Beautiful Revenge (A Good Wife #1) - Sienna Blake Page 0,35

lunch. At dinner. I can’t stand his presence. It cuts me open.

And Emily, poor Emily. I can hardly stand to be around her anymore. All she wants to do is to talk about him. My screams inside become more and more pressurized until I can’t take it anymore.

I hear a groan behind me, feel fingers on my hip, a pulse inside me. My husband has just come.

I float back into my body as he lifts himself off me. He flops onto the bed, looking at me with a frown on his face. “What have you done with your hair?”

I touch the strands by my face. It’s gone back to its wild and curly natural way. “I…I haven’t been straightening it lately.” I don’t have the patience to straighten it every morning like I had taken to doing.

My husband studies my face, his lip curling up. “I don’t like it. It makes you look like a gypsy.”

I shrug. I’m beyond caring what my husband thinks.

Dimitri used to love it this way. My heart lets out a small throb. I roll off the bed and head to his en suite, grabbing my robe as I go.

In the bathroom, I stare at myself in the mirror. I’m twenty-one but I feel so much older. I feel like a prisoner in my own home. Not that this has ever really been home to me. But it’s as good as it gets for me. Dimitri thinks he can come in here and fuck it all up.

You are not a victim here, I tell myself. You still have influence in this household.

I wrap my robe around me like armour and step out of the en suite. My husband is sitting on his bed in his robe, his legs stretched out, reading glasses on his nose, and a pile of papers in his hand.

“Edgar?”

He looks up over his glasses. “Yes?”

I step closer, chewing on my lip, wondering how I should approach it. “How long is Mr Wolf staying?”

Edgar puts down his papers. “For however long it takes him to agree to a business deal.”

“So a few days?”

“Weeks, more like it. Maybe even months. Who knows how long it might take for us to negotiate a contract.”

Shit. I can’t deal with Dimitri for weeks or months. I clear my throat and offer my husband a smile. “I just think that perhaps he’d be more comfortable staying at your penthouse in London.”

“I already suggested that to him.”

“You did?”

“He said that he hates the city. He’d be more comfortable here at Worthington Manor where there’s fresh air and it’s quiet.”

No no no. It’s because I’m here and his life’s mission is to torture me.

I try another tact. “Won’t he get bored here with so little company?”

“He seems to enjoy Emily’s company.” There’s a knowing sparkle in my husband’s eyes.

I wince internally. He has noticed Dimitri’s fondness for Emily too.

“Regardless,” he continues, oblivious to my pain, “he shouldn’t be bored on Saturday.”

“Saturday?”

“Didn’t I tell you?” He pushes his glasses back up his nose and lifts his papers. “I’m throwing him a party.”

30

____________

Alena

Saturday comes. The house is alive with people rushing about, getting ready for the party; caterers carting in trays of food, a jazz quartet tuning up in the corner of the ballroom, florists setting up elaborate displays of lilies and white roses in the centre of every table.

I’ve already been faking an illness the last few days so I won’t have to suffer through meals with Dimitri, laughing with Emily and ignoring me.

Now I actually feel sick.

I wrap myself in my robe and walk down the corridor to my husband’s chambers. I want to beg off the party. Surely, Edgar will take pity on me.

I chew my lip as I enter my husband’s bedroom with a knock. He’s holding up two silk ties in front of him in the mirror, one pale blue, another pale green, both of them I hate. “Edgar?”

My husband frowns when he sees me. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

“I have a headache.”

I’m not lying. My temples are throbbing, my hands sweaty, my heart has been an erratic mess all day. I cannot face seeing Dimitri with Emily at the party. I cannot.

“Take some painkillers.”

“I have. They’re not working. I’m just going to skip the party.”

My husband’s face twists. He drops both ties and grabs my arm, his grip too tight. He ignores my protests as he marches me out of his bedroom and towards mine, just down the corridor. “You spoiled little girl.” He shoves me into