Mister and Missus By E L James - 55

Rowena and Alessia stare at me—my mother cold and brittle in black Chanel, my wife magnificent in red Alaïa—and I know in my soul they’ve exchanged heated words. Alessia’s eyes shine with unshed tears, and I suspect my mother has been a complete and utter bitch.

But, magnificent or not, I’m also really fucking angry with Alessia right now. Angrier than I’ve ever been. “We’ll talk later,” I mutter to her, holding up a finger in warning. “Though, I’m glad you’re home. Safe.”

And what I really want to do is grab her and kiss her and fuck her until she forgets everything but me, but now is not the time. I turn to Rowena. “Mother, to what do we owe the pleasure?”

She purses her scarlet lips and squints at me in her myopic way, radiating tension and irritation. The doorbell rings, startling us all, and because I’m right beside it, I open the door, wondering who in the hell is calling at midnight. Maryanne stands on the threshold, wilting and wrung out in her scrubs. She casts a tired, wary, I-may-know-what’s-going-on-but-I’m-not-sure look at me and shuffles in as I step aside.

“A family reunion. Past midnight. How quaint.” My sarcasm hides the fact that I’m completely blindsided by them both being here. It’s after fucking midnight, I’m about to have a massive row with my wife, and I thought my mother was in New York avoiding me.

Maryanne follows in our mother’s expensive-perfumed wake, and they head down the hallway to the drawing room.

“Please. Come in. Make yourself at home,” I offer to their backs, altogether bemused that they’re both here. The Mothership has come all the way from Manhattan. I just wanted her to return my call. Not turn up on my bloody doorstep.

I hang up the coats and turn to find Alessia eyeing me warily. She’s said nothing. I reach for her hand, and she snatches hers away.

Okay. She’s pissed off. “We’ll talk about whatever’s bugging you and why you fled without telling me once I’ve dealt with the Mothership.”

Alessia raises her head, her eyes flashing.

Okay, she’s really fucking pissed.

“She was here when I arrived home,” she says.

“In the flat?”

“Yes.”

How the hell did she get in?

“Let’s see what she wants.” Icily formal, I motion for my wife to proceed me and walk toward the drawing room. “After you.” I’m relieved when she does as she’s asked. I’m anxious to hear what my mother has to say because she’s felt the need to make a personal appearance.

This is very out of character.

Rowena stands in the center of the room, and from the disdain on her face, I suspect she’s appraising it and finding it lacking. She scans me from head to toe and reaches the same conclusion. “Hello, Maxim.” Her tone is clipped and, if I’m not mistaken, weary.

No niceties.

No cheek for me to grace with a kiss.

Not even her usual nasty sarcasm.

“You had a fine evening out, with or without your… wife?” The word wife is a sneer.

Ah. There she is. The Rowena I know. What the hell has she said to Alessia?

I glance at Alessia, who’s frozen beside me, her dark eyes obsidian as she stares at my mother with thinly veiled hostility.

“What I’ve been doing with my wife is none of your concern. And how did you get into my flat?”

“I bullied Oliver into giving me a key and the code for your alarm. He said he’d send you an email.”

Ah. I remember his missed call. I’ll have words with him on Monday, but I can only imagine the altercation they had for him to surrender my keys. Maryanne, who’s said nothing, shrugs, her face a picture of tired bemusement, and she flops onto the sofa.

“You and your dubious marriage are all over the press.” Rowena purses her lips in disgust.

“Mother, you are the fucking press!” I retort.

Is this why she’s here? My marriage? Or is it Kit?

She peers down her nose in that annoying, haughty way she has. “I’m the editor and proprietor of one of the UK’s leading women’s lifestyle magazines. Not the gutter press.”

Alessia moves, recovering some of her composure. “May I take your jacket? And would you like some coffee?” she interjects quickly.

“Please,” Maryanne half sighs, half gasps from the sofa. She’s obviously exhausted. “Then we can get this masquerade over, and I can get some sleep.”

“Really, Maryanne,” Rowena scolds, her lips pinched. “I’ll keep my jacket. And yes. I’d like some coffee. Real coffee.” Her tone is that of a woman in charge, but it’s only now that I notice she’s clutching a dainty handkerchief like her life depends on it.

Alessia squares her shoulders and lifts her chin. “It’s all we have.” And she gives her mother-in-law a slight smile she doesn’t mean, turns on her Jimmy Choo heels, and struts out of the room in her sensational dress.

“So, to what do we owe this honor, Rowena?”

She turns bright blue eyes to me, and in them, I see… raw pain and uncertainty. It’s completely confounding. All the animosity I usually feel in her presence evaporates, leaving me defenseless.

A torn white flag in a storm.

Fuck. Mate.

“Please. Sit,” I whisper, gesturing feebly toward the sofa.

She takes a deep breath. “No. You sit. You’ll need to.”

Like an automaton, I do exactly as she asks and perch on the sofa, waiting for whatever devastating news she has to give Maryanne and me.

Because something’s wrong.

Seriously wrong.

