’t deny.
Simone looks every bit the part tonight. She’s luminous in a draped gown that looks like liquid gold and hangs off her body like a piece of art.
The fabric clings to her curves while the shimmery golden shade highlights how bronze her skin is. Oona’s pinned her hair to one side in large, loose curls that cascade over her bare shoulder, and her makeup reflects the gold dress with metallic eyeshadow that makes her hazel eyes more amber than usual and glossy lips painted a nude shade.
She looks gorgeous. A damn goddess in the flesh.
It turns me on, though I stubbornly remind myself it doesn’t matter how fucking good she looks. I still can’t stand her. She’s still the spoiled princess who defied me, who danced with another man, who makes every day we’re married a battle of wills.
I break the silence, my tone light and mocking. “You gonna behave yourself tonight?”
She merely folds her arms across her chest and sniffs, still refusing to look at me. The gold fabric shifts with the movement, emphasizing her cleavage and how round and fucking perfect her tits are.
My cock twitches in my pants as the urge to tear that dress off her and take a peak in my mouth strikes me.
I shake my head instead and mutter under my breath, “Always gotta do things the hard way.”
Her jaw tightens, but still she says nothing.
We arrive at Cipriani Wall Street to a spectacle of wealth and power. Black-tie attire everywhere—men in tuxedos, women in extravagant gowns, media correspondents ready to capture any and everything on camera.
Simone begrudgingly takes my arm and allows me to escort her inside. Twinkling classical music fills the air, combined with the hum of polite conversation and clinking of champagne glasses.
The banquet hall is massive and gold trimmed. High ceilings stretch up far above our heads, adorned with ornate molding and frescoes of cherubs and clouds. Crystal chandeliers hang like frozen waterfalls, casting prismatic light around the room.
Round tables draped in cream linens fill the space, each one topped with elaborate centerpieces of white roses and gold-dusted branches. The stage at the front is framed by velvet curtains, and a podium stands ready for speeches.
It’s opulent. Excessive. Everything I hate about these kinds of events.
I already want to get the fuck out of here.
I hate stuffy functions like these. Everybody’s fake. Smiling and shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries while plotting backdoor deals and alliances.
It’s all a performance, a carefully choreographed dance where one wrong step could cost you everything. But that’s never been my style—I respect what’s real. I’ve always preferred hard and gritty because that’s how reality is.
The people that try to pretend otherwise aren’t to be trusted.
I scope the floor with my gaze, a habit I can’t break even in a place like this. Maybe especially in a place like this. I pick out several members from crime families embedded in the crowd, dressed just as nicely as the politicians and businessmen they’re rubbing elbows with.
A couple of Italians near the bar, deep in conversation with a city councilman. Two Russians by the windows, surveying the room just like I am. And somewhere in this sea of tuxedos and gowns, the Albanians are here too. I can feel it.
Senator Banks strides up to us, a broad smile plastered on his face. He’s average height, bald up top but with a thick mustache, well-dressed in a tailored tuxedo, and an American flag pin on his lapel. Simone’s best friend, Chantal, gets her rich mahogany complexion from him. A man who’s built his career by shaking the right hands and saying the right things.
“Simone!” He pulls her into a fatherly hug that she gracefully accepts, her smile warm and genuine. “Congratulations on your nuptials. You look absolutely stunning tonight.”
