Page 13 of The Hunter

How wrong I was.

“Good morning, beautiful,” Victor greeted, his voice low and smooth as he lifted his gaze to me.

Gone was the monster from last night. In its place was the man I married. Or the mask of him.

I forced my lips into a natural smile. “Good morning.”

I took my seat beside him. Within seconds, the housekeeper walked in, setting down a bowl of fruit and a parfait in front of me.

I picked up my spoon. Fruit and yogurt. Always fruit and yogurt. Victor didn’t like when I ate anything “heavy.” Didn’t want to be the man whose wife “let herself go”, as he put it.

“How did you sleep?” he asked casually, as if last night never happened.

As if I hadn’t been moments away from death at his hands.

As if he hadn’t forced himself on me.

Violated me.

Brutalized me.

Sodomized me.

“I slept well. And you?”

“Like the dead.”

I gave a small smile, pushing down the remark begging to be set free. That I’d give anything for him to actually be dead.

Victor leisurely reached for his coffee, like it was any other Sunday morning. The scent of bacon clung to the air, though none of it was for me.

“You’ll never believe what I overheard at the gala last night.” His voice was light, conversational. Like we were just any other couple chatting over breakfast. “Marta Lavigne’s husband is apparently cheating on her with their nanny. So predictable.”

I stared at the pale swirl of yogurt, forcing my expression to stay neutral.

“She always did turn a blind eye to his dalliances, so long as he didn’t bring them home,” he continued. “But to do so rightunder her nose? And in their bed?” He shook his head. “Word is she slapped him in front of the valet stand. Caused quite a scene.” He laughed, like it was the juiciest tidbit he’d heard all month.

“That’s awful,” I offered quietly.

Victor cut into his eggs. “Sad, of course. But entertaining. High society’s version of reality TV.”

I took a bite of fruit I couldn’t taste, forcing myself to chew and swallow, though my throat ached.

His eyes flicked up to me, sharp for half a second, before softening again. “You look a little pale, sweetheart. Are you feeling okay?”

I didn’t immediately respond. Was he testing me? Of course he was. Everything was a test with him. A game. A ploy to manipulate me.

“Just tired,” I replied, careful to inject just enough softness to soothe him.

“Probably all that champagne last night.”

I hadn’t had a drop. He hadn’t let me.

“But you looked stunning,” he added, as if he hadn’t cut the dress from my body, leaving it in tatters all over our bedroom floor. “Everyone said so. People couldn’t stop asking where you got that dress.”

I bit my bottom lip to stop myself from saying something I’d regret.

“And that necklace? Perfect choice. You wear diamonds like you were born for them.”