by Dee Palmer
I pass several restaurants that would be suitable, only suddenly I don’t feel like eating. I thought I had done well keeping my mind off things. Seeing something as silly as a shop display and wanting to share that experience with him, but I can’t.
I no longer feel hungry; I just feel alone. I wrap my arms tight around myself and lift my sweater hood over my head. I look like a hobo. I doubt I would get served anyway. I shuffle back into the crowd and refuse to look at another window. The street vendors don’t bother to tout their fake designer bags. The gondoliers don’t ask if I want to take a ride as they do the other tourists. I’m being judged. It’s not the first time, and at least it’s for my clothes not for what I am…or what someone thinks I am.
I find myself back at Piazza San Marco, and the place is thrumming with visitors. Flashing cameras act like continuous strobe lights as people capture this night, this adventure. Street vendors sell cheap gimmicks, glow-in-the-dark toys, quirky torches, and selfie sticks to capture that special moment when you have no friends. Perfect.
I sit in a chair on the edge of a cafe where there is a mini orchestra playing Vivaldi to a small seated gathering and a much larger crowd standing around the edge of the tables. A waiter approaches and speaks abruptly in Italian. Other than his rather aggressive tone, I don’t understand a word. He switches seamlessly to English, though his voice is just as harsh.
“There is a cover charge for the music, and you have to order a drink at the very least.” He slaps the drink menu down, and I would normally rise to such attitude, only that part of me has long since ceased to care. I do, however, pull out my very real Prada purse and a wad of fifty Euro notes. He stiffens at the crumpled pile I place on the table, and his eyes widen. What I really want is a bottle of their famous Belini, but I’m being good. Maybe I could have just one glass. I’m trying for good, but I’m never going to be a saint.
“I’ll have a mint tea and a smile if you want that twelve percent tip you are going to put on my bill.” I hand the menu back with a wide, sweet smile that seems to confuse the waiter. He holds the menu while my words take time to register.
“Very good, signora.” He forces a tight smile. Maybe I do care after all. He returns before I have the chance to slip my purse in my back pocket. He even lays out a small selection of antipasto that I didn’t order. I thank him and settle back to enjoy the nightfall in Venice’s main square. The acoustics of the piazza with impressive stone buildings on three sides means the sound is captured and held within the square. It feels timeless and beautiful, charming. I close my eyes and just listen. When the musicians take a small break, I shiver with a chill from sitting outside for so long; I don’t know how long, though.
I’m just about to take the opportunity to make my way back to the dock when a tall, chilled flute of Champagne appears on the table in front of me, then another.
“I didn’t order this.” I state the obvious by the roll of the waiter’s eyes.
“No, signora. The gentleman ordered,” he answers and walks away, as if that was explanation enough. I sit up and look around but don’t recognize anyone. I don’t feel anyone, feel him I mean, yet my heartbeat quickens at the notion that he might…just maybe…
“Mistress…” Gabriel’s deep timber slashes my hopes, and I sag in my seat. Why the fuck am I so disappointed? I didn’t really expect it to be him, did I? He left me. He won’t be coming to get me…ever. Fuck, that hurts. “You should only ever be drinking Champagne.” He slides into the seat beside me, all debonair and dashing. His paunch is perhaps a little more festive than the time of year warrants, but he is still very handsome.
“Gabriel.” I smile and gently push the glass away. “I can’t drink this.” He slides it back and scoffs.
“Why ever not?” I repeat my move in our game of Champagne table tennis.
“Because I am pregnant.” I hold the glass steady to prevent him moving it back.
“Fuck!” I flinch as his booming voice echoes off the old stone buildings around us. He leans in and lowers his voice, a little too late, as all eyes are on us. “Or fucked? Are we happy about this bundle of joy, or have you run away to make a difficult decision.”
“What? No. Nothing like that. I’m thrilled.” I rush to put him straight, my hand protectively cupping my still flat belly.
“So this is just some R and R?” He raises a suspicious brow.
