by Shen, L. J.
Three months of irritating daily dinners, text messages full of pointless cloud pictures, and an unholy amount of sex.
Physically, I’d never been this satisfied in my life. Mentally, my disposition and ideologies shriveled into themselves and shut the windows every time I stepped into my house.
If Flower Girl thought we were making progress on our way to marital bliss, she had another thing coming.
I wasn’t an inch more in love with her than I was three months ago and didn’t care for her an ounce more than I had the day she burst into my office, asking me to be her knight in shiny loafers.
Yet.
Yet.
My new lifestyle had a price, and I was not happy to pay it.
I cracked my knuckles behind closed doors so frequently I was surprised my fingers were still attached to my hands, and I spent double the time at the gym taking my energy out on a punching bag to blow off steam.
It didn’t help matters that Sailor was sporting an impressive belly.
She’d stuck it out every weekend when we’d all gathered at my parents’ house, patting it to make sure no one forgot she was with child. My parents’ initial euphoria with my nuptials had died down, and they were back to cooing and fawning over Sailor’s stomach.
I needed an heir and fast. My sole motivation was to lead the Fitzpatrick clan and sire someone who would do the same. I didn’t want to see Hunter’s spawn hijacking my hard-earned company and with their DNA, pissing it away on flashy cars, drugs, booze, and a spaceship full of sorority sisters.
Having said that, each month my wife informed me that she had gotten her period, I found myself content.
A baby did not fit into my world.
Not yet, anyway.
I needed to get rid of the Andrew Arrowsmith problem, make sure Royal Pipelines was lawsuit-free, and ensure the exploratory drillings in the Arctic were fruitful.
Besides, knocking Flower Girl up meant I no longer had an excuse to keep her around, and having a steady lay turned out to be convenient. So much so, that I was toying with the idea of taking a local side piece after this was all done and dealt with.
Not too local, but local enough to be on the same continent as me. Someone I could stash close enough for comfort and too far away for dinner dates.
There were other merits to getting rid of Persephone, of course.
Namely, the fact that sometimes (although not very often, and in a completely manageable way) she made me feel like I was falling through an endless abyss full of glass ceilings.
Next time I chose a mistress, I’d do my due diligence. Get Sam on the case. Find someone less attractive than my wife, and not half as stubborn. Chances were, I’d never have to deal with the discomfort of wanting someone physically so much again, simply because Persephone had always stirred in me what no other woman had.
Now, I played the memory of last night in my head while I entertained my friends during our weekly poker night.
Of my wife in her lacy white nightgown. How we met halfway in the hallway as we often did. I was coming to see her, and she was coming to see me, neither of us in the mood for that tug-of-war, who-caves-first game.
We exploded on the carpet, fabric ripping, teeth nipping, moans drifting downstairs to the staff quarters.
“My favorite wish,” she had rasped into my mouth when I came deep inside her. “My miracle.”
“Is that a smile on Cillian’s face?” Hunter scratched his head, dumbfounded.
It had only been forty minutes since they’d arrived, and already I wanted to kick them out with my shoes still deep in their ass cracks. Flower Girl was upstairs, having a Zoom conference call with her friends, and my mind was deep in the gutter as to what I had planned for her tonight.
“A smile? Surely not.” Devon squinted at his cards, taking a sip of his brandy. “Perhaps he is having a stroke.”
“Maybe something got stuck in his teeth.” Hunter tapped his cards against the table. “Like, you know, feelings or something.”
“Zip it,” I warned.
“No. They’re right. You’re beaming.” Sam frowned at me in abhorrence. “It’s disgusting. People are trying to eat here.” He dropped his sandwich onto his plate.
“Leave him alone. I think it’s cute.” Hunter took a pull of his beer. “Kill caught a case of the feels, and there’s no vaccine for what he’s experiencing.”
