Viola.
Tuesday, 4th November.
Morning.
I sit at the table, watching my husband’s smug face as he eats breakfast.
His tie is crisp.
Silver.
Not the one I bought him.
He has never worn any of the ties I bought him.
Not once.
He’s never worn anything I’ve given him.
Never.
I swallow, my eyes narrowing as I stare at the knot at his throat, neat and practiced.
Did the new whore buy the tie?
No.
I’ve seen this tie before.
I think.
Or maybe I’ve only seen ties like it.
Same shade.
Same design.
Maybe this one is new and I just want to believe it isn’t.
My thoughts spiral.
I groan inwardly and palm my face, dragging my hands down slowly.
When I lower them, I try to smooth my hair back into place.
My black hair is pulled into a low bun, but loose tendrils have escaped, obviously framing my face in a way I don’t like.
I used to wear my hair short.
Inches below my neck.
Clean.
Sharp.
Me.
When I got married, I changed it.
I grew it long for Tarian, because I assumed men liked long hair on their wives.
Because I assumed if I looked softer, prettier, more feminine, he would want me.
I watched my body like it was something fragile, something that could break if I wasn’t careful.
I maintained myself.
I tried.
I tried so hard.
It was useless.
He lost interest in me before the wedding.
No, he never had interest in me at all.
This marriage was never about love.
It was obligation.
A box ticked to satisfy his parents.
I was a solution.
A requirement.
Nothing more.
“More coffee, ma’am?”
The voice cuts through my thoughts.
I lift my head and focus on the man standing beside the table.
A kitchen staff.
He’s young.
Handsome.
His uniform clings to his body, his arms flexing subtly as he holds the coffee pot.
There’s a hint of a smile on his lips, restrained but present.
Warm.
Nothing like Tarian’s dark, empty ones that he always gives me.
For one unguarded second, a thought crosses my mind, sharp, illicit and dangerous.
An affair with him would be easy.
Discreet and quiet.
If I pressed, he might even welcome it.
But to what end?
All I would be doing is handing Tarian exactly what he wants.
More time with his lover.
More justification for the divorce he’s already orchestrating.
“Viola?”
I jerk my gaze up.
Tarian is looking at me now, concern etched onto his face so convincingly it almost fools me.
“The young man asked if you wanted more coffee,” Tarian says.
I rake my eyes over my husband without meaning to.
His muscles shift beneath his white cotton shirt as he swallows.
His neck.
His jaw.
I wonder, briefly, stupidly, what it would feel like to be held by him again.
“I don’t need more coffee,” I say at last.
The young man nods and retreats toward the kitchen.
I feel Tarian’s gaze linger on me.
Curious.
Assessing.
“You were mesmerized by him,” he says.
“That young man.”
I sharpen my eyes on his, weighing his tone.
His expression.
He tilts his head slightly, waiting for confirmation.
Funny.
For a man who doesn’t want me, he noticed that just now.
“You don’t want to touch me,” I say calmly, “Yet you noticed me watching another man.”
I spear a piece of fruit with my fork and bring it to my mouth.
It tastes like nothing.
“I noticed because you were making him uncomfortable,” Tarian replies carefully.
I sip my coffee.
“If you go around giving the staff horny eyes.” He continues, “We won’t have staff for long.
They’ll think you’re depraved.”
“And you’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I smile tightly.
“To have me declared unfaithful and depraved as grounds to end our marriage?”
His lips part.
Then close.
“When a husband doesn’t touch his wife,” I say quietly, “Doesn’t speak to her, when there’s no relationship at all, anything should be expected.
Society shouldn’t blame her.”
“But with the staff?” He cuts in, indifferent.
The word said so indifferently, lands like a slap.
For one foolish second, I thought he might be jealous.
The realization that he isn’t, has never been, ignites something ugly in my chest.
“I can do whatever I want, Tarian,” I snap.
“And you would be to blame.
Just like you do whatever you want.
I would do what I want.”
My tone is sharper than intended, and that only irritates me further.
Tarian doesn’t flinch.
He watches me with neutral eyes.
“You’re right,” he says coldly.
“You can do whatever you want.”
Something fractures inside me.
“But not with the staff.”
I frown.
Anger coils tight in my stomach.
“Why?”
“Because staff talk,” he says calmly.
You and your family won’t have a reputation left when word gets out.
When even the staff at your daddy’s restaurant see you as cheap.”
He stands.
The words leave me stunned, my lips parted, my face burning with shame.
He doesn’t care if I cheat.
He doesn’t care about my heart.
His concern is reputation for me dad.
My father’s business.
Wordlessly, he grabs his suit jacket and walks out.
Sunlight catches in the cropped chestnut hair at the back of his neck as he leaves.
My appetite is gone.
***
Later…
“Viola, check these menus.
They need approval.”
Ivy, my friend and one of the chefs, steps into my office, her voice gentle but brisk.
I lift my eyes from my computer screen, where I’ve been staring without seeing anything.
She places her tablet in front of me.
I glance at it, then push it away.
“Give it to my brother,” I say, trying and failing to sound calm.
She frowns.
“Damon’s gone to the show.
Remember?
He’s one of the celebrity chefs for America Can Cook.”
I groan softly.
Damon and I, like our father, are chefs.
Dad handles the CEO nonsense for now, but Damon and I run the heart of Cooper’s Glade.
Someday it will be ours.
That’s why we protect it like it’s sacred.
“Give me a minute,” I say.
“I just need to breathe.”
Ivy studies me.
“Is it Tarian again?”
I nod.
She sighs.
“What now?”
“He has a new whore,” I say flatly.
“Murieann Amran.
Tomorrow, he’s going to Nantucket.
To her place.”
Her eyes widen.
“Oh my God.
The Elusive Muireann Amran?!” She exclaims, excitedly.
Her glee making me spare her a hot glare.
Then as if she realizes herself, she stops and wipes that excitement off her face.
“Are you going to take that?
Aren’t you going to fight her?
Fight for your man?”
My vision blurs.
Her words don’t strengthen me.
They shatter me.
“You’re right,” I whisper.
“I should fight for my man.”
The words make the truth rise, heavily and unavoidable inside me.
“But how do you fight for a man who was never yours to begin with?” I mutter quietly.
Ivy looks at me knowingly.
She knows.
Tarian has never been mine.
He never pretended otherwise.
And I, I have been the fool from the start.
Believing I could turn a crude stone into a diamond.