“Fuck you, Prince Victor! I’ve already agreed to an open marriage, the fullest discretion. But forgive me for shunning your desire to flaunt thatcoloredgirl.”
“You’ve truly overestimated yourself.” My tone lowers, laced with a deadly edge. A single hand aligns at the column of Madeline’s neck. Her face lifts until we’re inches away. “Your eyes are your greatest asset, Maddy.”
A quickened pulse increases in tempo beneath my touch. A mouth blossoms for the taking. My dear mate has grown timid as a fucking mouse as she grasps at fragments of air.
“I’ve cautioned you already, have I not?”
Self-preservation kicks in. Two slender hands slam down onto the one controlling her throat. Nails scrape into my skin. The last bit of oxygen expels from Madeline’s lungs as I thrust her against the barrier. Her upper body dangles precariously over the edge.
“Look at those pretty eyes filled with fear. Your struggle will be the death of you, Madeline. Were you a man, I would’ve had your life upon the first infraction. Another lady, well, I would just pitch your arse over and say, ‘I’ll be damned. My oldest mate fell to her death.’ ” I summon a bit of emotion on her behalf.
Staring into tear-brimmed eyes, I inquire, “Asyou are one of my few friends, will this suffice as a cautionary tale?”
I let her go, and she offers a scarce nod.
“Very well then. I’ll go. You stay. Fix yourself up a bit, yeah?” I step toward the entrance and thank the guards for their discretion.
18
Luxury
Minutes earlier . . .
Icheated. Skimming here and there, I glanced over Momma’s history, assessing and confirming that it’s the same neat cursive from our grocery list back in the day. I read enough to pique my interest and have settled in for the long haul.
Momma met my father and Uncle Red while waitressing at a diner a few blocks away from a school where they had tenure, and she was on academic probation her first year in. They were already innovative rock stars, creating new cardiology gadgets.
It seems she only had eyes for Charles.
His light skin.
His fine hair.
The way his suits cut over lean muscle.
Fuck, she could’ve made a couple of dollars on their love story.
I pop out of bed, the discarded diary half obscured by the sheets I’ve crumpled.
While Dr. Charles Everhart was debonair—and the list goes on—Dr. Jonah Whitson was short. Freckled. Awkward.
“Tell me something that I don’t know,” I murmur, slipping into the closet. I sift through garments that feel like butter against my fingertips.
“She thought Red was too suave. She chose the underdog. The shy guy.”
Still, the muscles in my abdomen twist and coil.
She was physically attracted to Uncle Red, no doubt. I can hardly remember Uncle Red as easy on the eye. Yeah, people stare at him on the rare occasion that he leaves home, such as to attend my high school graduation. However, it wasn’t for his good looks. When I was maybe ten years old, an electric fire burned down his laboratory, and he barely survived.
Amuted yellow chiffon gown flows like a river around me. I opted for none of the jewelry that I’m beginning to doubt is cubic zirconia. I pulled my hair up into a messy bun at the crown of my head. Glowing like a sunflower, I saunter down the lengthy corridors until the sound of string instruments and lively chatter catches my attention.
Small gathering, my ass.
A gilded hall sprawls before me, and sweeping staircases lead down to an adjoining ballroom decked out with a decadent feast and a dance floor where elegantly dressed guests glide to the soft melody of a violinist.
I'm tempted to glimpse myself in a mirror that ascends two floors. Is my messy bun too . . .messy?
I should’ve worn the heels.