Page 79 of Slightly Married
“And what do you get out of this arrangement?” Her eyes narrowed.
“My wife back, I hope.” I met her gaze. “I’m trying to find solutions in an impossible situation.”
There was a brief softening around her eyes before the walls came back up. She exhaled slowly, dropping her shoulders.
“This marriage was only meant to be temporary,” she said, her voice quieter now. “I think it’s best we return to the terms of the contract.”
With that, she turned and continued up the stairs without another word, each step widening the gulf between us. I remained at the bottom, watching until she disappeared from view, fighting the instinct to follow.
When I returned to the kitchen, Michail was examining the contents of the folder with undisguised satisfaction. The smile spreading across his face reminded me eerily of Kayla’s.
“I told you she was stubborn,” he said, patting my shoulder. “It’s my fault, I’m afraid.”
“She has every right to her anger.”
“Indeed.” His eyes crinkled with amusement. “I thought you and Simone might have made a good match.”
I stiffened at the suggestion.
“But I was wrong,” he elaborated, closing the folder. “Simone and Matthaios will make a much better couple.”
“Matthaios and Simone will never happen,” I stated, thinking of my aunt’s face when Matthaios had confessed his misdeedslast night. Disappointment and disbelief had aged her ten years in an instant.
Michail’s smile turned smug, the expression settling into the deep lines around his mouth. “You’d be surprised what time can heal, especially with the right incentives. They’ll marry within the year. You’ll see.”
“Matthaios won’t be easily coerced,” I said simply, unwilling to engage further on the topic.
“Who said anything about coercion?” He shrugged. “Athanasiou men have always gone to any lengths to claim the woman they truly want. And though I didn’t raise Matthaios, he is no exception.”
The weeks that followed settled into a frustrating pattern. I returned to Michail’s Upper East Side mansion every day, hoping for a chance to speak with Kayla. Each visit ended with rejection.
“Miss Kayla isn’t receiving visitors today,” Raquel would say, her expression sympathetic as she stood in the doorway.
I called, texted, and even emailed a journal detailing the pregnancy milestones she might be experiencing. All went unacknowledged.
Between attempts to see Kayla, I accompanied my family to the police station for interviews. My uncle’s eldest son, Leon, refused any attempt we made to communicate with him. Nolan, my uncle’s youngest son, was noticeably absent from police proceedings.
“They’ve arrested Angela for your uncle’s murder,” my mother announced as I entered the penthouse one evening.
I moved closer, intrigued. “Really?”
“Yes.” Disgust colored her tone as she set down her teacup. “She’ll finally pay for her crime.”
“Let’s hope the evidence sticks,” I said, loosening my tie and feeling relief from the constriction. “Her defense team won’t go down without a fight.”
“And Kayla?” Mother’s question pivoted seamlessly. “Any progress?”
I shook my head and settled into the chair across from her. “None. She won’t see or speak to me.”
Mother sighed, adjusting her dress. “Have you tried talking from your heart?”
“I’ve tried everything,” I insisted. “I’ve explained the situation repeatedly.”
A knowing smile touched her lips. “There’s your problem.”
“What problem?”
“You’re just like your father. Treating this like a business negotiation.” She shifted forward. “Did I ever tell you how your father and I reconciled after our worst fight?”
