Page 72 of Choosing Hope

Once I’ve passed the stylus back, Carlo takes my hand again and leads me toward a set of double doors lined with pretty pale pink velour fabric. As we approach, they slowly slide open.

“Ready?” Carlo murmurs.

“As I’ll ever be,” I mumble through gritted teeth.

My stomach is dancing with nerves and sparks of excitement. The sensation is familiar. It reminds me of the emotions I experienced entering the clubs with my husband.

A sultry rhythm surrounds us as we enter a room decorated to resemble a high-class champagne bar. I instantly understood where the inspiration for this space came from. It’s almost a replica of the bar at the hotel Spencer and I stayed at on honeymoon.

The familiarity helps to ease my anxiety. The color palette here is soft, earthy shades, with the beat of the music being reminiscent of a heartbeat, just enough volume to be felt by the body without being too loud that you can’t converse without shouting.

I’ve seen this space on the website, but the photographs there don’t do it justice.

Aside from the odd girl sitting on a man’s lap, we could be in any of a hundred bars in this city.

Planting and sculpture create intimate seating areas. It feels natural, like a garden, but inside. Weirdly it’s tactile in here. I want to touch the plants to see if they’re real.

Most of the tables are full, and there are significantly more men in here than women. The moment we step inside, dozens of eyes turn to us.

A highly charged atmosphere ripples through the space.

With his hand hovering over the skin on my back, Carlo guides me up some steps to the raised bar. My current position leaves me vulnerable, as if I am on display for others to evaluate.

I realize that’s his intention. He wants me to be seen.

“Let’s have a drink before we go through,” Carlo murmurs, his mouth closer to my ear than he’d normally allow himself. Possessive. Making certain everyone in the room knows I’m his.

I nod, pleased that he knows me well enough to be aware that I need a little Dutch courage before going any further.

“Martini?” he prompts.

I smile and nod, pleased that he remembers my drink of choice, even though I haven’t had one for years. Since having Lily, it’s rare for any alcohol to pass my lips at all.

No sooner had we sat down than a stunning lady with long dark hair and gorgeous, dewy-looking olive skin sidled up to us. She’s wearing a gold satin slip dress that fits her so perfectly it looks custom made. Her nipples are poking through the sheer fabric to make it obvious she skipped a bra tonight, too.

“Good evening, Carlo,” she purrs, leaning in to kiss him on both cheeks in a typically European way.

“Claudette,” he murmurs against her cheek.

He somehow manages a friendly tone without his usual warmth.

Standing closer to him than is usual, she arches her back, turning to me with a broad, friendly smile. “Mrs. Barton-Jones, I believe?” she quizzes.

There’s something too pushy about this girl. I’m instantly wary but return her smile.

“Wow, word travels fast in this place?” I reply with a hint of sarcasm, taking her dainty hand in mine.

“Not much happens in here without Claudette knowing about it,” Carlo says, grinning at her smugly.

“We do our best,” she replies to him. “It’s a pleasure to be acquainted with you, and to put a face to a name. I’ve known your husband for over a year.”

Intimately, I recall Spencer telling me about nights he’s had with this woman. He even told me she worked at a sex club. If my memory serves me correctly, and when it comes to my husband’s sex life, I make a point of remembering; Claudette fell for him. Spencer told me he had to stop spending time with her because she was becoming too clingy.

Keeping my smile loose on my lips is hard. I attempt to push away the biting spike of jealousy that stabs my gut. From her expression, I suspect we’re both experiencing similar sensations.

I nod, my words trapped in my mind. But thankfully, Carlo saves me.

“Is Spencer here yet? He’s asked me to meet him.”