Mister and Missus By E L James - 54

Alessia looks away, the sight too painful to endure as her head spins and bile rises in her throat. She swallows down the bitter taste, feeling light-headed. The room is suddenly too warm and too small for her to remain. The notion that she’s intruding on her husband crystalizes in her mind.

Perhaps he always behaves this way.

Alessia wouldn’t know, as they’ve not been in a large social setting like this before.

This is him. This is what he does. Caroline warned her.

Alessia stands, swaying slightly from the shock of what she’s witnessed, and refusing to glance in his direction again. She turns to Grisha. “I need to get out of here.”

“Are you okay?” Henry asks.

Alessia shakes her head.

Grisha’s brows knit together, his concern almost tangible. “Do you feel faint?”

Alessia nods. She just wants to get away. Now. “I need air.”

Frowning, Henry turns to view the now-disinterested congregation below. “I’ll get help,” she says, stepping to the balcony rail to scan the crowd.

“Here.” Grisha grabs Alessia’s hand and leads her to the bookshelves, where he presses an unseen button, and one of the bookcases swings open, revealing a hidden passageway. “Follow me.”

Alessia stumbles after him and hears the click of the bookshelf closing behind her.

“Sit down, Charlotte. You’re drunk. And haven’t you heard, I’m married.” Shocked at Charlotte’s behavior, I guide her to sit in a vacant armchair, so she’ll have less chance of falling flat on her face. She peers up at me, her expression scornful.

“I hear you married your daily.”

“I married the woman I love.”

She snorts. “Is she up the duff? How very eighteenth century of you, Maxim.”

“Fuck off, Charlotte,” I mutter and turn to go.

She grabs my hand. “I can’t believe you’re finally married,” she says.

“Believe it.” I raise my left hand, fingers spread so she can see my wedding ring. She’s never behaved like this. I wonder if she’s here alone or with her boyfriend. I look around but can’t see anyone paying attention to her. “Are you here on your own?”

“With a friend.”

“Where are they?”

She waves toward the crowd in the courtyard. “Caroline said…”

“What?” My scalp crawls. “What did Caroline say?”

Charlotte shakes her head. “That you’ll fuck any woman with a pulse.”

Fucking Caro.

“Even me. He’s dumped me,” she wails.

“Charlotte, show some bloody dignity. Plenty more fish and all that bollocks. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to find my wife.” I leave her, feeling a little tarnished after our encounter. Glancing up at the mezzanine, I can see Henry looking at one of the bookcases. Alarm skitters down my spine.

Where’s Alessia?

And where’s Grisha?

I work my way through the crowd, ignoring the curious looks and the odd offer of condolences and congratulations, and vault up the spiral staircase.

“Henry! Where’s Alessia?” I snap.

“Maxim. Hi. She disappeared with Grisha through this bookcase.”

What? Why?

I start feeling around the bookcase and find the hidden button. I press it, and the bookcase swings open.

“I was looking for that!” Henry exclaims.

“Come on. Let’s find her.”

The passageway is lit by a couple of inset LEDs, and it ends in a door that opens onto a spacious open-air terrace above the drawing room. A couple in a dark corner among the lush pot plants are having sex against the wall. I catch a glimpse of blond hair, and I’m relieved it’s not my wife. But I’m distracted by a shift in the light. A curtain closes in a room across from the terrace.

Has Grisha taken my wife in there?

Suddenly furious, I bolt through the terrace door, turn right, and burst through the bedroom door. Three men in various states of undress and arousal turn to face me in all their glory. A fourth is snorting a line of coke.

Shit.

“I’m so sorry.” I back up immediately, almost knocking over Henry, who’s hot on my heels. “Don’t go in there. It’s Ganymede central.”

There’s a muffled cry from inside the room. “I thought you’d locked the bloody door!”

“Dimitri’s parties never disappoint,” Henry says breathlessly.

“I think one of them was a cabinet minister. Come on. Alessia must have gone downstairs.”

Grisha leads Alessia into the kitchen, where he barks at one of the staff in what Alessia assumes is Russian. The young woman scurries off to fetch a glass of water and returns to Grisha moments later. “Here you go.” He hands Alessia the cut crystal tumbler, and she gratefully takes a long draft.

Perhaps Grisha is not so bad.

“Do you want to come down to the basement and let off some steam?” he asks, a gleam in his eye.

“No. I’d like to go home now,” Alessia responds, still wary.

“I’ll summon my driver.” He takes out his mobile and makes a call. “Where to?”

Alessia gives him the address on Chelsea Embankment, and he snaps the orders in the same foreign language into his phone, then hangs up. “My driver will be outside in a moment. You can leave out the back, the way we do, and avoid the cameras out front.” From his pocket, he fishes out a card. “Call me. When you’re home.”

