“You’re not replaceable to me, Cheryl,” he whispers.
I squeeze my eyes shut. My soul feels tortured. I’ve never had so many doubts and insecurities in my life. Being married to Julian is not what I thought it would be. If he wasn’t so covetable, it would be so much easier to trust him.
In the morning, after breakfast, Julian heads up to his office. I grab my transparent glass tablet and make myself comfortable on one of the white couches in the living room overlooking the mountain-filled view outside. I tap the screen and initiate a video call to my mother.
She smiles when she sees me. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“I’m good,” I mutter.
“What’s wrong, Cheryl?” There is no hiding my emotions from her.
“Well, I’m just disappointed, that’s all. Something is really bugging me.”
“What is it?” she asks gently, sounding concerned.
“Julian works more than he needs to. He has more than enough money, and I don’t understand why he can’t just retire and spend more time with the family.”
“Did you ask him about it?”
“Yes and he simply said he works because he’s passionate about it and even though I mean a lot to him, his work means a lot to him, too.”
“Julian is right. You mean a lot to him, but couples need to have a life outside of their marriage. That way they have more of themselves to share with each other, and they are happier. How is your oil painting going, Cheryl?”
“I haven’t been able to focus on that lately, but I’ll have to get back into it.”
“I strongly encourage that. Julian might decide to retire in the future, but until then, take the time to pursue your passions.”
With that little bit of encouragement from my mother, I spend the afternoon working on a new painting. It helps take my mind off Julian, and I actually escape into a peaceful trance for a few hours as I listen to music and create an abstract painting of Geneva with various colors.
I’m awakened from my trance and saddened when a song’s lyrics resonate inside me: The future that we hold is so unclear…This is a modern fairytale…No happy endings, no wind in our sails, but I can’t imagine a life without breathless moments.
That’s exactly what Julian gives me—breathless moments—and I can’t imagine life without him. However, just as the song suggests, not every modern fairytale has a happy ending.
In the evening, after dinner, Julian suggests that we go dancing. I push aside any concerns because more than anything I want more breathless moments with him.
I get dressed in a dark green knee-length dress by Elie Saab. Julian is dressed in a black button-down shirt, black pants, and a black suit jacket. We leave our wedding rings at home and head to the same exclusive club we went to before.
Julian drives his red Saleen S7. It’s a sleek and unique car that I had only heard of until I rode in it for the first time.
As usual, Julian and I are treated like royalty and ushered into the club so that we can avoid the hours-long lineup at the entrance.
Julian leaves me standing alone at the lit-up bar. I can feel his burning-hot gaze on me, but I can’t spot him among the crowd.
I suddenly feel another pair of eyes on me. When I look to my left, I see a man with bright green eyes and dark brown hair glaring hard at me.
He scrutinizes me with intimidating, greedy eyes as though I’m a mouthwatering piece of meat. A lascivious smile tugs at his lips. I glare back at him, but when he doesn’t look away, I turn my back to him, facing the bar to avoid his scrutiny. Then I feel uncomfortable, knowing that he’s probably staring at my ass.
I feel Julian’s masculine presence before I see him. I get a whiff of his delicious, manly, spicy cologne.
“Drink?” he whispers into my ear as he wraps his arm around my waist.
“Sure,” I reply.
“What are you having?”
“I’ll have a glass of champagne.”
Julian waves over the bartender with his Black Amex, orders a flute of Dom Pérignon, and slides it over to me on the bar.
“Your name?”
“Cheryl, and yours?”
“Julian.” He offers his hand.
I shake his hand and shiver as a charge runs from Julian’s hand into my own and then up my arm. Fuck, what is that?
He gently raises my hand to his lips and kisses my knuckles while steadily holding my gaze. I’m holding my breath as I gape at his handsome face and gleaming, jet-black hair.
“Nice to meet you,” he whispers before putting my hand back down.
He remains silent, piercing me with his deep gaze. His energy speaks louder than words.
I bite my lower lip and glance away for a second to catch my breath. I take a sip of champagne and turn my attention back toward him.
