Salvage Her Heart

by Shelly Pratt

  ‘Mr Stratford is concerned about your absence,’ he informs me as I slide the key into the apartment door.

  ‘Traffic was busy.’ It’s a weak excuse, but he’s not the one I have to convince.

  ‘He’s requested I contact him the minute you return. He’s waiting for your phone call.’

  ‘Well, he’ll just have to wait a minute more,’ I snap, overly confident in Alex’s absence. Slamming the door shut on Harry’s face (no, he’s not really called Lurch), I hurry to relieve myself of the parcels I’m carrying so I can call Alex before he has a stroke.

  I settle down on the sofa that overlooks the river and unconsciously start to nibble at my manicured nails. Dialling Alex’s office number from memory, I wait for his secretary to answer. She’s not the kind of woman to give anything away. ‘Stone wall’ would be a very accurate description for the woman who plays sentinel to Alex’s inner sanctum. Larissa is from a family who has spent generations in the corporate world, and she knows all the inside rumours that accompany the financial stock they’re heavily invested in.

  Now as the phone rings, sweat starts to make my palms slippery. I almost drop it just as Larissa answers. When she realises it’s me, she dismisses me with her bored tone, connecting me with Alex. There are no kind words from him, no concerns for my safety—just suspicion and doubt.

  ‘Where have you been? I’ve been trying to contact you for the last two hours!’ His tone is harsh; it demands immediate answers.

  ‘I’m sorry, Alex. I’ve been out shopping for your birthday dinner, and the time just got away from me.’

  ‘Well perhaps next time I should send Harry along with you since you seem to be suffering from poor time management.’ Inwardly I groan. That is the last thing I would want. Then my freedom really would be non-existent.

  ‘No, darling, that really won’t be necessary, and it won’t happen again. Just enjoy the rest of your day, and I’ll have everything ready by the time you get home.’ I’m almost pleading with him to let this drop. There is a smile in my voice to placate him, although it doesn’t reach my face. I’m close to tears, upset that my stupidity in delaying my return has ruined such a nice morning.

  ‘Fine, just see that it doesn’t.’

  ‘Thank you, Alex! I promise we’ll have a wonderful evening.’ I’m just about to hang up, when his chilling tone creeps back through the telephone receiver, making my shiver involuntarily.

  ‘And, Evie?’

  ‘Yes?’ I gulp.

  ‘Next time take your mobile phone with you. I’ve stressed this to you before. You are to be contactable at all times, do you hear me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whisper. He says nothing more. There is no sweet goodbye or ‘I love you’. There is only me, crushed and upset, listening to the dial tone of the telephone.

  There is no point in my wallowing. It will only cause disruption to my tasks ahead and cause further upset with Alex this evening. I remind myself that this won’t be forever; that there will be a way to leave him—eventually.

  The rest of the afternoon is spent creating the kind of feast that will put Alex in a good mood. I make a platter of cured meats and cheeses, with olives and rum-soaked fruit. The main meal is nothing to be scoffed at, either—roasted goose with foie gras. Dessert, I cheated. I do know he likes and demands that everything is homemade, but to be honest, why bother when a delicatessen can produce something better than I can. I’m hoping Alex won’t notice the difference when I serve him the assorted miniature French pastries and tartlets I bought this morning.

  Our apartment smells amazing, but suddenly I’m hyper aware of three things at once. First, the afternoon sky outside has faded away to dusk, which means that Alex will be on his way home very soon. This thought is enough to panic me anyway, especially since he works only a short distance away in town. The other two things that I notice and which are problematic to the first, is the time on the clock and my reflection in the microwave door. The heat from cooking in the kitchen has made a frizzy mess of my hair, eyeliner has started to smudge, and my clothes are definitely in need of the dry-cleaner.

  I’m guessing I have about all of half an hour before my husband comes walking through our front door. I rush about the kitchen, throwing everything in the dishwasher that doesn’t have food in it. Thankfully, I’ve already set the table on the terrace with our finest silver. It’s not enough that he eats five-star food, but he wants it served in such a manner, too.

