I spin around, a curt dismissal on my tongue, then stop. Belle.
Her pale face is pinched. Not even the expert makeup can hide the strain. Pain has turned her emerald eyes glassy, and I take her hand. It feels like ice. My irritation instantly vanishes, replaced by concern. I wrap an arm around her shoulders and she sags against me for an instant, as though she’s absorbing my warmth and strength. But a moment later she straightens and gathers herself. I feel the loss keenly.
“Are you all right?” I ask, keeping my voice low and soothing.
“I’m fine. Just a little tired. Where’s the dining hall? I couldn’t find it.”
She doesn’t meet my gaze, and I know she isn’t telling me the entire truth. There is no way she couldn’t find the dining area, since the most of the guests went that way. And she is not at all fine. From the listless way she’s talking, I know she’s autocorrecting her real answer with what she wants me to hear.
Hating the awkward tension, I offer her an arm. She hesitates, starts to slip her hand in the crook of my elbow, then slowly lowers both hands to hang by her sides instead. “Let’s go.”
I don’t want to go. I want to talk to her, make sure she’s all right, but what choice do I have for now? I escort her slowly, all the while knowing that I have to do something soon. My problem: I don’t know what that something is.
Chapter Eight
Elliot
The dinner commences without any drama, but then, people behave themselves at events like this. I’m annoyed that Annabelle Underhill has been seated in my line of sight, which means she’s also in Belle’s. What I wouldn’t give to have the earth open up and swallow her whole…and then spit her out in the middle of the Mongolian desert.
Interestingly, she isn’t with her husband. A man in his late twenties or early thirties is with her, and I recognize him the moment he turns his head and looks straight at me. He has hair entirely too long, the black locks brushing the top of his collarbones. He isn’t classically handsome the way Ryder is, but he’s striking in his own way, and women check him out with appreciation in their gaze. His icy blue eyes assess me clinically and thoroughly, and I return the favor. He’s a self-made billionaire himself, most of his money made in real estate and online media, if I remember correctly. What the hell is he doing with Stanton’s wife?
And if she has him as her friend, why the hell did she try to feed me that line of bullshit earlier about us being fated to be together? Her date is a much better target than I am. He’s plenty rich, and—unlike me—probably doesn’t know what kind of a viper she is.
But I dismiss the two of them. I have other things to worry about—mainly my wife.
Belle is seated next to me. She is stunning, absolutely gorgeous in that ice-blue dress. It brings out the fire in her hair and deepens the color of her eyes to forest green. More than a few men look at her admiringly, and I give them a warning glance. Most get the hint; for the ones who don’t, a second long, cold stare while fondling my steak knife gets the point across.
This isn’t like me. I don’t usually go all caveman over a woman, but I don’t give a fuck. Belle is my wife, and I’ll be damned if some loser is going to drool all over her. Even the huge Asscher-cut diamond and wedding band on her finger seem inadequate to show our union, and it doesn’t help that she’s careful to not touch me…which, perversely, makes me want to touch her. And I do—my elbow brushes hers and I let my fingers caress hers when I hand her the salt. Each time, she gives me a reserved smile. She gives the same smile to the other people around us, but it becomes strained every time she happens to glimpse Annabelle Underhill.
Belle’s mood affects mine.
No, that isn’t entirely a fair assessment. It is her mood plus Elizabeth’s vodka-infused comments earlier.
I study the way my wife lets her mouth smile. Her eyes are watchful and dark. Never once do they brighten with good humor.
Is this how people slowly retreat? Is this what happens when they start to become indifferent?
Even as I wonder, resentment stirs inside me. Why should she be upset when I’m the one who was wronged? I’ve given her chances. If she’d come clean at any of those times, I would have never held it against her—
“Great fish,” a man who’s been sitting to my right says, looking at me expectantly. He’s at least in his late fifties, his hair more gray than black.
I look down at my plate. Sure enough, it’s some kind of white fish with some kind of white sauce, and I’ve already had a few bites. The problem is I don’t remember how it tasted. “Yes…succulent,” I manage.
“Your sister always knows how to put these things together.”
“That she does.”
I signal for more wine, and drink while pretending to enjoy the meal. Gavin and Amandine didn’t come—she isn’t feeling well—and now I wish I’d canceled, too. Elizabeth wouldn’t have minded as long as she got my donation.
“Your brother and his wife seem to be quite the happy couple,” the man continues.
“Ryder would’ve never married a woman he didn’t love, and I can say the same about Paige,” I answer, taking a quick glance in their direction.
Ryder whispers something in her ear; she flushes and giggles, slapping his shoulder affectionately. Even if I had no clue how they really felt, watching them would dispel any doubts. My brother can pull off the lovesick routine. He’s a brilliant actor, after all. But Paige? She couldn’t act for shit, even if her life depended on it. Her reaction to him is one hundred percent genuine.
“Surprising, isn’t it? Didn’t really seem like she’d be his type.” The man looks at me expectantly, like he honestly thinks I’ll pursue this brain-cell-killing line of conversation. When I ignore him, he says, “Don’t you think?”
“Think what? Who says she’s not his type?” I ask tersely.
