Page 120 of Remi's War (Four Dark Horsemen 2)

Or will he cast me aside sooner, bored with little old me as his wife?

I have no time to focus on this depressing and confusing thought as the car door opens and a man bows a little, greeting us. “Welcome, Mrs. Reyes.” He extends his hand to me, and I grip it, getting out of the car, and instantly a flash goes off in my face.

The photographer checks the camera and smirks. “Nice.” Then he focuses it on me once again, when Remi wraps his arm around my waist, bringing me closer to him and pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Please look into the camera!” the man calls, and mortification runs through me at the prospect of posing for him and then having my photos in magazines for the whole world to see.

My husband ignores his request and instead nods at the staff member, who says, “Congratulations, Mr. Reyes.”

“Thanks. The dark four?”

The man motions to the doors. “They’re all inside.”

Remi pushes us toward the marble stairs and tells me, “Ignore the photographers. Atlas Price loves the press, so vultures will be on the hunt tonight.”

I glare at him, although still keeping my fake smile intact. “Do you know how to reassure a girl or what?” Sarcasm drips from me, and I hear a woman gasp, whispering something to her suitor as they look at us.

Great.

People are already judging.

Remi doesn’t let me dwell on it much though as he drags me inside the house, and instantly the scent of flowers and expensive cologne mixed with tobacco assaults my senses as my eyes drink in the gorgeousness around me that could rival the one we just encountered outside.

A gold-and-platinum color scheme dominates the huge place with marble floors glistening under the light—so spotless it might even show us our reflection.

However, that’s not what strikes me the most; it’s the paintings hanging on the wall in this hallway, depicting gory images of four riders arriving into this world to cause chaos on humankind. The oil paintings almost serve as a warning to enter at your own risk and accept any consequences.

Massive staircases with brown railings invite you upstairs, yet the complete darkness there shows you that nothing good awaits you should you accept the invitation. Despite the mansion being featured in magazines due to its design, the Price family never, ever allowed anyone outside the family to go upstairs. Rumor has it, even their friends cannot go there, which rings alarm bells in my head.

Just what do they hide to have such rules?

I shiver a little at the weird feeling enveloping me in this house, stepping closer to Remi, who still keeps his hold on me while walking ahead to the arched doorway from where the music in the air comes.

And laughter.

Melodic and cold laughter designed to make me bite my nails in nervousness by being afraid to screw up somehow tonight, as I don’t just represent Remi.

My father’s name is on the line too, and the Walshes in general—not that I think anyone much remembers us, but still.

These are expensive clients, and I won’t be able to forgive myself if my behavior causes my dad to lose any of them.

“Penelope, relax,” Remi says once again, his fingers sinking into my waist and making me hyper-aware of him. “It’s a birthday party.”

“It’s easy for you to say. You know them all.” And he rules them all too.

The Four Dark Horsemen can literally bankrupt whoever they wish at this party, yet his power hardly calms me.

An emotion I cannot name crosses his face, and an odd note coats his tone when he replies, “Trust me, chérie. No one has the power to hurt me or what belongs to me. Not anymore.”

The statement is so curt I have no idea what to say to that, because I feel like I’ve stepped on a mine but don’t know what exactly it blew up within my husband.

Maybe I just need to shut up, as the aching throb in my head doesn’t help the situation at all.

Various servers carrying trays with food and drinks move smoothly through the hallway toward the room, plastering polite smiles on their faces while wearing black uniform consisting of pants and a shirt.

One of them stops by us. “Would you like something to drink?” Since all she has to offer is champagne, I shake my head, and she darts off while I stand still in the doorjamb.

Since the people still haven’t noticed our arrival, it gives me some time to assess the situation.

Women and men wearing expensive clothes from the latest designer collections occupy the spacious ballroom, engaged in heated conversations with each other while either drinking or eating snacks, erupting in laughter every other second.

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