I feel someone brush against my shoulder and I glance to my left to see the brown-haired man with green eyes smiling at me. His eyes are bloodshot, and he looks drunk, if not high. I glance back at Julian, who does not look happy.
“Hey, how about I offer you a drink after you finish that one,” the man says forcefully.
“Back off,” Julian growls as he bristles, stepping toward the man and fixing him with a back-off-now glare.
“Hey, just because she’s talking to you doesn’t mean you own her.” The man’s bright green eyes glower at Julian.
“She’s my wife,” Julian snarls.
The man glances at my hand and then back up. “I don’t see a wedding ring.”
I notice traces of white powder directly underneath the man’s nose, which instantly reminds me of Derek. I shiver with disgust.
“I’ll fight you for her,” the man says confidently.
“Are you fucking stupid?” Julian growls.
“That’s what I said.”
Julian rushes forward and aims a punch, but the man blocks it with his arm and throws a blow to Julian’s stomach.
I back away from the men in surprise, dropping my champagne flute. It shatters violently on the floor. I quickly step farther away from the men as I watch them trade a round of punches.
They are moving so fast, arms swinging and feet bobbing. Adrenaline spikes and moves through my veins. I glance around; several people are watching now.
The man lunges at Julian and swings a punch at his head, which Julian blocks. The man tries to aim another punch, but Julian ducks and charges the man, pushing him back hard and nearly knocking him over.
Julian sends a series of jabs to the man’s side, so hard they make loud, cracking sounds. The man tries to aim a punch, but Julian steps back. Julian lands a fast, hard punch, smashing the man’s face; blood sprays from his nose.
Julian lands a powerful sidekick and knocks the man to the ground. The man struggles as Julian lands on top of him and delivers a final, knockout punch to the head. It’s so powerful, the man’s eyes slam shut; he appears unconscious.
Julian stands up, calmly straightens his suit, and strides over to me. He grabs my hand and pulls me toward a different area of the club with another lit-up bar.
“Is that guy okay?” I ask, eyes wide.
“Oh yeah, he’ll be fine. They’ll carry him out and he’ll wake up in a few hours at the hospital,” Julian says casually. “Now, where were we? Let me buy you another drink.”
I notice red bruises on Julian’s neck and the sides of his face.
“Are you okay?” I ask as I gently smooth the bruises on his neck with the tips of my fingers.
“Fucking idiot,” Julian growls. “He asked for it.”
He puts his hands commandingly on the bar. A bartender approaches and asks what he wants.
“How about a shot?” Julian asks me.
“Sure,” I respond.
Julian orders a shot of Belvedere vodka and slides it over to me on the bar.
I down the shot and suck on a lime. When I glance over, I see Julian watching me carefully. His eyes are predator-like and I feel like his willing prey. I’m
fully aware that Julian wants to get me drunk and rape me.
Julian calls over the bartender and orders me another vodka shot. He slides it over to me on the bar. I swallow and it burns down my throat, heating my stomach. Fuck, that’s strong.
“Dance with me,” Julian says as he takes my hand.
I follow him onto the dance floor. He moves behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. We begin dancing to the beat of the music. It’s a fast and pulsing rhythm.
The song changes and we move to the tempo. I rock my hips from side to side as Julian slides his hands up and down my waist and hips, his eyes on my ass. The alcohol suddenly hits my system and the room begins to spin. I’m such a cheap drunk.
I turn around and wrap my arms around his neck. He gazes into my eyes and no words are needed. I bite my lower lip as we move to the music and stare deeply into each other’s eyes.
His eyes convey more than words ever can. A true alpha male dominates the submissive with his eyes alone.
The buzz in my head is getting stronger and I hold onto Julian’s neck for support. I let him direct my hips to the rhythm of the music.
I part my lips and his gaze shifts to them. His eyes get hooded, and his jaw clenches. I lick my lips, slicking them with wetness. I feel his body stiffen against mine.