“Why are you being so kind?” Alessia responds.

Grisha cracks a smile. “It would be very ungallant of me not to help such a talented and beautiful woman.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, but she can’t believe her luck… in fact, she can’t believe her luck, and a frisson of fear sends shivers up her spine.

Perhaps she’s been too hasty.

Maxim will be furious.

She lifts her chin.

Well, she is furious. How dare he bring her to this opulent event to “announce” their marriage and then kiss someone else?

“The car’s here. Let me see you out,” Grisha says and offers her his arm.

I cannot find my wife. I’ve been in the basement, where the fun is heating up. Several people are naked in the swimming pool, and writhing bodies cover the floor of the softly lit studio. A woman flings herself at me, throwing her arms around my neck, cocaine dust on her upper lip. And I gently set her aside. “I’m looking for my wife,” I growl. A quick scan of the bacchanalian horde in the studio tells me that Alessia’s not a participant.

Not that I’d expect her to be here—not my sweet, innocent wife.

But these people. It’s like they’re teenagers again.

And they’re probably being recorded.

Fuck. Where is she?

I head back upstairs, pull out my phone, and call Alessia once more. “Where are you?” I snap when I get her voicemail again, and I try to think what would make her run.

Someone from her recent past?

Maybe the traffickers.

Perhaps they have her. Again.

This is my darkest fear.

Hell. I find Tom and Joe. “Joe, please find Caroline and make sure she gets home in one piece. Tom, I can’t find Alessia.”

“Henry told me. She’s gone off to look for her in the other rooms. We’ll mount a search.” He grabs my upper arm and gives it a brief squeeze. “We’ll find her. Don’t fret, Trevethick.”

Fret! I’m going out of my fucking mind.

I nod in gratitude, unable to speak because there’s a slight risk I might lose it. Last time she disappeared—she’d been fucking kidnapped.

My phone rings and hope swells in my chest.

Fuck, it’s Oliver. I ignore the call.

Alessia sinks into the sumptuous leather of the Bentley SUV. The rear passenger door is super heavy, and she suspects the car is bulletproof. The driver gives her a cursory glance in the rearview mirror and, without saying a word, sets off into the night.

Only now, in the privacy of the vehicle, does Alessia allow herself to replay what she witnessed.

Maxim kissing another woman.

Kissing. Another. Woman.

Tears well in her eyes.

Caroline had warned her.

Darling, he’s slept with most of London.

Maryanne had tried to reassure her.

Reformed rakes make the best husbands.

Do they, though? Maybe they’ll always be rakes. But does this mean he loves her less?

I want the world to see that you’re mine.

Does it not work both ways?

Spouses have the same rights and duties toward each other. They should love and respect each other, maintain marital fidelity.

Their vows haunt her. Did they mean nothing to him?

O Zot. Was this inevitable? Her husband is just too promiscuous. Too handsome. Too charming.

A lump swells in her throat.

Her Mister. Her man.

She knew deep in her bones it would come to this.

She was never enough.

Alessia, you have been deluding yourself.

What will she do? Accept this? Leave? Alessia stares unseeing out of the window at the darkness between the lights of London.

Was it always going to come to this? A decision to stay or go? And for a moment, Alessia thinks of her mother and how her mother decided to stay… and her father is far worse than Maxim. Perhaps this is the lot of women as it has been for all time. The Albanian saying from the Kanun of Lekë Dukagjini springs to her mind: “Gruaja është një thes, e bërë për të duruar.”

A woman is a sack, made to endure.

I spot Grisha coming out of one of the sitting rooms and make my way toward him. “My wife? Where is she?”

“She’s gone home, Trevethick. You should take better care of her.”

What the hell? And I want to ask him why she left, but it’s none of his fucking business, though he seems to have made it so.

“What do you mean home?”

“She wanted to go home. I sent my car for her.” His simpering swagger makes me want to punch his stupid, arrogant face. “She was feeling unwell. You really need to—”

I walk away before I deck him and find Tom. “She’s gone home. Tell Joe to watch Caro. Last time I saw her, she was three sheets to the wind.”

“Will do, old boy. Glad you tracked down Alessia. I’ll check out that journalist you mentioned.”

“Thanks.”

In the cloakroom, I hand in my ticket and collect not just my coat but Alessia’s too. She’s left without her fucking coat. And she couldn’t be bothered to tell me.

What the hell?

What did I do?

Maybe she’s having second thoughts. I brought her to this den of iniquity and depravity, and she’s disgusted. Let’s face it, Alessia has not seen how the over-affluent can behave.

Fuck. I didn’t think of this.

I storm outside, past a blaze of flashlights from the paparazzi, and make my way down the road to grab a cab.

Much to Alessia’s relief, the Bentley draws up outside Maxim’s building. The driver climbs out and opens her door, holding his hand out for her.

