The Rivals - Dylan Allen Page 0,384

of my bed.

“Marcel, what are you doing?”

I fumble for my phone to check the time.

“Give me that,” he roars, and before I see him move, he grabs the phone from my hand and tosses it onto the bed.

I scramble to sitting and command my voice-controlled lights to full power. “What is going on?”

“I was served divorce papers in my office yesterday,” he says, in his deep, even toned voice. My pulse jumps. I knew they were being served. I should have expected he’d come straight here.

“Yes. Well, you can’t be surprised. We haven’t lived together in six years.” I keep my voice even, despite my heart beating like a bass drum.

“So what? You are my wife. There is no divorce, unless I say so.” He brings his hands together in a clap, as if signaling the end of the discussion.

I scoff. “Maybe in feudal France. But here, in Texas, I don’t need you to agree.”

He puts one hand on his hip and points at me. “I will not allow you to do this. You will not drag my name and my children’s names through the mud because you’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous, Marcel. To be jealous, you’d have to have been mine in the first place.”

“What does that mean? I am your husband.” He throws his hands up.

“Marcel, you are my spouse.” I wrap my comforter around myself and smooth my hair and try to look as dignified as the circumstances will allow. “You haven’t been my husband in years. I don’t want to live with you anymore. I don’t want your last name. I don’t want…”

The crack of his hand across my cheek comes from nowhere. It’s not a forceful slap, but only because Marcel is small and weak and lazy.

His gasp is louder and sharper than mine. “Oh, mon dieu…look what you made me do. You know I am not the kind of man to hit a woman.”

He starts to pace frantically, pulling at his hair. I take in his day’s growth of gray stubble and creases in the houndstooth Façonnable blazer he wears when he travels. He must have come here straight from the airport.

I touch the stinging spot on my cheek and eye him warily.

“I want you to leave. We have a prenup. This shouldn’t be messy. And we live separately anyway. The children will visit you, as they normally do, in the summer. When and if you come here, they can spend time with you in your home.

“This is my home. The children will visit me and so will their mother. You cannot do this,” he roars.

The last thing I need is for him to wake the children. “Get out. Or I’ll call the police.”

His gaze turns murderous. “You will not get away with this. You will not. Maybe you can get a divorce, but I will not let you have a life. You will not make a mockery of my family.”

“Are you kidding? Who is making a mockery of whom? Our nanny is having your baby, Marcel. You’ve been having affairs for as long as I’ve known you. I am tired of it, and I don’t need you.”

“You’ve never needed me. You made that obvious from day one. No, you married me because you wanted to be your grandfather’s pet again. And I married you because I wanted to own the woman who no one else could afford to buy.”

I flinch at his characterization. “But I’m not a fool, I know when a woman is wet and when she’s inserted lube before coming to bed. I didn’t complain. I just found a way to take care of my needs without making it your problem. Why can’t you do the same thing?” he hisses.

Guilt pricks my conscience and blood rushes to my cheeks, but I don’t apologize. I’m not sorry, but I didn’t realize he knew.

“I want free of this gilded prison. I want to travel and work and not spend my summers in Monaco. I don’t want to be your spouse, in any sense of the word.”

He pulls the papers out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

He pulls a slim gold lighter out of his pocket and sets the papers on fire.

“Marcel, burning them won’t make this go away. This is a no-fault state. You can’t stop this. It’s over.”

His face mottles red with anger. “Not even when I’m dead. We’re Catholic. We married in a Catholic church. You are my wife for eternity,” he snarls, and throws the burning papers onto my bed,