He fixes his dark gaze on my mouth, slides his hands into my hair, and leans in as though to kiss me, but suddenly he withholds himself. Our lips are almost touching, and I can feel his hot breath against my face.
The sexual tension increases as I wait for him to kiss me. I inhale his rich, manly, spicy scent. He examines me as though he were reading my mind, knowing everything I’m thinking and everything I’m feeling—it’s so intimidating.
I suddenly feel my panties drip with moisture. I’m so fucking wet and Julian hasn’t even touched me there yet. The sexual anticipation and chemistry between us is incredible. He truly is a master of seduction.
I slide my hands from his neck and into his short black hair. My heart is thumping and the noise around me—the people, the music, everything—suddenly fades away. My full attention is on him.
I can’t take it anymore; I firmly grip the back of his head and lean in to lock lips with him, letting out a loud moan.
Our tongues meet and swirl. I can taste his desire for me. Our lips move rapidly as we kiss, moaning and groaning.
I’ve lost all my inhibitions and I hop onto him, wrapping my legs around his waist as I kiss him harder than I’ve ever kissed anyone. I don’t care if people are watching, I’m so turned on. He shoves his tongue around in my mouth and I moan as we trade saliva in a passionate exchange.
Julian pulls away and fixes his intense gaze on my face. “I’m taking you home tonight,” he growls.
I nod—I’m his willing victim. He places me on my feet, and I get a head rush, either from the kiss or the alcohol or both. He grabs me by the hand and leads me toward the exit.
When we get into the car, Julian puts my seatbelt on for me, then starts the car.
“I’m going to fuck your brains out tonight,” he says, harsh and rough.
On the way home, the effects of the alcohol put me in a sleepy state. I shut my eyes.
I’m awakened when Julian unbuckles my seatbelt. I try and get out of the car but I’m too intoxicated, so Julian lifts me into his arms.
I feel Julian carry me through our home and into the “rape room.” The alcohol has worked its way through my entire system, and all I feel like doing is sleeping. I force my eyes open when Julian tosses me onto the four-poster bed. Julian is undressing himself and piercing me with a ravenous, salacious grin. I’m all his, to do with as he pleases—fuck me raw and blow his entire load inside me.
The room feels like it’s spinning even though I’m lying on my back. I’m too dizzy to move, so I close my eyes and wait for the feeling to pass.
The alcohol has left me drowsy, weak, and incoherent. I open my eyes when I feel Julian pull me by the feet toward the edge of the bed.
He stands by the edge, raises my legs to a 90-degree angle, and holds onto my ankles. My legs are spread-eagle and he shoves his throbbing cock inside me.
I’m his fuck toy to do with as he pleases. I close my eyes as he begins pumping. He alternately crosses and spreads my legs like scissors, opening and closing as he thrusts.
One second my limbs are in an “X” and so super tight for his thick cock. Then, when he spreads me open again, I’m wide open and able to take him in deeper.
He thrusts hard and fast, and I’m jolted like a rag doll. He grits his teeth, slamming against my hips with a loud body-to-body smacking sound.
He speeds up and, with one final hard thrust, unleashes a deluge of his thick, hot globs against my inner walls. My mind explodes as I climax with flashing lights like fireworks against my closed eyelids. My body convulses as though I’m having a seizure. Holy fuck, that was intense.
Julian rolls off me and immediately pulls me into his arms. I’m held tightly against him as his chest heaves. A few droplets of sweat run down his toned eight-pack.
The powerful pinnacle has left me like putty, and the alcohol seems to have enhanced the after-sex bliss.
CHAPTER SEVEN
For the next few months, I’m busy with my artwork. I’ve completed sixteen paintings so far, but I’m hoping to add at least four more. Julian has arranged a private gallery viewing for my art collection in two weeks and I’m so excited. He says a collection of twenty paintings is sufficient for my first viewing.
