Arranged(56)

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.

If he’d had a choice, he’d be married to her.

I saw it all then with bitter clarity.

I’d brought my whole heart into this when he only had half of his own.

She’d claimed the rest.

I never even had a shot.

One thing that I noticed about them brought me some small ounce of relief. He didn’t smile for her. He didn’t laugh. He showed no outward signs of happiness at being close to her. She was as unwelcome of a surprise to him as she’d been to me.

And more encouraging still, my brooding husband appeared as stoic to her as he was to me. It didn’t mean anything, but the opposite would have meant more.

It took some time for my husband to make his way to my side, and I had enough small talk with strangers and glasses of champagne to feel at least a little bit of numbness by the time he got there.

He opened his mouth to say something to me when he drew close, but my own words beat him to the punch.

“If you wanted Fatima to think this is a real marriage,” I said in a quiet, terse voice, “you’re failing. She knows we don’t live together.”

Not a muscle moved on his face. Not a tic in his eye, not a twist of his lips, not a wrinkle in his brow. No expression marred his glacial eyes as they bore into me.

I wanted to take a step back from those eyes, but I held my ground. I was beyond cowering to him. And catering to him.

“Don’t.” His low voice was a warning: Danger. You’re trespassing here. Stay out of this. “Don’t talk to her. Don’t talk about her. The subject of Fatima is off-limits.”

I thought I might vomit. Hearing him say her name made me feel ill.

I’d never felt this way before. Jealousy was a terrible thing. I felt wretched. Heartsick with it. Utterly useless and inadequate. Like a silly, unwanted, pretty little doll.

He was grinding my heart under his boot. I didn’t think he was aware of that fact.

I also didn’t think that if he knew it would bother him one bit.

I was married to a man who was in love with another woman. I’d walked down the aisle with my eyes wide open. What I hadn’t understood, though, was that this fact would not stop me from falling in love with him.

He seemed to have put the subject behind him (that made one of us) and his eyes raked up and down my body, nostrils flaring, lip curling. He was pissed, and I didn’t think it was entirely to do with Fatima.

With casual finality, he took the glass out of my hand and set it aside with a caustically muttered, “You’re too young for that.” He paused. “At least you put on a robe backstage now,” he noted.

I shrugged. He wasn’t the only one pissed. “Usually. When I think of it.”

He had that look on his face again, the one he’d worn as I walked down the runway, the one that made me ponder whether he wanted to fuck me or throttle me on the spot.

“Okay, you won this round,” he said finally. He waved one hand negligently to indicate my body. “You do not possess even one ounce of modesty. And you have shown me that in spite of my wishes you can and will find a way to go around my rules.”

I couldn’t exactly argue with him. And worse, why did his words make me feel about an inch tall?

I thought this was just going to be a thorough dressing down, so I was taken aback by his next words. “Fine. You’ve made your point. Let’s negotiate.” I shouldn’t have been so taken by surprise. He was a business man through and through. “What would you like in exchange for giving me final approval over your dress code?” He paused, then added with sharp irony, “Final approval that you will actually adhere to.”

I didn’t even have to think of it. My brief, devastating clash with Fatima had done its damage, but it had also had the unintended effect of lighting a new fire in me. The fire of competition. “I want to see your apartment.”

He just stared at me, nonplussed. “You can’t be serious.”

“I can and I am.”

His surprise warred with chagrin on his face. “Reconsider. You can do better. Think jewelry. Money. I’m willing to be very generous for this concession.”

I didn’t hesitate. “Take it or leave it,” I said stubbornly.

He looked like a man who was trying to swallow a very bitter pill. “Fine,” he said through his teeth. “When would you like to see my apartment?”