“Not exactly…it’s complicated.” I reply quietly, lifting my hand to massage the tension in the back of my neck. His large hand covers mine, and he applies more pressure, which eases the ache.
“Then let me uncomplicate it. It’s what I do. I’m a trouble-shooter extraordinaire.” He flashes a wide and wicked grin.
“I can’t help thinking you would not make this situation less complicated.” I let out a light laugh, acutely aware that that is the first time I have made that noise in nearly two weeks. My face feels strange with the sudden use of forgotten muscles.
“Try me?” he asks, all mischief gone. He tone is stern and serious, yet his face is filled with compassion, and I’m shocked that now I break. Shit.
“Drink this.” Gabriel hands me a mug of something warm that smells suspiciously like it has alcohol in it. I wipe my nose on the arm of his very fluffy and large bathrobe and almost smile when he grimaces. He managed to get this blubbering mess back to the Ambrosia, ran me a deep and bubbly bath, and now has me tucked up in my bed. I couldn’t stop shivering despite the searing hot water of the bath so he swaddled me in the thickest terrycloth robe he had, which happened to be his, and it’s enormous. The bed covers and the robe seem to have done the trick as only the faintest of tremors ripple patches of goosebumps across my skin. I shake my head and hold my hand up to stop him encroaching any further.
“I can’t drink that.” I shrug my shoulders in a slow apology for the huge trouble I know I must be to a man like him.
“Nonsense, you’re not the first pregnant woman to have a little alcohol and you won’t be the last.” He fixes me with a stubborn glare I have never seen on him before, and it makes me smirk. I reluctantly take the cup, which is filled with fortified liquid chocolate.
“When did my sub get to be the boss of me, exactly?” I blow softly on the chocolate and inhale the sweet steam that rises in a puff of white cloud.
“When you so repeatedly pointed out that you are no longer my Mistress.” He sits on the bed, and I slide my knees up to give him a little more room.
“Ah, fair point.” I sip the chocolate, and honestly, there is only the slightest hint of rum. It tastes delicious, and my tummy growls its approval loudly.
“So?” Gabriel waits patiently for me to finish my drink. He takes my cup from my lips when he is clearly done waiting.
“So…I’m having a baby.” The first genuine smile splits my face and breaks my heart at the same time. So much joy and so much pain. “I don’t know who the father is exactly, and that is a deal breaker for Jason. We thought it was his, but the clinic got the dates wrong and now…” I swallow the thick, choking lump clogging my throat. Gabriel’s hand rests heavy and comforting on my knee. “I don’t blame him. It’s just…fuck, I miss him.” Fat tears appear from nowhere and flow onto my cheek.
“I would blame him. No man in his right mind would walk away from you.” His voice is derisive, and he shakes his head in disbelief.
“On our wedding day.” I add a little salt to my wound even though, again, I don’t blame him. The day was irrelevant to the impact of the truth. As hard as that is, it’s still better to face that ugly truth before we actually married, rather than deal with a messy aftermath. Rip that Band-Aid clean off, quick, sharp, and briefly painful. If only that was the case.
“Fucking arsehole,” Gabriel grumbles, his eyes searching and kind. He hands me back my unfinished drink before I even ask. This must be very strange for him. I know he’s never married, never had a relationship, as far as I know, still he seems very good at this compassion and empathy thing, for a
hard-arsed, ruthless finance guru, that is. His brow furrows with thought, and he falls silent. He’s handsome, in his late fifties, and looks very good in spite of his lifestyle. I don’t say good for his age because, although he does, I think his relentless pursuit of all things elicit and wanton would wear more heavily on the body than the passing of time. He has a permanent, exotic, deep tan and lines on his face that add to his character. Some are deep wrinkles, others are the twisted skin of scar tissue, evidence of a colourful or chequered past I couldn’t begin to guess at. As open as he is about his desires, he’s a very private man in all other respects. He has dark hair, which is streaked with silver, and the most brilliant blue eyes that convey a perfect mix of intelligence and wild recklessness. “You want me to ruin him?” he asks deadpan, and I nearly spit my chocolate all over his pristine white silk sheets, bedcovers, and robe.
