Tori
Chapter 20
The advice you hear most often about marriage is that you should never go to bed angry. I’d always been a little skeptical of something that sounded so trite. But after I gave myself completely to Stefan, and we started to choreograph a new, sexually charged routine, neither of us ever went to bed angry again. And compared to the rough patch we’d battled through over our honeymoon, our rebooted relationship was a dream. Going to bed sex-sated and worn-out every night had turned out to be the key to marital bliss.
As I trudged into the apartment after a long day at school, I could smell Gretna cooking up something amazing.
“Gretna?” I called out as I slipped off my shoes and set my bags down. “I’m home.”
“Good evening, Victoria,” she said, waving at me over her shoulder as I went into the kitchen to grab a glass of water.
I’d tried to convince her to call me Tori, but she’d insisted on ‘Mrs. Zoric.’ Victoria was our compromise.
“What is that? It smells like heaven.”
“Oh, probably the truffle velouté,” she answered, stepping aside to show me the cream sauce simmering in the pan. “It’s one of the five French mother sauces. I make it with butter and heavy cream, some mushrooms, shallots, a bit of garlic…pretty simple,” she answered. “That’s to go with the lobster ravioli.”
Everything in the kitchen was ‘simple’ to Gretna. I would bet the sauce had taken her at least an hour. I couldn’t imagine being able to whip up even one of her side dishes. I was already drooling.
“There are also haricots vert and a simple salad with arugula and lemon. Everything will be ready in about ten minutes.”
“Mmm, I can’t wait. You’re a lifesaver.”
Having her had turned out to be a total godsend. Especially since I’d grown up in a house where takeout and meal delivery were the norm. As a result, my personal cooking skills didn’t extend much further than toast and eggs (scrambled), sandwiches, or boxed mac ‘n cheese. Blessedly, I was able to box up Gretna’s leftovers for Stefan each night, so I could focus on my schoolwork. I didn’t even mind that I had to eat alone most of the time. Compared to the chaos of my long days on campus, it was nice to go home and relax, letting myself enjoy the quiet.
Stefan was still a total workaholic, just as tied up with his packed schedule as always. Five and six days a week he spent at the KZM offices vetting contracts, appeasing demanding clients, or auditioning potential talent. But things between us had improved so drastically that I no longer panicked if he had to work late, or if he was stuck in a meeting and it took him awhile to return a call or text. He kept me informed and I knew that I could trust him…even when it came to wining and dining the models. I also knew he was hyper focused on that brand new account—the one that Konstantin had talked about at the family dinner—and that he’d been scrambling to assemble a portfolio of fresh faces for the client. I didn’t push him for details, but I knew that he was stressed, and that it was his top priority.
Meanwhile, I was utterly absorbed by my program at UChicago. My professors were incredible—brilliant and passionate, and always willing to chat with me during office hours, of which I took full advantage. My fellow students were as nerdy as I was, and we would geek out (both in and out of class) about semiotics and language acquisition. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d nursed a teenage crush on the semiotician Roland Barthes. He had been a pioneer in the field, and was like the sexy Jeff Goldblum of French philosophers. It felt like I had found my tribe for the first time in my life.
“Here is a plate, and there is French bread toasting in the oven that should be done in a few moments,” Gretna was saying, holding out a steaming plate toward me.
I was perched on the couch with a few of my textbooks and a handful of remote controls, trying to figure out which one would allow me to watchThe Bachelor. I’d already changed into sweatpants and a tank top, pulling my hair back into a messy ponytail.
“Thank you so much,” I said, taking the plate. Without asking, Gretna picked up one of the remotes I’d tossed aside, clicked through a few menu screens, and got my show started.
“Don’t forget the bread,” she said. “Five minutes, then take it out. Don’t let it burn.”
“I won’t,” I said. “I promise. Now go, you’re almost ten minutes past the hour! Have a good vacation and see you in five days.”
She left, locking the door behind her, and as I settled in to watch my show I could feel the tension of the day rolling off me in waves.
Although my husband and I had separate lives when the sun was out, the night was a completely different story.
Wiped out from my day, I was usually in bed before he came home. I’d crawl under the covers, turn off the lights, and wait. I never slept. It would have been impossible to sleep even if I wanted to, and I never did. Because when he came home, he’d strip off his clothes, climb into bed, and fuck me until I came. Over and over and over again.
It was always in the dark. It was always rough. And I always wanted more.
I didn’t mind that I barely saw him otherwise. Didn’t mind that he would sometimes whisper harsh, cruel things in my ear as his thrusts were slamming me into the headboard, or that he didn’t hold me afterwards. The sex was so intense that I didn’t have any complaints.
Stefan never commented on the lacy little negligees I wore, either. He probably didn’t notice them beyond his initial touch and how easy they were to rip off my body. That was one of my favorite parts—the intensity with which he destroyed the expensive lingerie I had painstakingly picked out before bed. There was something so hot, so naughty, about picking up the torn fabric off the floor the next morning.
Then again, I was pretty sure I’d consider anything related to sex with Stefan hot and naughty. He brought out another side of me, one that I never even knew could be there.
I noticed the time on my phone and hit pause onThe Bachelorto go to the kitchen and get the bread. My food was still hot, but I hadn’t even touched it yet. As I pulled the bread out of the oven, I could hear the front door open and then close, followed by the sound of keys jingling on the entryway table.
“I didn’t forget the bread, Gretna! I can’t believe you came back. Don’t you know what the word vacation means?” I teased.
Footsteps echoed from the marble foyer to the hardwood in the living room, and when I turned around to nudge the oven door shut with my hip, I saw that it wasn’t Gretna who had come back. It was Stefan.
