“Then who?” I ask, the apprehension clear in my voice. I get the feeling I won’t like whatever she says next.
“Mateo del Rey,” she says, and my other eyebrow shoots up.
“He’s not on the list,” I say, pointing out the obvious.
“Of course he’s not,” Selina says simply. “Why would Isla have sold out her own husband?”
Now she raises an eyebrow at me, daring me to deny the source of this information. I don’t. “Well, if he’s not on the list, what are you going to use on him?”
“Royal Press is going under,” Selina says, crossing her arms primly, but there’s a prideful glint in her eye. She likes having the upper hand for once. I don’t.
“Where did you hear that?” I ask her. If this was news before I took Selina, I should have heard it myself by now. And she’s been under lock and key since then, so where could she have heard fresh gossip?
“I didn’t,” Selina replies, confirming my suspicion.
“So how do you know?”
“Print publishing is dying, haven’t you heard?” Selina asks. “Isla should’ve nabbed Bezos while she had the chance.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. I want a real answer. She sighs and acquiesces.
“Alright, when I was at their place for the bridal shower, I noticed a few things,” Selina says, putting on a faux-innocent affectation. “Everything was cheaper than what they usually have at their events—the champagne, the hors d’oeuvre, even the gift she gave me.” Her face blushes a little, and I assume her mind is jumping to the quick demise of that particularly lacy gift, as is mine. “And she said the tequila was DeLeón, but it was definitely just Patrón. Trust me, I know my tequilas. Plus, even before that they were laying the help off, and I swear what Isla wore to our engagement party was a repeat outfit.”
It’s insane that she would notice any of that, but I certainly don’t know well enough to disagree with her findings.
“That’s still a big risk, princesa,” I say. “What are you going to do if you’re wrong?”
“I figure you’ll just wave your gun around, make some vague threats to keep him quiet,” my captive wife says cheekily, grinning at me to show she’s joking. When I first entered this house, six months ago, I never would have dreamed we’d end up here, casually discussing violence and extortion over breakfast like true partners in crime.
“That’s not all I do,” I protest gruffly, making her grin widen. Then she grows serious.
“I’m not wrong,” she says confidently, placing her slim hand on my arm earnestly. She’s never done that before. There’s something about her gentle, casual touch that burns me in the most delightful way, and makes my chest feel a little tight. “I feel it in my gut. Trust me.”
And maybe it’s the joking moment we just shared, or her soft hand on my rough skin, or maybe I’m still just freefalling into those endless hazelnut eyes, but I do.
I fucking do.
“Are you sure you want to do that to your friend’s husband? To your friend?” I ask, because odd though their relationship may be, I know they’re still friends. Isla may even be my wife’s best friend.
“I am,” Selina says confidently.
“Why?” I ask after a beat. I don’t pretend to understand the complex inter-relational workings of Atlanta’s elite, but this seems beyond that.
“Maybe I can play rough, too,” she says, polishing off the last bit of her coffee and hopping off the bar stool.
We meet Mateo in his office downtown, a last minute appointment his secretary finagled for “old friends.” When we arrive at the Royal Press headquarters Selina marches in like she owns the place. I knew she’d be good at this. I have to smile as she hands her coat over to the secretary and struts on without even waiting for me to deposit my jacket. Alright, she might be overcompensating a little bit. But for her first time, she hasn’t fucked up terribly—yet.
“What’s up, y’all?” Mateo stands when we enter his office, offering me a lively handshake and leaning in for European kisses with Selina. I know my possessive jealousy is a relic of times long past, but the sight makes me want to draw and quarter the man right here. As we take our seats, Selina’s hand brushes mine, and whether the movement is purposeful or not, I’m instantly soothed.
“I knew you were hitting that, my man,” Mateo del Rey says to me, slapping my knee, and the murderous rage rises again. It always strikes me, the boyishness of this billionaire. It’s not in his countenance—his face bears the same signs of natural aging as mine will in a few years—but it’s in the looseness of his body, the confidence behind every dumb word he says. He carries himself like a boy who’s never known hardship, never had to try or work or sweat. For a moment, I second guess Selina’s conviction. There is no hint of a financial dilemma in this man’s eyes. “I stand by it, what I said that first time. Great catch.”
