Chapter 87: He belongs to me!.

"Cas... Cas, it’s not like that. I promise!"

But he is already walking away, his shoulders tense and his hands clenched at his sides.

Oh, God.

I watch him weave through the crowd, looking like a man who has just been given a perfectly legitimate reason to commit murder.

"Cas!" I call again.

He doesn’t turn.

Fantastic.

Just fantastic.

I glance between the direction he disappeared in and the spot where Lysander is probably entertaining some important-looking men. If Cas finds my husband before I can explain things properly, this evening is going to turn into a complete disaster.

On the other hand...

I tilt my head thoughtfully.

Actually, I have a pretty good idea.

Still, Cas has never been particularly sensible when it comes to people he loves.

And if he decides to punch Lysander in the face, I doubt the fact that my husband is a mafia Don will suddenly make him reconsider.

I sigh.

"Good luck, Cas."

Then I turn away.

If I chase after him now, I’ll probably end up caught between two stubborn men who think the solution to every problem is breaking somebody’s nose.

I’d rather drink.

A waiter happens to pass me with a tray full of drinks.

Perfect timing.

Without a second thought, I reach out and take the entire tray from his hands.

The poor man stares at me confused.

I smile sweetly.

"Thank you."

He opens his mouth, seemingly unsure whether to protest, but I’ve already turned away.

I make my way back toward the secluded corner where I left Victoria and Isabella, balancing the tray carefully as I navigate the crowd.

The drinks clink softly against one another with every step.

By the time I reach the decorative palms, Isabella and Victoria are standing close together, whispering about something.

They fall silent when they see me.

Victoria’s eyes immediately drop to the tray.

"Did you rob a waiter?"

"Borrowed his tray."

"With all the drinks?"

"He seemed eager to share."

Isabella bursts out laughing.

I place the tray on a nearby table and gesture grandly toward it.

"Ladies, your beverages. I wasn’t sure what either of you wanted, so I decided to bring enough alcohol to survive whatever terrible decisions we’re forced to witness tonight."

Victoria immediately reaches for a glass.

"See? This is why I like you."

"Because I’m generous?"

"Because you’re a terrible influence."

"Same thing."

Isabella picks up a drink and takes a cautious sip.

Her expression changes almost immediately.

"Oh, this is good."

I grab a glass for myself.

"Of course it is. I have excellent taste."

I bring the glass to my lips, ready to enjoy the first peaceful moment I’ve had all evening.

Then Victoria’s smile disappears as her gaze fixes on my neck.

"Oh my God. What’s that on your neck?"

I close my eyes.

Of course.

Of freaking course.

I should have known the universe wouldn’t allow me even five consecutive minutes of peace.

I roll my eyes, lift the glass to my mouth, and swallow the entire drink in one go.

The alcohol burns down my throat.

Good.

At least something tonight is doing its job.

I lower the empty glass and set it on the tray.

"Give me a second. Let me use the bathroom real quick."

"Nerissa..."

"I’ll be right back."

"But your neck..."

"I know what my neck looks like, Victoria."

She presses her lips together while Isabella looks concerned now, and I can practically see the questions lining up behind her eyes.

I do not have the energy.

Not tonight.

Before either woman can say another word, I turn and head toward the bathroom.

I hear Victoria call my name, but I pretend not to notice.

The bathroom is located down a quieter corridor, away from the music and the constant chatter of the ballroom. By the time I push open the door, my smile has completely disappeared.

Finally some peace and quiet.

The bathroom is beautifully decorated, with cream marble countertops, gold fixtures, and enormous mirrors framed by delicate lights. Fresh flowers sit in a crystal vase near the sinks, filling the room with a faint floral fragrance.

I barely notice any of it.

My attention is on my reflection, specifically, my neck.

"Son of a bitch."

The makeup has smudged and it’s smudged badly.

There is a faint purplish mark just beneath my jaw, partially concealed by the foundation I applied before leaving the house. Isabella’s enthusiastic attempt to silence me earlier has apparently undone fifteen minutes of careful work.

Wonderful.

Just wonderful.

I open my clutch and pull out my foundation, concealer, and powder.

Thank God I brought them.

I lean toward the mirror and begin working on the marks, carefully blending the makeup into my skin.

A little concealer here, some foundation there and a light dusting of powder to make everything look natural.

When I’m done, I tilt my head to the left, then to the right.

That’s better.

Much better.

The bruises are no longer obvious unless someone knows exactly where to look.

I stare at myself for another moment.

I look like a woman who has everything under control.....If only appearances meant something.

I let out a slow breath and put my makeup away.

Maybe I should actually use the bathroom before returning to the party. I’ve already come this far, and I’d rather not have to make another trip later.

I step into one of the stalls, lock the door, and take a moment for myself.

Then the bathroom door opens a while later, I hear the click of heels against the marble floor, followed by two female voices.

The women stop near the mirrors.

A handbag lands on the countertop, followed by the familiar sound of someone turning on a tap.

I consider finishing up and leaving but then one of them speaks.

"So that Luciano girl had the nerve to show up here."

I stop moving.

Luciano girl?

Oh, this should be interesting.

"I know, right?" the second woman replies. "I couldn’t believe it when I saw her walk in with Lysander."

I stare at the locked stall door.

Please, God, let them be talking about someone else.

Although, considering how many Luciano women are likely to be attending a minister’s birthday party in Spain, I suspect my chances are rather very slim.

"She doesn’t know I had Lysander first," the first woman continues. "He belongs to me!"

I slowly close my eyes.

There it is.

My evening was getting far too peaceful.

"She actually thinks she’s his wife," the second woman says, sounding amused.

"She is his wife," the first snaps. "Legally, anyway. That doesn’t mean anything."

I press my lips together.

Interesting logic.

I wonder if she plans to submit that argument to a judge. Perhaps I should offer her professional services. She clearly needs help distinguishing between a marriage certificate and a delusion.

The second woman pauses.

Then she asks, "I heard he only fucks in the ass. Is that true?"

My eyebrows shoot up.

Oh.

Well. Well....This conversation has taken a turn.

I stare at the stall door, suddenly fascinated by the wood grain.

The first woman laughs and I can hear the smile in her voice when she speaks.

"Yes, it’s true. It’s so freaking hot."

I almost choke on air.

What?

She continues, sounding entirely too pleased with herself.

"Too bad we currently aren’t on speaking terms, the last time we attended a party like this we sneaked off to the laundry room and he fucked me so good. I couldn’t sit on my ass for days...

She takes a pause.

"Do you think that’s why he married her? To spite me? I mean, we used to be good together, I am th whole package, he can’t possibly want more."

I stare at the door.

Then I stare at the ceiling, then I silently ask the universe why it keeps putting me in situations where I have to listen to people say things I would rather not know.

I did not ask to hear about my husband’s sexual preferences.

I certainly did not ask to hear about them from a woman who apparently believes she has some kind of exclusive claim over him.

And yet, here I am.

Trapped in a bathroom stall while a complete stranger discusses my marriage as though it is the latest episode of a television drama.

"And your father is the minister," the second woman says. "What more could he want?"

The first woman makes a frustrated sound.

"That’s true. It’s totally to spite me. Then he brought her to my father’s birthday? He wants to make me jealous. That has to be it."

She pauses.

Then, as though the thought has suddenly become the most brilliant discovery of her life, she adds, "He still wants me. I know he does."

I slowly lower my head into my hands.

Good Lord.

I have never met this woman, and I already know about her sexual activities.