“Thank you,” Alessia says as she takes it.

He nods and walks with her to the building. From her evening bag, she extracts the keys and unlocks the front door. Once she’s inside, the driver turns and clambers back into his vehicle.

It’s only as she calls for the elevator that she realizes that there are no paparazzi outside. They’re probably all still at Dimitri and Grisha’s.

Thank goodness.

In the elevator, she finds her phone and texts Grisha her thanks and to tell him that she’s arrived safely. There are a couple of missed calls from Maxim. She listens to his message as the elevator travels to the sixth floor.

Where are you? He sounds angry. Hurt. Confused.

The man doesn’t even know he’s behaved badly!

Maybe he doesn’t think he has!

Alessia storms out of the elevator and, using her key, opens the apartment door, slamming the door behind her.

The alarm is off.

Did they not set it when they left?

The familiar cloying scent of expensive perfume hangs in the air, and the hairs on Alessia’s neck stand to attention. The click, click of high heels alerts her to the end of the hallway, and standing in the doorway of the living room is Maxim’s mother.

Rowena.

In the back of the cab, my anger mounts. What the hell was she thinking? Abandoning me at a party? But why? I don’t understand what’s happened. Did Grisha say something? Did Caroline?

I check my phone. There’s the missed call from Oliver, but still nothing from Alessia.

Did she meet Arabella or Charlotte?

My scalp tingles.

Fucking Charlotte. That kiss.

Alessia must have seen us. That’s the only reason I can think of that could explain why she left without so much as a goodbye.

My relief is monumental.

That’s it. I lean back in the cab, feeling I finally have a handle on what’s going on.

But wait. Charlotte kissed me. Not the other way around. I have zero designs on my ex. I have zero designs on any other women. Surely Alessia should know that… Why would she doubt me? And the fact that she does doubt me grinds my gears. She’s punishing me for something that’s not my fault—and punishing me with the worst of my fears.

It’s aggravating.

Actually. I’m fucking furious.

Why the hell would she think I’d be interested in anyone else?

And from nowhere, loud and clear, the thought rings like a klaxon through my head.

Because of your past.

Your reputation.

Fuck.

My mood plummets even further. I’m going to have to convince my wife— again— that my past is in the past.

Alessia’s reeling and stands immobilized in the hallway while Rowena gawks at her.

Why is she here? How is she here?

Her mother-in-law purses her lips. “On your own, in Trevethick diamonds, I see. You’ve not wasted any time getting your little hands on our trinkets. Those earrings were one of my favorites back in the day. They’re a little de trop, now, don’t you think?”

Alessia finds her voice. “Hello, Rowena. May I help you? If you’re looking for Maxim, he’s out.”

Maxim’s mother folds her arms, remaining in the doorway, unmoving, unwavering, unwelcoming.

Hostile.

O Zot.

“You look very… nice, dear. But you’ll never make a countess. There’s a saying that we have in this country—you can’t make a silk purse from a sow’s ear. How much money do you want to walk out of my son’s life?”

Alessia feels like she’s been gut-punched. “What?”

“You heard.” Rowena slowly advances on Alessia. “My friend Heath has been doing a little investigation. Turns out you haven’t followed the correct procedure in this farce of a marriage to my son. It can easily be annulled.”

Not for the first time this evening, Alessia feels a little light-headed.

Heath? Her mother-in-law’s lover?

Rowena smiles. A smile so chilling that a shiver runs down Alessia’s back. “I’ll write you a check, and you can go. Lead the life you were meant to lead. Not this one—it’s not for you. And it’s not for Maxim either. He’ll need someone with a gentility and refinement that you couldn’t possibly achieve. Someone with breeding who won’t bring scorn and embarrassment to the Trevethick legacy. He needs someone worthy. Someone who can offer him more. And that’s not you, my dear. What could you possibly give him?

“He’s only married you to spite me. He’s a man who likes a good time; I’m sure you’re aware of what I mean by that. It won’t be long until he strays. He doesn’t want the job of the earldom, and he’s set himself up to fail by marrying you. You can see that, can’t you?

“So, how much?”

“I want nothing from you,” Alessia whispers, her heart beating a frantic tattoo. “And maybe, if you’d been a better mother, your son might have a better respect for women, and chosen someone with all the qualities you wish for in a daughter-in-law. But maybe, because you are his mother, he didn’t. He chose me. And I am glad to say I am nothing like you.”

Rowena gasps, shocked.

Alessia walks to the door. “I think it’s time you left.”

The key rattles in the lock, and Maxim appears on the threshold.

When I open my front door, I’m met by my mother and my wife facing off in the hall, in an atmosphere so frigid, it might freeze my nuts off. My relief that Alessia’s home and safe is tempered by my anxiety.

What in the name of hell is going on here?