“I’m a fucking fantastic catch,” Selina says, syrup-sweet, a perfect socialite’s smile on her scarlet lips, masking sharp teeth beneath. “You, however, are not.”
I guess she’s jumping right into it. I sit back and let her have at it, keeping my face serious as I enjoy the show. Mateo’s eyes dart quickly between us, becoming nervous when I don’t immediately curb my wife or come to his defense. He has no idea what’s coming, though.
“I’m not going to beat around the fucking bush,” Selina says, and I’m beginning to suspect this profane performance is inspired by Miel. “I know Royal Press is in huge financial trouble.”
“I don’t—” Mateo clears his throat, and offers us a big grin, like he’s in on the joke. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Selina.”
I wish I could say I didn’t doubt my wife in that moment, her observational skills and capability and… what did she cite? Her gut? But in that brief pause, while Mateo del Rey’s face refuses to register any kind of acknowledgment, I start to wonder what I’ll do if she was wrong.
“Your wife isn’t the only woman in Atlanta who sees things,” Selina says. If her confidence is wavering, she sure isn’t showing it. “Come on, Matty. Don’t waste my time, or yours. You clearly can’t afford it.”
Another infinite moment.
Then he pushes his chair back and sighs heavily.
“Yes, fine, whatever,” he groans, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “That new fantasy series totally flopped, and that old white asshole basically robbed us blind. I mean, it wasn’t great before, but that was really the last straw. The Midas Touch, my ass.”
I eye the framed poster behind him, the title he just quoted emblazoned in metallic gold over a model wearing a sparkling chainmail bikini and not much else. Yeah, not exactly bestseller material, although I suppose sex is rumored to sell.
“Don’t tell anyone, please,” Mateo adds quickly, eying us frantically. If this is the state of mind he’s burying just under the surface, I’m surprised he could hide it that well. Even I didn’t notice, and I can read people better than most. Then his eyes narrow. “How did you find out, anyway?”
Selina waves the question away, and leans forward to look the man directly in the eye, resting her elbows on her knees.
“We can help, Mateo,” she says, so genuinely even I almost believe her. “Cover you while you figure things out.”
“I don’t want your charity,” Mateo shakes his head.
“No, it’s not like that,” Selina says quickly. Her tactics need some fine tuning, but she hasn’t lost him yet. “Javier is an… investor.”
I love hearing my lies on her lips.
“What does that mean?” Mateo asks suspiciously after a moment. He’s dumb, but he’s not an idiot. He knows bullshit when he hears it.
Selina glances at me, her chin still lifted, but I see nerves in her eyes. I step in.
“It means we can front you the money you so desperately need,” I say. “Until you can pay us back. Plus interest.”
“Ah, so that’s how it is.” Mateo laughs to himself, a humorless so
und, and then his face goes dangerously serious. He fixes me in his dark gaze. “I knew there was something fucked up about you. Guys like you don’t land girls like her. Selina, did he do this shit to you too? Is that why you married him?”
I’m boiling over, rising to strangle the man, but my wife lays a firm hand on my leg.
“That’s not what happened,” Selina says truthfully. What happened between us was a lot worse. “Take this, Mateo. It’s all you’re going to get.”
“What’s stopping me from declining your ‘generous’ offer, and telling Isla about it? All of Atlanta will know by tomorrow,” the man sputters, displaying a sore misunderstanding of how his wife operates. “Or, fuck it, I guess this is the kind of thing I can take straight to the police.”
“Do it,” Selina says, and there she is, the woman I simply had to keep for life. Playing with fire, shoulders back, head cocked, refusing to back down. “Tell the whole world, including your daddy, that you fucked up the family business. Signed too many pretty but talentless girls, and blew the rest on cigars and designer sneakers you’ll never be young enough or cool enough to wear. Even a sexist old dick like Rogelio del Rey might reconsider his decision to leave Royal Press in your hands instead of your sister’s. You’ll lose everything, Matty. Everything.”
