Arranged(55)

And then there was the rest of her.

I was slender, toned and fit, but shapely, my hips and bust exaggerated against my smaller waist.

She was a few inches shorter than me, but still statuesque, and on another level of curvy. There’d been hit songs written about her ass. She was a wet dream come to life. I felt like a skinny child next to her.

Comparison was a man’s device, meant to pit women against each other. I knew that, so I tried not to let my mind go down that road, but it was a struggle.

I didn’t know what to say to her, but she had plenty to say to me.

When she spoke her voice was low, sultry, and dripping with poison-laced honey. “Ah. You. The bride. I suppose it’s time we finally met. I’m Fatima. I assume you’ve heard of me?”

“I have,” I said evenly. There wasn’t so much as a hitch in my breath. I was proud of that.

We’d never spoken before, but I knew more about her than I wanted to. Some I’d been told, the rest I’d looked up myself with morbid curiosity.

Theirs was an old-school, tragic love story. Star-crossed, Romeo and Juliet shit. His family was old, wealthy beyond measure, and above all respectable. Hers gained and lost fortunes like it was a game of Monopoly and were rumored to be closely connected to the Turkish mafia. Or possibly the Russian mafia. Or both, depending on the website.

In spite of his family’s disapproval, they’d been together for years. And she’d gone directly from being engaged to him to married to her husband with no downtime at all.

I’d also found plenty of random, useless tidbits about her. She was four years older than my husband, had an unholy obsession with all things Gucci, and her DD breasts were real, fabulous, and had been plastered all over the internet thanks to her penchant for frequent topless sunbathing on her yacht.

“Did you need something?” I asked her, polite as I could manage. She’d been staring at me for moments that had dragged into forever.

“From you? No. I was looking for your husband. We got separated in the crowd.”

This was a scenario I’d gone over in my fake wife training. It was in the handbook under: Never admit it’s a fake marriage, even to his lover. Of course I’d never realized that when it came up just how it would feel, and how my instincts would kick in much more powerfully than my training.

“I saw him in the front row,” I retorted with all the fake haughty pride I could muster. “You weren’t with him.” After a moment I thought to add, “Because he’s here with me.”

Her reaction didn’t show up in the way her face shifted but rather the way it smoothed over into even more perfect neutrality. I’d hit some sort of a nerve there. Score one for the wife.

Of course, it didn’t take the mistress long to recover.

“You’re not staying at his Park Avenue residence, are you?” she asked archly. “I’ve never seen any sign of you there.”

I couldn’t have said what moved across my face at her words, but what moved through my chest felt like jagged claws in the shape of her long, red, sharp nails.

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.