“Are you really one to talk about being pussy-whipped?” I plucked a card from the stack in the middle of the table. “Your balls have been MIA since your wife came into the picture, and no search unit in the world can find them.”
Every head in the room snapped in my direction.
“What?” I bared my teeth.
“You said pussy-whipped.” Devon’s forehead creased. “You never curse.”
“Pussy is not a curse word.”
“I have a gay joke on the tip of my tongue.” Hunter squirmed as though he was trying hard not to pee.
“Swallow it,” I snapped.
“That’s what he said.” Hunter couldn’t help himself. I shot him a look. He zipped his lips with his fingers, making a show of throwing the key across the room.
“Sorry. Had to get it out of my system. I’m done now.”
Jokes aside, I knew I’d have probably not used the word six months ago. The necessity to utter profanity did not appeal to me, but how else could I direct my wife to park her pussy on my face? To ride my cock? Bend down and let me rope her ass?
Calling what she had between her legs a vagina would make me one. I wasn’t her OB-GYN. I had no business calling pussy anything other than pussy.
“Anyway, point is, you say you’re immune to feelings, and I call bullshit on it.” Hunter laughed.
“I’m not immune to feelings,” I countered. “I have two: pleasure and pain.”
“Your wife’s pussy gives you pleasure,” Devon, who had assumed the role of Captain Obvious for the night, supplied. “But when was the last time you felt pain?”
“Very soon, when Persy finally realizes she married a robot and kicks him to the curb.” Hunter chuckled, tossing his cards at the center of the table. “I fold.”
“Kill,” Sam lit up a cigarette, “I need a word in private.”
“Perfect timing. Game’s over.” I threw my cards.
“We’ve only just started.” Devon frowned. “I have a good hand going.”
“Mine’s about to snap your neck if you don’t get out of here.” I smiled politely. Hunter and Devon left. Now all I needed was to get rid of Sam, and I could visit my wife’s bed.
“What’s up?” I leaned back in my chair.
“It’s about Andrew Arrowsmith.”
I’d lawyered up since I’d heard about the lawsuit, did my due diligence regarding Green Living, and made sure to show my face at charity events with my wife on my arm and sign fat checks to nonprofit organizations.
I’d also paid some local media outlets handsomely to run less than flattering items about Andrew, lured potential donors from investing their money in Green Living, and made sure I choked Andrew’s workplace financially the best I could.
I did everything by the book ahead of the court date, which was scheduled for September twenty-third, still a couple of months away, but I knew Arrowsmith had a strong case and the public’s sympathy.
Taking a dump on one of the world’s most delicate natural resources was apparently severely frowned upon.
“I did some digging. Spoke to one of his lawyers.” Sam handed me his iPad from across the table. “One of the angles they’re going to use in court is defamation. Specifically, the poor state of your marriage. They’re going to imply your character is flawed through your estranged relationship with Persephone. Basically, they’re going to heavily suggest you’re an abusive husband. Your wife is employed by them and receives a salary from them. She visits their house three to four times a week, which I’m sure you are aware of.”
I’m not, goddammit.
; What did you do, Persephone?
“Not only is Persy spending most of her time with the Arrowsmiths, but you don’t have a family life to speak of. It looks bad. The apartment you’re still renting for her, your separate bank accounts…”
I held up a hand to stop him. “Rewind. Separate accounts?”
Persephone signed an NDA and was definitely in no position to tell anyone about that.
Sam puffed on his cigarette, eyeing me wryly.
“Don’t tell me you were dumb enough to add her to your bank accounts, Kill.”
“No,” I gritted out. “But I deposit a sixty-thousand-dollar monthly allowance into her checking account. Seeing as she lives under my roof, eats my food, and generally lives at my expense, I figured this would be a sufficient amount for her not to look for any side gigs.”
“Well, that’s what she told the Arrowsmiths. You did know she works for them, correct?”
I did, and I didn’t.