Julian has purchased an art gallery for me in Geneva. It’s a large, elegant, two-floor space. My art gallery, C. Stone, has high ceilings, dark hardwood floors, and my colorful abstract paintings hanging on crisp white walls. Not many artists have their very own gallery, so I am very appreciative toward Julian, who helped make my dream of being an artist a reality. Julian also hires a very pleasant female assistant to work for me and help me during gallery viewings.
I haven’t received any more strange letters and Julian hasn’t raised any further suspicions. Besides painting, I’ve kept myself occupied with shopping, lunch dates, and playdates.
Anita, Sandra, and I have become close friends. We arrange a playdate once a week for our children, and for girl talk. We also arrange a shopping and lunch date once a week in the city center of Geneva and leave the children at home with their nannies.
Geneva rivals London and Paris as a major shopping destination in Europe, and shopping is practically a national sport in Switzerland. With my Black Amex card from Julian, as well as his constant encouragement to shop till I drop, I’ve assembled a large collection of gorgeous designer clothing in my walk-in closet.
My walk-in closet is every woman’s dream. It’s as big as most people’s homes and looks like a designer store, with all my purses and shoes neatly arranged on built-in shelves. My jewelry rests behind glass cases as though it’s on display in a museum.
Sandra and Anita have arranged a shopping day this afternoon in the shopping district. We have lunch and then stroll Rue du Rhone, glancing at the pretty window displays as we chat. We stop by the Hermès store and gaze through the window at the purses.
“These purses are like art,” I remark. “I have every color, but I’m missing the orange one, and that one looks tempting.” I point to the Hermès Birkin at the right of the display.
“That one is lovely,” Anita comments. “Speaking of art, how is your art collection coming along?”
“I’ve been very busy with it,” I respond.
“I can’t wait to see it,” Sandra says. “What does Julian think?
“He says I’m very talented, but we’ll see what everyone else thinks.”
“How is Julian?” Anita asks.
“He’s constantly working,” I respond sadly.
Sandra tries to console me. “You’re the trophy wife to a highly sophisticated, wealthy businessman. That’s just how it is sometimes with them—they are always working.”
I
come home with my new purchase, placing the orange Birkin bag on one of the empty shelves in my walk-in closet. My entire bag collection is worth more than most people earn in a lifetime.
The next two weeks fly by as I work on several more paintings until the day of my private viewing finally arrives. I’m feeling nervous and excited as Julian and I arrive at my art gallery, dressed to the nines.
Julian is wearing a tuxedo, and I’m in a light pink pleated silk-organza dress by Lela Rose with matching pumps. My hair is in an elegant up-do, and I have diamond stud earrings.
Everything is as I expected, if not better. Classical music is playing softly throughout my art gallery. Each person has a glass of champagne in hand and walks around admiring the paintings while chatting quietly with others. Some are tilting their heads to the side, silently viewing each piece. Some are resting their fingers on their chins, closely examining and analyzing my work.
Some of Julian’s wealthy acquaintances are here, as well as his close friends—Daniel, Phillip, Lance, Dimitri, Mark, Andrew, and Timothy—and their wives. Altogether, there are fifty-seven people at my private viewing.
My assistant gathers everyone around the painting that I’ve designated “the showstopper.” It’s a 48-by-84 oil-on-canvas abstract with vibrant red, blue, yellow, and orange streaks of color portraying Paris, France. Like any abstract, when one simply looks at it, all he or she sees is streaks and blobs of color. However, on further inspection, buildings, streets, and people can be seen.
I am very nervous and concerned about what the distinguished people whom Julian has invited will think of my artwork. I really hope my paintings are as good as Julian says they are. I don’t want to be labeled as another bored trophy wife pursuing a creative career with her husband’s money simply to occupy her time.
Julian stands in front of the crowd, which is admiring “the showstopper.” He holds a microphone and gives a small speech, thanking everyone for coming and offering other formal niceties.
He smiles proudly and locks eyes with me as I stand with sweaty palms and a constricted throat among the crowd. “I’d like to introduce my wife, Cheryl, the creative mind and talented artist behind all these masterpieces.”
Covet: Trusting the Billionaire (The Trophy Wife Book 4) Page 5