Page 10

Chapter ten

Hunter’s Residence

Isabella

Kasia floats around my room with a pink fluffy duster. She’s dressed from head to toe in pink to match. She waves the feathers at various ornaments and ledges, cleaning away invisible dust. I’m busy planning my next week of content creation, though I’m unsure of where it will take place. From my investigations today, there’s little privacy to be had here.

“That will be fine, Kasia,” I call, but she doesn’t stop her work. “Kasia…”

Eventually, I walk over and tap her on the shoulder. She squeals, then spins to face me and removes a white bud from her ear.

“That will be all, Kasia,” I say with a small smile. “I’m going to get dressed now. You finish for the night. You’ve not stopped all day.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” she replies with a nod, then scuttles from the room.

I return to my dressing table, a red robe pulled around my curves. My eyes move to the sleek black dress hanging in my closet, ready to be worn to dinner tonight. Hunter sent a message that he had booked a table at a local restaurant for us this evening. It was an unexpected change of plan, but he advised that it was all part of our happily married ruse.

For the past hour, I have been debating what to wear. What is the most appropriate outfit for your first meal with a man you married twenty years ago? How will he expect us to act? Will our facade go as far as public displays of affection? The idea of him touching me fills my chest with anticipation—a heady cocktail of excitement and terror.

I’d promised myself all those years ago that I was done with him after that night. We had both been put in an impossible position. Being with him was a reminder of what happened, and it wasn’t something I could face. I hated him, but more so, I hated our situation ― one we were born into and couldn’t control.

The old wall clock strikes seven, a reminder that I am due to meet Hunter downstairs in fifteen minutes. There are footsteps in the hallway outside my room. He must be ready. I listen to them recede into the distance as my nerves intensify with each passing second.

I finish applying my lipstick before fingering my curls one last time, then move over and pluck my dress from its hanger. After slipping on the long black silk dress, I strap on red stilettos. As I look in the mirror, I’m pleased with the woman who stares back at me. My outfit accentuates all the parts of me I love while minimizing the areas I don’t. Once I’ve shrugged into my white fur wrap, I head out the door to meet my husband for dinner.

The sound of voices floats upward as I descend the stairs. There’s no doubt he is there, and his voice is strong and commanding as he speaks to his staff. Although I can’t hear what he says, he’s clearly giving orders. Something about the control in his tone speaks directly to my libido, and my stomach clenches unexpectedly.

My heels click noisily off the oak steps. The voices fall silent. Hunter appears at the bottom of the staircase. A breath catches in my throat as his gaze latches on mine. My body pauses visibly as the unexpected situation I’ve found myself in hits me hard. This is happening. An event I promised myself never would. It takes me a moment to remind myself that this is all, in fact, not real. We are both taking part in our sham of a marriage for selfish reasons, me to gain my freedom and him to save his reputation. It’s no more, no less. Twelve months, and I will never see him again.

“Bella,” he says, his voice smooth. He takes my fingers, bows, then lifts them to his lips. “You look positively ravishing.” He offers me his arm as I descend the final step. My hand slides into position with unnerving ease. Hunter looks dashing in his sleek tuxedo, his long hair twisted on top of his head, every inch the businessman.

“Where are we going?” I ask him as we walk out of the front door.

“It’s a surprise,” he says with a small smile. “Somewhere I believe you will enjoy.”

“How would you know what I enjoy, Hunter?” My words pass my lips sharply, the indication he thinks he knows me maddening. “You don’t know me.”

He stops and turns to face me, his hands taking both of mine. I crane my neck to look up into his eyes, unwilling to give an inch. He can’t assume to know what I want. That isn’t his place.

“We may not have been living as married couples do, Bella,” he says. “But I know everything I need to about you. Twenty years, and I’ve learned all I can to make you happy. I know you, even if you don’t want to admit it.”

Unsure what to say, I stare at him, attempting to collect the necessary words to tell him he’s an egocentric baboon. In Hunter’s mind, we have been married all this time. He’s been watching and assumes his knowledge of me is flawless.

“You knew me as a girl,” I retort.

“And I’ve watched you grow as a woman.” His hand lifts to my cheek, strong fingers skimming the skin. My eyes close on impulse under his touch. I mentally chastise myself for it. “And Bella, I love what you have become. Let’s go to dinner.”

His fingers drop away, then he tugs me toward the waiting black jeep sitting in the driveway. The driver steps out to open my door, and Hunter supports me as I climb inside. He comes to join me in the rear seat.

“Where are we going?” I repeat, uneasy at not knowing our destination. He merely taps his nose in response.

The city whizzes by as we drive through the dark streets. In winter, everything becomes so dark, so early, it’s unsettling. That is why I’m usually at home tucked up on the couch by now. Fancy nights out are from a time long ago, when I was younger and felt like I had something to prove. Now, I realize there is much to love about oversized flannel pajamas and slipper socks.

As we get closer to the center of London, traffic slows to a near stop. We crawl along into Covent Garden, known for its esteemed restaurants and theater shows. Each building is queued with swathes of people waiting to take their seats. I take in each of the bright signs as we pass. Show after show are being advertised, so many I’ve heard of but never seen.

“Do you like the theater?” Hunter asks, startling me. Lost in my surroundings, I almost forgot he was there.

“I don’t know,” I say, glancing in his direction. “I’ve never been.”

“That’s a situation we shall remedy soon. A lady like yourself should have tasted all the city offers.”

“Perhaps, but you don’t need to do this.” I turn to face him in the seat. “This is fake, Hunter. We can attend public events and be seen. But at the end of the day, for both of us, it’s not real.”