Persephone told me months ago that she was planning on doing so but never followed up. I assumed—fine, hoped—her declaration to tutor Tinder Arrowsmith was just another way to get on my nerves. Trying to milk a human emotion out of me was her favorite hobby.
I didn’t think she would actually follow through.
That Tinder kid was a pathetic excuse for a…
“Cillian?” Sam slanted his head. I cleared my throat, tucking my hands under the table and cracking my knuckles.
“I knew,” I lied.
“Why didn’t you stop it?”
“Because I don’t care much what she does in her free time as long as she doesn’t nag me to spend time with her.”
“Well, start caring if you want to win the case against Arrowsmith. Tell your wife to drop their asses, pronto. If there’s one thing you don’t need right now, it’s for Persephone to give Arrowsmith ammo.”
“How much does her word really weigh?” I snarled. “She is just a stupid kid.”
“A stupid kid you’re married to,” Sam reminded me. “Dismantle her.”
“I will.”
“Why don’t we tail Goldilocks?” Sam flicked his cigarette straight into the ashtray, scanning my face for a reaction. “See what she’s up to.”
Because I contractually promised her I would never have her followed, and even though she enjoys taking long shits all over the contract she signed and break it time and time again, I’ve a feeling I won’t be able to get away with doing the same.
“Why would I waste my precious resources on my wife?” I asked dryly.
“Don’t you want to know if she still visits Mrs. Veitch?”
“She does.”
“And you don’t care?”
“For all I care, Persephone can go back to her loser ex after she’s done having my children.” I stood, collecting my phone and shoving it into my back pocket.
“Remind her you will drop her ass if she breaks your agreement,” he warned, his arms hooked behind the back, his thighs spread.
“Anything else?” I checked the time on my watch.
“Yes.” He stood, pointing at me. “Get your shit together. I’ve never seen you lose a poker game unintentionally. These assholes ripped you a new hole today, and it hasn’t even been an hour. I’ve never seen you at home before nine o’clock in the evening before, either. Guess what? Last week, I dropped by your office at half past six and was told you’d gone home early.”
I wouldn’t call six thirty early, exactly, but Persephone sent me a text with a picture of her wearing nothing but a nightgown the peachy color of her clit, and my dick all but signed Royal Pipelines over to Arrowsmith in a bid to go home early.
It infuriated me that Sam had a point, even if I was sure it was nothing but a phase to get my wife out of my system.
“I said I’ll talk to her. Know where the door is?”
He shot me a confused look. “Of course.”
“Use it.”
With that, I turned around and stomped up to the second floor.
It was time to teach Persephone that in the underworld, everything outside the narrow scope of what I found acceptable was bound to perish.
I fucked her first.
I knew the conversation was going to turn things sour between us and didn’t want anything to hinder my attempts to impregnate my wife.
Since she was senseless enough not to use fertility tests, I had to do it every day.
I tied my wife to the bedrails, ate her out, then ravished her several times until she was sore and tender everywhere.
I’d waited until we were both spent and lying on her bed before I opened the cigar box, which I had moved to her room, seeing as I’d spent most of my time there, and lit one up.
“You’re going to stop tutoring the Arrowsmith kids starting tomorrow morning,” I announced.
Persephone was still wrapped in her blankets, her golden hair fanned over both of us, her skin dewy like a spring morning.
She rolled toward me, her big blue eyes settling on my face.
“Excuse me?”
“I know you’ve been tutoring them. It stops right now.”
“Have you been following me?” Her voice turned from sweet to cold in seconds.
I flung the blanket off me and sat up, jamming my legs into my briefs.
“Sweetheart, let’s not pretend I care enough to have you followed. Sam follows Andrew, and he saw you going in and out of his house.”
“Sam’s an asshole.” She jumped off the bed as though she’d been burned.
I pulled a V-neck shirt over my head, ignoring her hysterics.
