Page 40 of Inconvenient Marriage
And I manage to do that until one Friday night, three weeks after our wedding, when I haven’t heard from Sebastien in two days and I let the bubbling jealousy erupt like a volcano.
I don’t even know what triggers it. I’m used to being in my apartment alone. Sebastien hasn’t asked me to come home with him since I proposed to him, and even when we have dinner, he drops me off at my door, the perfect gentleman. It shouldn’t bother me that it’s eight o’clock, my dinner is sitting heavily in my stomach, and my mind is providing unnecessary images of my husband kissing some faceless woman before offering her his hand, then leading her to a quiet spot so that he could fuck her the same way he fucked me once.
I shouldn’t. I know better. I should grab a glass of wine, dull my jealous ache, and go to bed early?—
I grab my phone. Taking a deep breath, I scroll down to H in my contacts and press the only one there.
It rings once.
“Love.” His voice is warm, and my stomach flip-flops. “Was just thinking about you.”
I called him. I proposed to him. This is my idea… and hearing him call me ‘love’ like that hurts more than it should. Not when he can’t ever really mean it. “You shouldn’t call me that.”
Or tell me you’re thinking about me when all I’ve been doing lately is obsessing overyou.
“Shouldn’t,” he echoes cheerfully. “Still going to.”
Damn it, Annaliese. Why does the way he say that soothe something jagged inside your chest? I shake my head, then findmyself blurting out: “Just thought I’d call to say ‘hi’. I mean, if that’s okay.”
“Of course it is. It made my day, hearing your voice. What’s up? Is something wrong?”
I’m not surprised that he asked me that. After all, I only badgered her into this marriage for protection. “No. I was bored. Though I’d see what you’re doing.”
Instead of telling me it’s none of my business, Sebastien actually answers me. “About to head out. I was supposed to meet with Dallas, but he bailed on me so I figured I’d go get a drink by myself.”
A drink.
With who?
How many Used women will throw themselves at him tonight?
“Where?” I ask. It comes out before I can think better of it.
There’s a beat. “Why? Planning to join me?”
Holy shit. I wasn’t expectingthatanswer, but if he’s offering… “If you’d like the company, I wouldn’t mind getting a drink.”
He exhales softly, and unless I’m imagining it, he soundspleased. “Great. I’ll come pick you up. Twenty minutes okay?”
I glance down at myself, my heart already thudding at the idea of going on a sort-of date with my husband—even if it’s one I basically invited myself on. “Yeah. That’s okay.”
“See you then, love,” Sebastien says, hanging up before I can chide him for using his pet name for me again.
The moment the line goes dead, I toss my phone and hop up from the couch. This isn’t just dinner with Sebastien at an Order-run dinner. I’m good at those; my relationship with Eric made me a pro, even if all of our dinners were kept to the shadowy corners and backrooms where he kept me hidden. But drinks? There’s no way not to compare this to the night we first met, andif I suddenly want to relive that night more than anything, I can’t help it.
I walk over to my closet, tug the door open, and freeze.
Looking inside, I see rows and rows of dresses. Soft colors, pinks and creams and lavenders. All of their necklines high, the hemlines low, none of them climbing higher than my knees. I see silks and chiffons and purposely curated elegance.
The outfits that Eric bought for me are probably still at his house; if not there, then a landfill. Even so, when I moved out, I built a wardrobe that he would’ve been proud of. Not on purpose. Totally subconsciously. That’s what so many years of being trained by your much older lover gets you, I guess.
He wanted the perfect Offering.
The perfect mistress.
That’s what I became, but now I’m neither. I’m Sebastien Reynolds’ wife, and as I reach for one of the dresses out of habit, I stop halfway as a memory rushes back to me.
It’s Sebastien. Either the first night he picked me up for dinner or the second… he’d knocked at my door, and when I let him in, he cast his gaze over my clutch, my proper dress, my chignon, and my understated makeup. He smiled, but then he said in a soft voice, “You don’t have to try so hard for me, love.”
