Who is she? She’s too pretty and too expensive-looking to be just anyone.
And it had to be her Elliot was calling Annabelle, not me. Is she the reason why he won’t call me by my real name? If so, she must’ve had an enormous hold over him somehow. Why didn’t he marry her then? She seems better suited to be his wife than me anyway—more worldly and sophisticated.
I clench my hand around the mug handle. More time passes. A sick feeling rips at my gut. I hate the way the other Annabelle looked at Elliot—proprietary and familiar, like he’s her husband. I wanted to claw that damn hand she laid on him. She dismissed me like a piece of garbage. Then again I do look like a wet rat at the moment.
No wonder Elliot is spending time with her right now. It’s a miracle that he hasn’t invited her in and taken her to his office.
I wonder if they’re planning a rendezvous. Does our marriage contract prevent us from having affairs? I can’t remember. I never cared about that since it wasn’t really important back then. Sex had never been good enough for me to risk losing a million dollar divorce settlement. And if Elliot wanted to sleep around, the only thing I wanted was for him to be discreet.
When did things change? Now I’m acting like I’m jealous. No, I am jealous. Of the brunette. Of the women he’s fucked. Unlike me, he has no hang-ups about sex. I’m sure every woman he screwed gave him a good time.
I breathe roughly and grip the mug even while the urge to throw it beats at me. Breaking stuff won’t solve anything…no matter how good it might feel.
I finish the last drop of coffee and place the mug carefully into the dishwasher. I’m expending entirely too much energy on a man who’s only going to be my husband for a year. Not even a year really. My focus should be on the end goal—my freedom from Mr. Grayson’s influence, money to finish college and take care of Nonny. That’s all that matters.
After grabbing a glass of water and a bottle of aspirin, I go to my sister’s room. She’s lying there with her head buried under the blanket, but I can still hear her groan. I put a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“Morning, sweetie,” I whisper. “How are you feeling?”
“Dead,” she moans. “Really, like, dead.”
“Well, thankfully you’re alive.” I shake out a couple aspirins. “Here. Take these and you’ll feel better.”
She lowers her blanket and gives me a bleary look. Her straight golden brown hair is flat, her milk chocolate eyes slightly bloodshot. She got Mom’s looks, while I have Dad’s. She squints. “What are those?”
“Aspirin. Come on.”
More moaning. Finally she sits up and swallows the pills and water.
“Drink all of it. You’re dehydrated.”
She obediently finishes the entire glass then hands it to me. “What happened?”
“Julian’s wife spiked your punch,” I say, placing it on the nightstand.
“Ugh.” She buries her face in her hands. “I don’t remember that much from last night.” Suddenly she gasps. “Did Ryder Reed show up?”
“Yes.”
“Oh no, I missed my chance!”
I almost shake my head. The biggest worry she has is that she didn’t get to meet her favorite actor. Guess that makes her young and resilient. “You did meet him. Sort of.” Of course, she passed out at his feet. “You don’t remember?”
She starts to shake her head, then instantly thinks better of it. “No.”
Guess not even her favorite actor can top the effects of alcohol. “You fainted.”
Her eyes grow huge on her wan face. “I did?”
“Well, yeah. That’s what happens when you drink too much.”
“Oh no. I’m so embarrassed. He probably thinks I’m the stupidest kid ever.”
I put an arm over her slumped shoulders. “It is not your fault. It’s Tiffany’s.” She’s lucky I didn’t try to kill her. I so wanted to, even if she is technically my mother-in-law.
“But—”
“Everyone knows she’s the one who spiked the punch. So don’t go crazy worrying about it.”