Is it wrong to be half-mast at the sound of my pretty wife threatening a man’s life, albeit metaphorically? Because it’s all I can do not to lean over and kiss Selina right here, right now.
It takes longer than it should for Mateo to consider this, but he caves just before I decide to go old school and get the gun out. Every moment that my princess isn’t naked and in my bed is a moment too long.
“Fine,” he says, still holding his prideful posture even as he becomes my wife’s bitch. “I’ll do it.”
I lay out the logistics as quickly as I can, and we reach an agreement. We’re rising to leave, no more handshakes and air kisses, when Selina turns and lays a hand on the desk, delicately, but heavy with threat.
“Isla never finds out about this,” she says, not an order, just a statement of prophesied truth.
“Agreed,” Mateo says, arms crossed.
“And one more thing,” Selina says, and Mateo’s shoulders tense. But all Selina says is, “Treat her better, Matty. Treat her right.”
In the lobby, the secretary helps us back into our coats with a cheery smile on her face. When Miel and I confronted Olivia Duvernay, our first upscale ‘client’, we had to corner her, threaten her to keep her attention. Now doors open for me, and the hens invite me right into the henhouse. And I’m not alone anymore. There’s a new wolf in town, a wolf in Chanel and diamonds.
As soon as I’m buckling my seatbelt in the BMW, Selina squeals like a teenage girl about to see her favorite boy band, and not a grown woman who just successfully extorted an old friend.
“How was I?” she asks, turning to me. “Was that okay? That was good, right?”
“Princesa, you were fucking fantastic,” I tell her, shifting into drive. I can’t wait to show her just how good she was. Johns Creek is too far a drive. I turn toward Café Palacios instead. What’s the point of a CEO’s office if you can’t fuck your wife up against the walls?
* * *
Though Selina is eager to continue flexing her new muscle, and I can’t deny she has a knack for what she doesn’t hesitate to label as extortion, I put her to work on other, safer tasks. Specifically, planning Café Palacios’s relaunch gala. Apparently, that’s what you do when there is a major change to the business—such as the murder of the former CEO, the assignment and speedy betrothal of the new one, and the severing of all ties with a renowned drug kingpin, although the public doesn’t know about that last one. You throw a lavish party, to show stockholders and customers alike that all is well, despite the recent upheaval. And this time, it isn’t a farce. All is well.
While the true profits of Café Palacios are still stabilizing after the loss of one source of illegal income, our new point of revenue is booming. The heavy hitters Isla provided us with, along with a few new ones straight from Selina, are turning out to be far more lucrative than the desperate fleabags we started with. Go figure. And my wife and I, well, sometimes I almost forget what my captive heiress looks like with her clothes on. I’m still worried about her, worried I’ve pushed too far, too fast, but every time I try to broach the issue, she puts my cock in her mouth, and that shuts me up real quick. She doesn’t seem unwell, though, not on the surface. She’s stronger than ever, and seems to have repaired her pseudo-friendship with Miel, although sometimes I worry I’ll come to resent that union, one way or another. I still never see her on her yoga mat, or fingering her mala beads, and she’s quick to excuse herself from invitations to societal events, even ones I approve of. I don’t know why I care so much. I thought I wanted her to be part of my world, part of me. And I still do. I just didn’t know that this is how my fantasy would look in reality. Didn’t know how readily she would embrace the darkness, once it was offered to her.
But if she doesn’t walk into the darkness of her own volition, it will eat her alive. Our enemy still hasn’t struck, though his men are breathing down our necks at every turn. Miel wants to strike them first. They’d be easy pickings, at least the first targets. But we already hit our enemy where it hurt most. I don’t believe adding insult to injury will do anything but make his rage deadlier when he does strike. No, the best we can do is wait, and prepare. The longer he takes to strike, the readier we’ll be. I don’t care how that looks to Miel, as long as it keeps us all alive, including her.
