Page 4 of Release Me
‘We need to leave.’ My gaze lingers on his collar. ‘You need to change. I’ll meet you in the car.’
He pauses for a long beat, and I send up a silent prayer he’s not going to have one of his hissy fits. His tantrums are as frequent as his affairs. ‘Fine,’ he concedes reluctantly.
I sidestep, darting around him, then take the elevator to the ground floor. It’s raining outside as usual. I sigh. I miss New York. Miss the hustle and bustle of the city. Miss the sunny evenings sipping champagne with my friends at Darling—the rooftop bar overlooking Central Park. And I miss proper bagels.
I cross the floor to where Patrick is talking with Paul, one of the security staff.
‘Mrs De Courcy.’ Patrick nods his head as he greets me. ‘Please. It’s Rebekka.’ I’ve begged him a million times not to call me that. I might be Anthony’s wife, but I point blank refuse to change my name—a fact which I know bugs the hell out of my husband. Naturally, that only makes me dig my heels in further.
He holds the door open and helps me into the Audi A8 where I wait, watching as the commuters pass by, oblivious to my inner turmoil and utter fucking miserable marriage.
My phone vibrates with a text.
Mom: Good luck tonight, sweetie. You will crush it. We appreciate everything you’ve done for this family. xxx
My chest constricts. Father might be a gambling asshole, but my mother is my best friend. She knows my marriage isn’t exactly a bed of roses, but I’ve tried to hide from her exactly how horrific things are.
They weren’t always this way.
We both tried in the beginning.
Then we simply found each other trying.
I blink back the tears threatening my eyes before they can ruin my make up. My highly polished image is my armour against the world—and against him. No matter how lonely I feel, how isolated, how fucking desperate, I’ll never let Anthony see it. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
The dreary evening reflects my inner gloom. I push it down and plaster a smile on my face as Anthony steps out of the building wearing a black tuxedo and a crisp white shirt. The man is a bastard, but he’s not a bad-looking bastard. It’s not hard to see why women flock to him.
Patrick opens the car door, and he slides in the back beside me, placing a possessive hand on my leg. He always does this when we’re in company—either smothers me with unwanted attention or point blank ignores me. It gives me whiplash.
Tonight, he squeezes my thigh, hard enough to bruise. His smile is razor sharp. I swat his hand away, and the gold bracelet on my right wrist tinkles as the charmscatch against each other with a delicate chime.Anthony looks down with disgust. ‘Why do you insist on wearing that tacky thing?’ he murmurs, low enough for only me to hear.
It’s not tacky. It’s a twenty-four carat gold Cartier, a record of my mother’s love mapped across my wrist. She gifted me a charm for every memorable milestone since I turned twenty-one. It’s the only piece of home I ever carry with me. And Anthony knows it.
I stare straight ahead, refusing to give him the reaction he craves.
Finally, Patrick pulls the Audi up to the steps of Dublin’s iconic Mansion House. Flashbulbs explode in the drizzle as umbrellas sprout like mushrooms along the red carpet. Anthony straightens his cuffs, slides his mask of charm into place, then steps out first. He offers his hand like we’re the picture of marital bliss. I plaster my smile on and slip my palm into his, every click of the camera capturing the lie of our lives.
Inside the building, warmth and light envelop me. Chandeliers sparkle overhead, spilling light across marble floors polished to a mirror shine. My PA, Serena, is waiting by the cloakroom doors, clipboard clutched to her chest, her headset slightly askew in her rush to get to me.
‘Ms Remington—thank God.’ She knows better than to call me by my married name. ‘The Minister for Culture is eager to say hello before dinner. Oh, and Alex Carden is already here—he wants a word about his next contract.’
I nod, my eyes already sweeping the glittering foyer. Celebrities cluster like jewels, champagne flutes catching the light. Alex Carden, Ireland’s hottest new crime novelist, is holding court in a sharp three-piece suit, gesturing wildly as journalists scribble down every word he utters.
The crowd hums with money, influence, and ego—but none bigger than my husband’s. Anthony squeezes my waist for the cameras one last time before his mask slips. ‘Bankers to schmooze,’ he mutters, pressing a perfunctory kiss to my cheek before striding off towards a knot of grey-haired men in tuxedos. They part for him as though he’s royalty.
I fight the urge to wipe the spot his lips just polluted and exhale the breath I’d been holding. My shoulders square as I follow Serena through the opulent archways to where the drinks reception is being held. The air is thick with expensive cologne, the fizz of champagne, and the murmur of polite conversation. Waiters circle with silver trays, the champagne flutes catching the light like little shards of glass.
I spot the Minister for Culture across the room, surrounded by well-wishers, his polished smile turns firmly in my direction. I fix mine in place and start towards him.
And then I seehim.
Rian Beckett.
The ridiculously hot, flirtatious guy from my engagement party.
Our best man.
My husband’s best friend.