She gathers herself, in that way she does—as editor, former countess, former It-girl—and raises her chin, just like my wife. “I felt your last text message regarding Kit and his condition needed a personal reply.” She starts to pace while clutching her monogrammed handkerchief—and Maryanne and I watch wide-eyed, not chancing a glance at each other as our mother continues to act entirely out of character. “In answer to your message, you have nothing to worry about, Maxim. Neither of you have anything to worry about. Nothing.”

Maryanne nods as if she’s confirming a diagnosis.

What the hell does she know that I don’t?

“Mama, please. I just got married. We want children.”

Her lips thin. “You figure it out. I repeat. It’s nothing to do with you or Maryanne.”

I frown as I fail to make any connection with what she’s saying and what could possibly have been wrong with Kit, and why that has nothing to do with me or my sister.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, you’re so obtuse, Maxie!” Maryanne explodes.

What?

“Daddy was not Kit’s father.” Each word is a staccato expletive from Maryanne’s mouth.

There are times when the world tips on its axis and starts to spin at a different and untried trajectory. When the world that you knew stops being and begins anew.

Like when my mother left my father.

Like when my father died.

Like when Kit died.

And, more hopefully, when I met Alessia.

And now, all that I knew and took for granted from my childhood has disappeared in five devastating words.

“So, you see. You have nothing to worry about,” Rowena says, her quiet tone tinged with the grief of a mother who’s lost her favorite child.

Not a child of the family.

Her own boy.

Her own blue-eyed boy.

Alessia appears in the doorway, bearing a tray with delicate espresso cups and saucers and an elegant cafetiere that I didn’t know we had. She places it on the coffee table in front of the sofa and looks warily at me before sitting at my side.

No one moves.

“Did Daddy know?” Maryanne’s question echoes with righteous indignation through the oppressive atmosphere within the drawing room.

“Yes.” My mother fists her hands.

“And he took your shame to his grave,” Maryanne continues in the same vein.

Rowena closes her eyes. “Yes.”

She turns to me, a tear sliding down her cheek.

Fuck. I have never seen my mother cry, and my emotions crowd into my throat and stay there. Expanding and smothering me.

“Say something,” she hisses.

But I’m hollow. Lost for words at her treachery and betrayal—a mere casual observer to a family tragedy.

My poor father.

My champion.

It all makes sense now.

“So, to be clear,” Maryanne says as she stands, “it was Kit’s biological father who had an issue.”

“Yes. He died last year from his condition.”

Fuck.

What I should feel… is relief. But there’s nothing.

Except perhaps a bottomless rage on behalf of my father.

On behalf of Kit.

“Did Kit know?” The words are out of my mouth.

Rowena makes a strange, strangled noise.

“Did he find out over New Year?” Maryanne’s voice is quiet with recrimination as tears pool in her eyes. My faithless mother closes her eyes once more, grasps her handkerchief, and emits an unearthly, spine-tingling cry as if she’s being disemboweled.

Fuck. He knew.

That’s why he was out on his motorcycle, haring through Trevethick’s wintry lanes.

Maryanne lets out a similar sounding sob, her green eyes blazing with the ugliness of this tragic news; she stands and storms out of the room, down the hallway, and leaves, slamming the front door.

“Does Caroline know?” I ask.

My mother shakes her head.

“Good. We should leave it that way. Thank you for clearing that up. I think perhaps you should leave now.” I’m back—the detached persona I’ve cultivated over the years to deal with my mother restored.

She nods, unable to speak.

“May I get you anything?” Alessia asks.

Rowena seems to recover and peers down her nose at my beautiful, compassionate wife. “No. I don’t need anything from the likes of you.”

My detachment evaporates, and behind it is a seething cauldron of rage. “Rowena, don’t you dare speak to my wife like that,” I warn between gritted teeth.

“Maxim. Now you know. You are your father’s son. A knight in shining armor—a sucker for a damsel in distress. Well, this damsel”—she points an elegant scarlet fingernail at herself—“was up to the task of the Trevethick legacy. I doubt your… daily will be. You need someone of your own class, someone English who understands the pressures of the title and your position in society. Someone who can help you fulfill the role you were born to and help protect our legacy. Besides, it’s not as if your marriage was legal. Heath has done some research.”

Alessia flinches as if she’s been physically assaulted.

What the hell! Heath? Heath!

“Get out. Get out now.” Maxim is on his feet, and Alessia stands too.

They’re a show of force. Together.

His mother casts a superior, scornful eye over them both, but Alessia sees through her veil of detachment as Rowena swallows, her jaw strained; she’s wounded and hurt—rejected by both of her children—and she’s lashing out, especially at Alessia who’s an easy target. She’s already been at the bitter end of Rowena’s vicious tongue this evening.

“And you finally addressed me as mama,” Rowena whispers as she regards her son. “It was too much to hope that you might find some compassion for me.” She turns and waltzes out of the room, her heels clicking on the hardwood floor, echoing down the hallway until she exits quietly through the front door.

Compassion? For her?

And she knows! About our marriage because of Heath! Her fuckboy! Shit!

Alessia turns her elfin face to me, her eyes impossibly large, and I blow out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. “You okay?” I ask, my heart beating at a furious pace, pumping adrenaline through my body, so I’m ready to fight or flee.

