Page 32 of Release Me
‘Thank you, Patrick.’ For all the pomp and sparkle waiting at the top, this part—walking in alone—is the loneliest stretch of all.
Warmth hits me the second I cross the threshold—heat from the magnificent marble fireplace, and from a hundred bodies swarming the room sipping on champagne—probably Beckett’s own brand. This place might be a mansion, but it’s clear to see it’s also a home. A sea of smiling faces fill the room as the swell of a string quartet floats down from the gallery above. The entrance hall gleams with garlands and white roses. It’s opulent, yet understated.
As I shrug off my wrap, a blur of tulle and Jo Malone perfume barrels toward me.
‘Beks!’ Ivy squeals, wrapping me in a hug, flooding me with the first genuine affection I’ve felt since I returned from New York a couple of weeks ago.
A heartbeat later, Avery swoops in from the other side, looping an arm through mine and pressing a flute of champagne into my free hand.
‘You look incredible,’ Avery says, giving an approvingsweep of my dress. ‘Like, dangerous levels of incredible. You must be on a promise tonight,’ she winks knowingly.
My smile freezes on my face.
The only thing I’m promised tonight is another night alone in my bed while my husband slips back to his office to “work late”. But while I’m here, surrounded by these stunning creatures, the sting of Anthony’s indifference fades beneath their easy warmth.
‘Apparently, I’m not supposed to drink too much tonight,’ I murmur, lifting the glass.
Ivy’s brows shoot up. ‘Anthony said that?’
‘Of course he did,’ Avery says, rolling her eyes. ‘Because she’s on a promise.’
‘Oh ladies.’ I sigh before taking a mouthful of bubbles. ‘You know my marriage wasn’t born of love.’
‘But you are happy, aren’t you?’ Avery pries, her eyes darting over my face, scanning for any telltale signs. ‘He is good to you, isn’t he?’
Ivy shoots Avery a warning look, but Avery stares at me obliviously. I bite my lower lip and glance at the floor, anywhere but at their faces. I refuse to be pitied. If they don’t already know about Anthony’s stream of affairs, it won’t take them long to find out, especially not the way he’s parading this one around. Besides, they’d only have to ask their men.
‘Avery,’ Ivy scolds, swatting her arm. ‘Watch your mouth. Not everyone wishes to discuss the nitty-gritty details of their relationship!’
‘Hello—that’s rich coming from you!’ Avery laughs, and Ivy blushes, and thankfully the attention is diverted from me. ‘Sorry, Rebekka, I should think before I open my mouth.’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ I say, ‘Now, let’s get lit!’
They eye each other in confusion. ‘What do you Irish call it? Drunk? Hammered? Bananas?’
‘Shit-faced!’ they squeal in unison.
‘Yep! That’s the one.’ I raise my glass and clink it against theirs. ‘Where are Scarlett and Layla?’
‘Probably having a sneaky shag,’ Avery snorts.
My head whips up.
‘Not with each other!’ She guffaws. ‘Scarlett and James are notorious for sneaking off for a sly one—he can’t keep his hands off her. And given Layla and Sean are late, I can only presume they got delayed for a very decent reason, if you know what I mean.’ She winks again.
‘Lucky them.’ I sigh, forcing a smile again. It’s been over a year since Anthony tried to touch me, and while I’m grateful, because it was awkward, stilted and I lived in fear of him giving me more than just his mediocre penis, there is a part of me that misses the intimacy of having a man between my legs. Just not him.
They exchange a look that assures me I’ve said too much, yet nowhere near enough.
Avery can’t seem to help herself, despite Ivy’s warning. ‘You and Anthony do have sex?’ she asks in a whispered tone.
‘He has plenty of it, by all accounts.’ A bitter laugh leaves my lips. ‘Just not with me.’
‘That’s awful,’ Ivy’s eyes crinkle. She clutches the space over her heart like she feels my pain acutely.
Avery’s expression turns positively murderous. ‘Do you want me to have him killed? It can be arranged,’ she assures me with a grimace, her huge eyes flicking towards her fiancé, Killian.
‘I’d need to check the prenup first,’ I joke dryly. ‘Knowing my husband, he’d find a way to screw me in death, instead of life.’