“Excuse me?” I splutter.
“Mistress, it would be no bother. I quite fancy owning that club of his.” His demeanour is completely serious, and I have to take a moment before I give a very unladylike snort.
“That’s very sweet, Gabe, and totally unnecessary. Ruining him won’t change a thing. No, that’s not right. It would make me very sad. He works hard and deserves to do well, so leave him alone, okay?” Gabriel is silent, and I wait until he is looking directly at me before I raise an impatient and accusatory ‘Mistress Selina’ brow.
“Fine,” he huffs. “You know you are much more fun when you are being a cruel bitch.”
“But I’m not a cruel bitch. You paid me to be a cruel bitch, and I do believe you loved every minute.” I remind him.
“I do indeed.” His salacious smile widens, and he draws in a slow, steady breath.
“Past tense, Gabriel…past tense.” I repeat because the fact that I quit as his Mistress some time ago seems to be taking some forever getting through. He briefly closes his eyes and switches the conversation.
“What will you do then, if you are really laying down your whip for good?”
“My work has been really great. I mean, I have taken so much time off and they haven’t fired my arse. So I will continue with them until the baby comes and then see if I can work from home.” I have given this lots of thought, and this seems to be the best solution if I am raising this baby on my own. No not if; get it through your fucking head, Sam, you’re on your own.
“And you don’t know who the father is?” His question brings me back from one hard reality to another.
“I know who it could be but out of the three, no.” I hold his gaze and unsurprisingly I see not a flicker of judgment in his eyes.
“And not one of them wants to play happy families?” His sarcastic lilt is apparent, but I can see the depth of concern in his eyes.
“I don’t need charity, Gabe.” I reply with a sharp bite to my tone, and he grins. “I deserve someone who loves me enough not to care. My baby deserves that too, so until that person steps up, I’m on my own.” I can feel my hackles rise with my temperature and the pitch in my voice. “And I don’t care if that never happens. I’m enough, and I’m happy with that.” My voice wobbles at the end of my tirade. Dammit.
“You sure about that, Sam?” I suck in a breath at his tender intonation and use of my name. I don’t think he has ever called me anything other than Mistress.
“I have to be.” I reply on a sad, soft exhale and close my eyes when he leans in to give me a fatherly kiss on my forehead. I won’t deny I welcome the compassion and safety I feel under his care.
“Why did you never marry, Gabriel? You’d make an excellent husband.” I hold my hand to his cheek, and he sighs, leaning into my touch.
“I made a terrible husband.” He eyes fill with tears, which he quickly blinks away, and he turns from me but not quick enough that I don’t notice the look of devastation that flashes across his handsome face. I sit up and reach for him.
“Gabriel, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” I hold out my hand, and he steps back to hold it gently in both of his. He forces a smile and kisses the back of it.
“Sleep well, Mistress, we have a busy day tomorrow.” His voice is now light and excited. Any trace of whatever brought that awful expression to his face is gone.
“We do?” I’m still leaning forward, and I’m sure my face is a picture of confusion.
“We most certainly do.” The echo of his voice trails behind him as he exits my cabin and leaves me perilously curious. Curiosity is rarely a good thing with men like him. I have no idea what plans he is referring to, although I’m pretty confident I will not want any part of them. I sink back in to the mountain of pillows and slide down the silky sheets. I shuffle out of Gabriel’s robe, now too hot, and push the covers free. I stare up at the twinkling lights that illuminate the mural of the night sky above me and let out a resigned breath. I also happen to know I will have no choice in the matter either, because whatever Gabriel wants…Gabriel gets.
I slam the phone down and Stephanie jumps. She put the call through from Gabriel’s personal assistant. The open plan office at the Club affords zero privacy. I rarely use it, but I do still have a desk next to Marco, who is currently managing the floor. Stephanie is the only admin staff up here, and judging by the hunch of her shoulders, she probably wishes she was elsewhere. But then so do I…I wish I was in Venice.