I’m ready to fight. But Rowena’s gone. Is Alessia going to fight?

She nods. “You?”

“I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel after that… bombshell. I’m so sorry that you had to witness that and bear the brunt of her meltdown.” I drag a hand through my hair, trying to assimilate what’s just happened.

Kit was my half-brother.

Hell.

“I heard what she said. Did you know?”

“No. I’m stunned. My mother, a pillar of the establishment.” I take Alessia’s hand and pull her into my arms.

We stand dazed and confused in each other’s clutches for seconds… minutes—I don’t know—as I try to recalibrate my life from within this new prism. All I have is questions that I was too stunned to ask before she left.

Did my father know when they married?

Who was Kit’s father?

Shit.

Alessia pulls away, and I remember that she and I have yet to clear the air.

“Is this why you have been distracted?” Alessia asks as she tries to find some equilibrium.

“Yes. Caroline came to the office with the letters from Kit’s GP and a genetic counseling service.”

Alessia’s hackles rise, equilibrium lost, and she stiffens. For the life of her, Alessia does not trust Caroline. Even after the pleasant time they spent together today. She knows Caroline is in love with Maxim. Maybe she was always in love with him but married his brother for the title, wealth, and social standing.

Maxim regards her warily. “She needed to show me the letters. I told you.”

“She said she’s working with you. You didn’t tell me that.”

Maxim frowns. “No, not with me. For me, I suppose. Well, for the estate. Honestly, Alessia,” he huffs in frustration, “Caroline isn’t important. She’s the least of our issues right now. What is important was I thought that I might have a debilitating condition. I texted my mother to see if she knew anything about Kit. She wouldn’t talk to me. Until now.”

“And you didn’t tell me that either.”

Maxim closes his eyes and rubs his forehead. “No. I thought you’d leave me.”

It’s the third time this evening that Alessia’s felt winded.

Uau. How could he think that? “I would never leave you—”

“You did fucking leave!” I almost shout. “At the party, tonight. Without even a goodbye. Why?”

Her eyes cloud, and her face falls, her heartache writ large in the tension at her jaw. “But you…you…” she whispers, unable or unwilling to say it out loud.

My chest constricts. “The kiss?” Deep down, I know that’s what she’s trying to say. Alessia meets my gaze and gives me the same haughty look my mother gave us before she left. She’s hiding behind that look, protecting herself. I see that now, and it cuts me to the quick. “Charlotte was drunk,” I state. “She’s an ex-girlfriend, and for some bizarre reason, she threw herself at me. I was taken by surprise. She kissed me— not the other way round. I peeled her off me, sat her down, and came to find you. And you’d disappeared with fucking Grisha! Grisha!” Anger infuses my veins once more with heat. I step further away from her and run a hand through my hair, trying to hold on to my temper.

Fucking Grisha Egonov. Renowned arsehole. Possible underworld criminal.

“I saw the kiss,” Alessia says quietly. “I had to leave. Grisha helped me. He sent me home. He was kind.”

“He is not kind! You cannot trust him,” I snap and reaching out, I grab her and pull her into my arms. I want to shake her, but I don’t. “You put yourself in what could have been a dangerous situation. Why do you do this? Why do you run? You have to learn to confront me. I didn’t do anything wrong. And we could have sorted this out there and then.”

“I thought… I thought perhaps this was how you always behave,” she says quickly.

What? No.

“There are so many,” Alessia whispers, and in those four words, there’s a world of hurt that I don’t really understand, and can’t do anything about.

“Alessia. We’re married. I have a past. You know this. But I only want you. No one else. I don’t care what my mother says. I don’t care what the world says. The press… fuck them. I just want you. And you fucking left me when you know how anxious I am about your safety.” I rest my forehead against hers and close my eyes.

Fuck. This night.

“Look, it’s really late. We’ve had enough drama tonight. Let’s just go to bed.” I kiss her forehead.

Alessia feels like a scolded child. She wishes she hadn’t looked away when she was on the mezzanine, just to verify Maxim’s story. It sounds so plausible that it’s probably true. She wants to believe that it’s true. Then she finds out he’s been wrestling with all these issues, which he hadn’t shared with her.

Does he think she’s incapable of handling this news?

Does he think she’s a child?

She’s young and inexperienced. But she’s no child.

“What?” he asks, bright green eyes burning into hers.

“You should have told me about your brother.” She sounds sulky even to her own ears.

“I didn’t want to worry you until I knew for certain what I was dealing with. Please. I’m tired. It’s been a shitty few hours. Let’s go to bed.” He releases her, steps back once more, and they stare at each other.

They’re raw. And sad. And on either side of a huge divide that Alessia doesn’t really understand.

Was it always there, or did the divide suddenly appear?

Maxim closes his eyes, and when he opens them, they’re dim with defeat. “You look beautiful. Every inch a countess, no matter what my mother may have said to you. And I know she said something else and for that I’m sorry. I’m here. I love you, but if that’s not enough, I don’t know what more I can do. I’m tired, and I’m going to bed.” He turns and walks from the room, his footsteps echoing down the hall toward his bedroom, leaving Alessia reeling and utterly alone.