Beautiful Revenge (A Good Wife #1) - Sienna Blake Page 0,20

my nostrils and my eyes. “Congratulations, Alena,” she says in her accented Russian. “I’m so happy for you.” Her words bounce right off me. Then she’s striding away, her bodyguards trailing after her like two giant Dobermans. Leaving me in the hands of a stranger.

I feel a firm hand grip my elbow. It’s my husband. He’s frowning at me. Oh, right. The ceremony is over.

I am married.

Married.

The word echoes inside my body as if I am an empty cavern.

I also turn sixteen today. Nobody mentions that.

My new husband drapes a thick fur coat over my shoulders. It’s real. I can smell the hint of earthy wildness in the fur. My Jimmy Choo heels clack against the marble as he leads me to a limousine waiting outside. I’ve never been in one before. Through the flakes of snow stinging my eyes, I see the driver holding the back door open for me. I stumble as I get into the heated vehicle. Right into the black leather seats. My new husband shoots me a smile and pats my knee. We drive in silence. I know nothing about my new husband—God, that word sounds strange to me—except he is English. And he’s older than me.

The limo stops in front of the Belmond Grand Hotel, an imposing building with rows of tall casement windows guarded by stone statues. Within minutes, we’re being escorted up to the Presidential Suite by the manager himself, a slim, polished man who speaks to my husband in proud, accented English, his hands as graceful as a conductor as he points out this and that. We are trailed by porters who carry my husband’s luggage and our coats.

On the top floor, the manager holds open the door to the penthouse suite, sneering at me behind my husband’s back. I don’t have the heart to tell him that his shallow judgements are specks of shit on the ass of a flea in the spectrum of things I give a fuck about right now. I walk into the suite after my husband and halt right inside.

This place is a palace. I’m standing in the living room, crystal chandeliers glinting off gold and coral wallpaper, clusters of red velvet armchairs, a bucket of champagne and two flutes sitting on the low cherry wood table. Like the rest of this hotel, it’s heated enough not to need a coat. This room alone is twice the size of the studio I shared with Dimitri—thinking his name sends a stab of something white-hot through my numbness. This room probably costs more per night than I’ve ever seen in my life. There are more rooms showing through open doors, a closed glass wrap-around terrace showing through thick gold curtains held aside with wide ties. The snow is falling harder now, the flakes beating at the glass.

Here I am in a penthouse suite. Let’s toast with champagne to my charmed life.

The door clicks behind me like the cocking of a pistol. I suddenly realise that I am alone here with my husband. The manager’s gone. So are the porters. Just him and me.

This time his hand rests on my lower back—too low—as he leads me through one of the doors. To the bedroom, another spacious, opulent room. Anxiousness ties another knot in my stomach. The bed looks monstrous enough to swallow me whole.

He unzips my dress from behind. The material peels off me down to the plush carpet. In seconds my strapless bra and panties are stripped off me too.

I am naked.

Naked.

I’ve never been naked in front of anyone before.

Dimi was supposed to be the one undressing me today. I was supposed to be wearing white lace instead of cream.

My husband walks around me, inspecting me as if I were a steed that he just bought at a market. I suppose I am. I think he likes what he sees because he smiles and mumbles something, his fingers exploring my breasts and down the quivering plane of my stomach. His touch is foreign. Removed.

Still, my nipples harden when he rubs and tweaks them. This single reaction of my body feels like a betrayal. Not just to Dimitri. But to me.

He fashions me into position like a doll, kneeling on all fours on the mattress that sinks like quicksand. I stare at the painting behind the bed of a ship on the horizon, wishing I were on it, wherever it was going. My fingers grip the sheets as I hear the tinkling of his belt coming undone. Dread coagulates