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Did it hurt? Oh hell yes. But hurt wasn’t the whole of it. An unexpected red bloom of rage blossomed in my chest. Righteous indignation fell swiftly in its wake.

Was I just supposed to take this?

I think the fuck not.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I brazened out, the instinct to mark my territory now far overshadowing any misgivings I may have had about incurring my husband’s wrath later. “In fact, I’m staying there tonight, so I’m not sure why you’re even here.” I paused. “At my show.”

“I don’t believe you,” she returned, though her tone was unsure.

That bit of doubt was something, at least. More than I’d hoped for. It told me that he at least hadn’t made plans with her tonight.

I shrugged. “So? It’s not my concern whether you believe me or not. Our marriage has nothing to do with you.”

“You should be concerned,” she returned with a cold, ruthless stare. “About me. He will never be through with me. I was his first love, and I’ll be his last. No one knows him like I do. I’m sure you’ve seen his tattoo. I wear its match. I know what makes him happy, what makes him tick. He will never be able to smell lemon verbena or so much as look at a rose without thinking about making love to me.

My heart hurt like every word out of her mouth was reaching inside of me and tearing it to ribbons.

“Oh and by the way,” she was still going. “He’s always been indifferent to women that want or need his money. I’ll let you figure out where that leaves you.

Her message was concise and unmistakable.

I was his wife, but she owned more of him than I ever would.

“You’re delusional,” I replied, but I barely got it out and my voice sounded robotic. Dead.

“That night that you were at Beautique,” she continued mercilessly. “One of the few times he’s even taken you out, right? I don’t think you noticed me, but I saw you there. He finger fucked you under the table, didn’t he? I know all his moves. But do you know why?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. My mind was too busy torturing me.

Fractured pieces snapping into place.

Everything, all of it, just to make this woman jealous. My stomach dipped with nausea.

Her laugh rang out, polluting the air.

She answered for me. “He saw me. He saw me walk in and wanted to make me jealous. Do you know why he didn’t go home with you that night?”

I thought I might throw up.

She smiled and it was bloodthirsty. “I won’t be so crass as to tell you. I’m sure you can guess.”

She left with smug condescension painted beautifully across every feature on her lovely face.

Humiliating needles dug deep into my gut. I watched her go, feeling things I didn’t want to name.

My eyes were still on her when I caught another figure in my periphery, a tall one that moved intently toward her and caught her arm, stopping her.

She spun into him without hesitation, laughing like the whole thing had been planned. Their dark heads bent together. My husband and his apparent mistress.

They looked right together.

I hated that.

They were right together.

I hated that more.

Calder dipped his head low to speak into her ear. He must have had a lot to say, as they didn’t move for quite some time.