“Fucking piece of shit!” I stand abruptly, and my chair ricochets off the back wall. I grab my jacket and keys then head for the door.
“Is there anything I can do, Jason?” Stephanie’s voice is tentative, her face scrunched in preparation for more venom. I check myself with a calming breath before I speak
“Thank you, Stephanie, but unless you can get me a ticket to the Gathering, I’m not sure you can.” I slip my arm into my jacket as I continue on my way out. She’s already shaking her head even though I knew her answer before I asked the damn question, unfortunately.
“Oh no, sorry Jason, they are always an instant sell out. Even getting another ticket, you still have to be verified, which I take from the abrupt end to that call, would be unlikely.” Her lips curve into an apologetic smile.
“Something like that.” I push out the word through my clenched jaw. “I was invited, but apparently, the invitation has been revoked.”
“Revoked? No!” She gasps. “Surely Mr Wexler didn’t—”
“Oh yes, Mr Wexler did,” I confirm, justifiably bitter. “His PA just informed me, so draw up his termination contract would you? He can dream on if he thinks he’s stepping one foot back inside my club,” I snap, and she gives a curt nod. “Find out who else got an invite and offer them a lifetime membership free if I can have it.”
“You’d still need to be verified.” Her voice is softer, and she’s rigid in her seat with tension. I’m a little tightly wound myself, so I make the effort to let out a calming breath. I’m not quite ready to flash a smile anytime soon, but my voice is considerably less hostile.
“I will cross that bridge when I have a ticket. First, I need a ticket.” She gives me a short, worried smile and nods again.
“Right. Okay, I’m on it. If a club member has a ticket, Jason, I will get it for you,” she declares, and I’m almost able to smile at her obvious determination—almost.
“Thank you, Stephanie. I appreciate it.”
“Have you asked Leon?” she exclaims as if hit with a flash of genius. I’m way ahead of her.
“That’s where I’m headed now.”
“Good luck!”
I mutter, “I don’t need luck. I need a fucking miracle.”
It only takes a moment in the car driving toward Sam’s old flat when I cut a U-turn in the road and head for the office. I’ve decided not to ask for Leon’s help. I may have convinced him that the wedding day was just a huge motherfucking misunderstanding, but I’m under no illusion where his loyalties lie. If Sam asks him why he suddenly wants a ticket to the Gathering, I would bet my arse he wouldn’t lie for me. I can’t risk her taking flight again, not when I
know exactly where she is going to be, the time, and the reason she’s there.
I screech around the corner and drive into the basement of the Stone building car park. It’s become my home since she left. I let my head drop to the steering wheel when I park and absorb the wave of exhaustion as it drags my heavy eyelids closed. God, I’m so fucking tired.
I jump with the thump on my windscreen only to snap my mouth shut before I curse the motherfucker out for waking me from the only sleep I’ve had in over a week. Daniel has a dark frown staring at me, but the cherub faced smile and waving arms of his son Lucas are a clear indication that at least one of them is pleased to see me. I stretch my neck out left and right until it pops then open the door.
“What the fu…dge are you doing here?” I censor my language, and Daniel cracks an uncharacteristic wide smile, while hugging his son and kissing his dark messy hair. Lucas stretches his arms out to me. He’s at that age where it’s still counted in months, and his sister Leia is just a few weeks old, which is why I’m more than a little curious why he is here, at work, after hours, with his firstborn.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Daniel remarks and eases Lucas across the gap and into my arms. I’ve held Lucas a hundred times, yet for some reason today, I really look at him. His pudgy fingers grasp for me, and his wide toothy grin seems to hit me a little harder in my chest. I try to shake off the effect his crystal eyes are having on me as they seem to bore right through me without blinking. God, it feels like he’s judging me. It’s unnerving. Do all babies stare like that? Will my baby stare at me like this? Fuck, I hope I get to find out.
“I asked first.” I hold Lucas for a quick hug, just as soon as he is in my arms, he twists and is pulling for his dad. He’s so wriggly.