H hacked the phones of a few men close to El Sombrerón. Rumor seems to be that the dangerous drug lord has fallen ill, although no one can confirm it. I don’t believe it for a second. Gods don’t catch illnesses. Especially not the god of death itself.
That’s why I make sure security for the gala is doubled, tripled. Staff is thoroughly vetted, then personally interviewed by my people. The guest list brings new meaning to the word “exclusive.” And if that’s not enough, well, there are more weapons stuffed into this tux than even I imagined possible.
Still, I walk out of the limo with my heart in my mouth, right hand discreetly hovering over the Glock in my waistband as my left hand reaches back for Selina’s.
She steps out Louboutins first, followed by a couple miles of golden leg. I’m relieved when she finally stands and her long skirt falls back into place. It’s a primal instinct I’m not proud of, but I don’t want anyone but me looking at my wife’s fine assets. And when her eyes meet mine and she smiles at me, fuck, I forget there’s anyone here but us.
I should stop worrying so much about Selina. I’m clearly the one who’s too far gone. I don’t know when this happened, maybe somewhere between her sweet pussy milking my cock like no other has before, or watching her crush a man’s will with nothing but words, but I might have accidentally given the woman I own a tiny piece of myself, too.
I clear my throat and press my palm against the bare small of her back, gently ushering her down the walkway, smiling tightly at the handful of photographers on the sidewalk. I see H standing by the door and give him a nod, which he returns. All is well so far, but the evening has barely begun.
We mingle with the guests, my arm looped around Selina’s waist, a smile on her face, and I flash back to the last time we were like this. Our engagement party. Things have changed, but once we enter the ballroom, Selina tenses in my grip, making me feel once again like my embrace is a cage, and I’m holding that smile at gunpoint. She’s come to accept that she belongs to me, belongs in my arms, as long as it’s in bed, where she can hide the shameful truth. In the eyes of the public, though they don’t know anything about us, about our twisted past, she still fights it, fights me. I force my own smile and try to ignore her discomfort, reaching out for the next handshake.
We work our way through the crowd, and through one more glass of champagne than I should have allowed, and then we’re being ushered towar
d the stage. I’m getting better at the elbow rubbing, but this is the part that I’m least equipped for. I have to stand in front of all these blue bloods, silk-clad sharks ready to jump on the first sign of weakness, and address them as if I have any idea what I’m doing. As if I earned this position through more than blackmail and apparent nepotism. First, though, comes the waiting.
Selina and I sit side by side just behind and to the left of the podium, my palm resting gently on her knee, mostly because I don’t know what else to do with my hands. The fabric of her green gown has a bit rougher of a texture than I would have expected, but it’s thin enough I can feel the warmth of her soft skin through it, as well as the subtle tremors pulsing through her. She’s nervous.
Mayor Allan Conrad finishes his speech, a convincing facade of genuine praise for me, and perhaps actual praise for the company itself. Café Palacios is one of the biggest employers in Atlanta, after all, not even counting the hidden aspects of the business.
A stockholder with a pompous name I instantly forget goes next, earning a lot of polite laughs from the crowd with some half-assed jokes. Then it’s Selina’s turn. If she is indeed nervous, she shows no sign of it, rising confidently to her feet and smiling at the guests as she approaches the podium with steady strides.
“Most of you know my story,” she begins, and a few nervous chuckles echo through the ballroom. “But you don’t know my husband’s story.”
She launches into a well-rehearsed piece of creative fiction, a tale that will hopefully satisfy all doubts about me being fit for the position, as well as the questionable timing of my assignment as CEO and marriage to the heiress. And if people still talk, well, fuck it. I’ll still be shooting towards the top of the list of wealthiest men in Atlanta.
“Someone gave this to me, said it was for your wife,” one of the APD officers on duty whispers hoarsely, crouching subtly to my right. She hands over a slim tube of lipstick, which I accept with a polite smile. Selina must have left it in the limo, or maybe in the bathroom. I’m not sure why this couldn’t wait, but I move to pocket the lipstick anyway. I’ll give it to Selina later. As I do so, though, the text on the golden tab at the bottom of the black tube catches my eye.
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