His whole frame tenses as I finish speaking. He cocks his head to one side, and his eyes narrow dangerously. The boy I fell in love with all those years ago morphs into someone far more hazardous before me. He reaches forward and takes my fingers, his large ones wrapped around my hand, his grip firm but not uncomfortable.

“Bella,” he says, his eyes locked with mine. “This has always been real for me. Whether you were in my arms or not. You’ve always been my wife. And now you’re here, I will treat you as such for however long you stay.”

“The clock is ticking.” I pull at my imprisoned fingers, but he flexes his, not allowing my release. “Three hundred and sixty-four days, then I’m gone.”

“We will see…”

He leaves the comment open, perhaps waiting for me to argue with him. I won't give him the fucking satisfaction. Leaving my hand in his, I turn back to face the direction we’re going. He does the same, and we continue our journey to the restaurant with his fingers linked to mine.

After ten minutes of awkward silence, we stop at a corner restaurant in the city. From the outside, it looks every inch the luxurious establishment I would expect Hunter to frequent. The exterior is finished in gloss black, and the windows are frosted so those on the outside can’t see in.

A colossal gold sign hangs above the entrance, highlighted by two red floral arrangements. A matching carpet leads customers to the imposing golden door. Two doormen dressed in complete black with earpieces stand there, ensuring only those allowed can pass the threshold.

Hunter lets go of my hand and leaves the car. I sit for a second, waiting for a clue about what’s going on. He takes a moment to talk to our driver, who has also stepped outside. I’m unclipping my seatbelt to join them when my door opens.

Hunter stands above me, hand outstretched. I pause momentarily, unsure if I want to accept his help. He raises his eyebrows and smiles wide.

“People are watching, Bella,” he says. “Put on your mask, and let’s give them a show.”

After taking a breath, I place my hand in his and step out of the vehicle. He encourages me to his side, putting his fingers beneath my wrap and onto my waist. The warmth of his palm seeps through the thin silk. As we round the car, I notice a photographer standing on one side of the entrance. Hunter stops, pulls me close, and we smile at the camera before disappearing inside the restaurant.

“That will no doubt be on the front page of a local gossip magazine tomorrow,” he mutters as the attendants take our coats and show us to our table.

“Did you know they would be here?”

His eyes flick to me as he passes a fifty-pound note to the man buried under our jackets. “It was arranged, yes, Bella. This next twelve months will be a meticulously planned agenda of smiling at cameras and pretending you love me.” He moves to pull out my chair at the private table for two located at the back of the restaurant. It’s enclosed in a small booth disguised by vines and flowers. “Do you think you can do that?”

“Do what?” I ask, lowering myself into my chair. Standing behind me, he places his hands on my bare shoulders, and a jolt of electricity surges through me.

“Pretend to love me.”

The words hang in the air. We are not looking at each other; we are staring at the abstract painting on the wall, a swirl of black and red. His palms drop away, and then he rounds the table and sits down facing me.

“Can you pretend to love me ?” My question doesn’t deflect the conversation as I hope it would, answering his question with another one. He sits back in his chair, dark eyes locked on my face as he considers what to say. After what feels like forever, he leans forward once more.

“Give me your hands,” he says firmly, and I comply. My body operates under an unknown command I never realized I would obey. “Bella, there is no pretense in my actions. I am a man in love. I always have been.”

“Don’t,” I whisper. The emotion his words bring forward is something I don’t want to face. “Don’t say words that aren’t true.”

“There is nothing untrue in what I say, Bella. There has only ever been you.” I try pulling my fingers from his, but he holds tight again. “Listen to me, my wife. You may not believe what I have to say. You may not want to believe it. But I love you and will take this opportunity to show you that’s true.” He lets go of my hands, then leans back. “Now, shall we enjoy our meal?”

A waiter appears at our side. She is a tall woman dressed in a crisp white shirt, black skirt, and waistcoat. Probably only in her mid-twenties, she smiles widely at Hunter with ruby-red lips.

“Good evening, Sir,” she coos, and I immediately straighten in my seat. “Can I get you something to drink?” Hunter looks from her to me, then back to our waiter.

“Good evening,” he says, his tone sickly sweet. “Please, could you find another staff member to serve us?” I narrow my eyes quizzically at him, and his pupils flit in my direction before returning to her. She freezes in position, taken aback by his request.

“Is there an issue, Sir?” she asks eventually after clearing her throat.

“I would prefer a waiter that can see,” he says, a matter of fact. “As you approached our table and only addressed me, it’s clear that your eyesight is somewhat poor. There is no way on this earth you could miss the presence of the woman sitting across from me otherwise.”

“Um…” she stammers, completely thrown at being called out before even serving us a drink. She wrings her hands together nervously, and her manager approaches our table, obviously sensing something is untoward.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Devane?” the older gentleman asks. He dips slightly as he offers a hand in Hunter’s direction. My husband ignores the gesture.

“Sadly, I feel there is. This young woman failed to acknowledge my wife this evening. In an establishment such as this, I would have expected better.”

The manager’s face pales as he takes in the fact a staff member has offended the Irish mafia don of London, a man whose reputation precedes him. He mumbles something about personally serving our table and a complimentary bottle of champagne before both of them scurry off into the restaurant. Hunter’s focus comes back to settle on me. He flashes me a cheeky smile.

“That was…” I say before bursting into laughter.

“Deserved,” he replies, his tone firm. “No one ignores my wife without consequence. Now, shall I tell you the story of the teddy bear?”