Total pages in book: 148
Estimated words: 143870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 719(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143870 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 719(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 480(@300wpm)
The expectations to uphold the family legacy have been an eye-opening experience for both him and me.
He’s realized that he can’t get by on his family name alone, and I’ve had a front-row seat to the disastrous collapse of his ego.
As a result, he’s become irritable, insecure, and erratic. He’s been drinking more, partying harder, and our communication has been all over the place. I haven’t even seen him since he’s been away on business for the last three months, but somehow I’m still exhausted.
I didn’t want to contribute to his stress, so I waited until he was home to have this conversation. And because I don’t want to drag this out any longer, I decided it would be best to do it tonight. If I waited for a day when he didn’t have a social engagement, it would never happen.
It just needs to be a clean break.
I reapply another coat of black cherry lipstick to give my hands something to do as the car passes through the gates of the mansion.
Marco comes from old money, and this waterfront estate in Seattle’s Laurelhurst neighborhood has been passed down through generations. The Georgian-style brick exterior is beautiful, and the interior design is curated to perfection, but frankly, none of it is really my taste. I often find it suffocating, but maybe that’s just the company Marco keeps.
As the car rolls to a stop on the driveway, that feeling doesn’t improve when I glance out the window and notice the other guests are already here. Marco told me the party was starting later, which is why I intended to get here early. But apparently, that was another miscommunication, which has been happening a lot lately.
Stephan exits the driver’s seat and comes around to open my door. The silver-haired gentleman is one of Marco’s drivers, and I have a direct line to him, so he can pick me up without inconveniencing Marco. We’ve established a rapport during our trips together, and he usually tells me about his wife and grandkids to pass the time. But tonight, he seems quieter than usual, and as I step outside and meet his gaze, I catch a flash of what looks like pity in his eyes.
It feels like confirmation that all is not as it seems, though I’m not sure it really matters at this point.
“Do I look okay?” I smooth out my dress in an attempt to dispel my nerves.
“Beautiful as ever, Miss St. James.” He offers me a stiff smile.
“You always say that.” I force some levity into my voice.
“Well, it’s always true.”
I thank him, and we part ways.
When I reach the front entrance, I’m greeted by an unfamiliar doorman, which is a good indication that this is a much larger event than I anticipated.
When Marco told me he was having a party to celebrate his return, I was expecting his closest friends. But from the looks of it, half of Seattle’s upper crust is in attendance tonight. Or more accurately, the elite underworld known as Imperium Valens Invictum—AKA The Society.
IVI owns the club I work for, and it’s where Marco and I first crossed paths. In that setting, it was easy to overlook the vast differences between our current worlds. But on occasions such as this, it’s impossible to forget.
As I enter the house and make my way through the crowd, I can’t miss the leering gazes of familiar men or the judgmental glances from their wives. It’s a welcome I’ve come to expect from Marco’s friends.
In their minds, I’m nothing more than a temporary distraction he’ll discard once he decides to marry a respectable woman.
I’ve tried not to let it bother me because I had no intention of proving them otherwise. In that regard, Marco and I have always been on the same page. I knew expectations would eventually require him to marry a Society daughter. And in return, he understood that I didn’t want an emotional attachment and that I had rules around my personal boundaries.
No kissing. No cuddling. No sleeping in the same bed. And most importantly, no lies.
Our conversations revolve around safe topics, and we ask very little of each other. He doesn’t question me about my past, and we don’t talk about the future. Up until recently, it’s worked for us. But lately, his behavior has been giving me whiplash. And at this point in my life, it’s made me evaluate more than just this relationship.
I’ve survived by staying detached, and I’ve tried to convince myself I’m fine with what I have. Still, it’s been hard to ignore the itch deep inside. The want for more.
As I watch my friends settle down and have families of their own, it reminds me that was the life I once dreamed of.
That ember of aching emptiness inside me burns hotter every day, filling my head with ideas I’ve tried so desperately to kill.