“What Sam is and isn’t is not my concern. I’m not married to him. You, however, are currently breaking a contract you signed. The non-compete clause. You went and ran your mouth to my enemy like the little idiot that you are, telling him we have separate accounts. Now Andrew is going to use your employment in court to show that I am an unloving, neglectful husband in order to establish my bad character.”
“You are an unloving husband.” She threw her hands in the air, laughing bitterly.
“Love wasn’t in the contract.”
“Screw your contract!” she screamed, losing her usual, saintly patience.
“Why? Screwing you is so much more enjoyable.” I was already making my way to my room. I was pleased with myself for not allowing us to sleep in the same bed since we’d gotten married. It gave me some semblance of control.
I stopped by the door.
“Quit tomorrow morning. I won’t ask twice. This is non-negotiable.”
“Or else?” She jutted her chin out. “What are you going to do if I decide to continue tutoring these kids—Tinder especially, a boy who needs me, who relies on me, who is attached to me?”
I turned around. Stared her down with the same, cold disdain I’d used with everyone else in my life.
She was just a warm hole.
A distraction.
A means to an end.
Getting attached to someone who’d been bought to save her life was a special kind of stupid. The type of cautionary tale I was supposed to pass on to my own son as my father had done to me.
“Disobey, and I will give you what you’ve been begging for.”
Divorce.
She’d been throwing the word around often enough. Like I was the one at her mercy.
“Say it,” she hissed, her eyes challenging me. “Tell me what you’ll do. Tell me I mean nothing to you.”
I gripped the back of her neck, feeling my dick hardening in my briefs as I did. I couldn’t allow it to turn into makeup sex. The daily dinners were enough. Her constant presence pushed me to my limits.
“If you continue to ignore our contract, I’ll have to break my part of the bargain, too. If you still work for the Arrowsmiths by mid-week, I’m putting Sam on your ass to tail your every movement. Next, I’m taking a flight to Europe, to fuck every abled body in my vicinity. Then—without taking a shower to wash them off—I’ll come back to put a baby in you, with ovulat
ion tests.” My lips touched hers as I spoke, and I felt her trembling against me, both with anger and lust. “Their smell and juices inside you. To remind you that you are nothing but a plaything to me. The sad part is that we both know you’d let me, Flower Girl. You’ve been hot for this dick since the day you saw me. But you’d hate yourself for it, and every time you would look at our child, you would see what I’ve done to you. Know your place, Persephone. You are not here to co-rule the kingdom by my side. Merely to help me continue it.”
She ripped her mouth from mine, pushing my chest as hard as she could, her teeth chattering.
“You wouldn’t touch someone else.” She pounced forward, pushing me again. “You wouldn’t.”
“Really?” I raised my eyebrows, feigning interest. “What makes you say that?”
It was bad enough I couldn’t spit the word divorce out of my mouth. Now I had to stand here and listen to why I was apparently in a monogamous relationship.
My life certainly took a turn for the worse since our genitals became acquainted.
“You will never find what we have elsewhere,” she seethed. “And you’re the stupidest smart man alive to think that you can.”
“Are you done being dramatic?” I leaned a shoulder over the doorframe of her bedroom, crossing my arms like an exasperated father.
“Are you done being heartless?” she countered.
“No. Which brings us to the only reason you’re still here—you’re not pregnant yet.”
“Have you considered I might not be able to have children at all?” She began putting her clothes on. Panties first, then an oversized shirt.
“I have,” I said. “The minute I came up with this plan, I made a list of pros, cons, and potential complications. Possible infertility was at the top of the cons list.”
“And?”
“And everyone is replaceable.”
She froze, not moving an inch.
“I see,” she said carefully. “In that case, don’t let me waste your time.”
She had already taken months of my time but telling her so would be counterproductive to us reproducing.
“I’ll be continuing my employment with the Arrowsmiths. You can find another suitable candidate to have your precious children,” she said matter-of-factly, plucking a brush from her nightstand, running it through her hair.