  As I glance around, I’m sure I have everything set to perfection, so I hurry to the shower to scrub the day’s filth off me. A quick shampoo and soap is all I have time for. For once in my life I’m grateful that I have thin hair. It means it dries a lot easier. Alex likes my blonde locks blow-dried straight, so this is how I style it. I apply the make-up he likes and the bright, red lipstick. In my wardrobe is an evening dress, hung up in plastic to protect the fabric. There is no doubt that Madeline, the stylist, has been in our apartment today to deliver the garment.

  I strip off the plastic to see what she’d have me wear for Alex tonight. It’s a little black dress, strapless, with a strip of emerald material around the bottom hem. It matches my eyes, and I know this is why she chose it. She’s also left me a strapless black bra and see-through panties to match. I hate that she chooses everything down to my undergarments. It makes me feel vulnerable and naked—which I’m sure is entirely Alex’s intention.

  Just as I’m slipping into my heels, the intercom sounds, a warning someone has just stepped off the lift. In some way, I’m glad at that moment for the early warning that Alex has arrived. I check my reflection in the mirror, plaster a smile on my face, hide the anguish in my eyes, and go to meet the devil.

  Alex steps into the foyer, handsome as ever, but it does nothing to disguise his arrogance. He’s not exceptionally tall, although his width more than makes up for his height. It’s all muscle—hours spent on his elliptical machine while brokering deals in his office. His hair is still dark, only the slightest of grey smattering the sides near his temples. I wonder if, in years to come, he will be vain enough to dye it.

  His chiselled jaw tightens as he takes in my appearance.

  ‘Evie, you look… like you haven’t finished getting ready.’ His tone, while relatively quiet and without emotion, is like a slap. He may as well have said I look like shit.

  ‘I’m sorry, is this not what you wanted me to wear tonight?’

  ‘It’s not the clothes, it’s your hair. Didn’t Madeline tell you to wear it up tonight? I like the chignon you do.’

  ‘I wasn’t here when she stopped by,’ I explain humbly, dropping my head to avoid his disappointment.

  ‘Well you’d best rectify that immediately, and before I have to pour my own champagne.’

  ‘Yes, Alex.’

  Like a well-trained puppy, I dart off to fix my hair in the up-style he wants. My fingers deftly move through my hair, precise and well-practised. When I come back out to the living room, I receive his nod of approval while he holds out his champagne glass to be filled. I oblige, pouring the Veuve Clicquot Ponsardin like it’s tap water. He takes a healthy swig before motioning me to join him.

  In Alex’s presence, everything is monitored, everything must be perfect before the next act can begin. I pour myself a glass, sitting next to him on the sofa.

  ‘Happy birthday, darling,’ I offer, holding my glass out towards his. He clinks his against mine, smug self-satisfaction written all over his face.

  ‘So, did you get me a present?’

  ‘Of course, let me get it.’ I scramble to retrieve the gift-wrapped box from the bookshelf. I offer it to him, allowing him to kiss my cheek in exchange. His lips are warm and soft, his aftershave ever present on his clothing.

  ‘What is it?’ A childish spark lights his eyes as he shakes the box. It gets harder and harder to buy gifts for a man who has a bottomless bank account and everything in the world he could wish for.

  ‘Open it.’ I smile, certain for once that
I have found something he doesn’t already have. Carefully he opens the wrapping, almost as if he doesn’t want to spoil it. When he sees the black box he looks a little confused. No, confused isn’t the word. He looks… surprised—but in a disappointed, bad, kind of way.

  ‘It’s a pen,’ he states flatly before tossing the box to the coffee table without even opening it. I pick it up, opening it for him so he can see.

  ‘Not just any pen, darling. This is a Mont Blanc! And look, I even had them engrave your name on it,’ I say cheerfully, trying to infect him with my enthusiasm. He takes one look at the 1,500-dollar pen I purchased for him before reaching for his pocket inside his suit jacket.

  I recoil out of instinct, unable to squash the little stab of fear that has suddenly gripped me. He pulls something out of his pocket, thrusting it towards my face so I can get a better look. It’s also a Mont Blanc pen. Not the fountain one I got him, but a less expensive ball-point one.

  ‘I already have a pen, Evie. The board gave this to me last month when the company closed the Dallas deal early.’ He flings it next to me, landing against the glass coffee table with a clatter.

  ‘I’m sorry, darling. I had no idea, I…’ He silences me with just a look.

  ‘Forget it. Let’s see if we can salvage what’s left of the evening with dinner, shall we?’

  He takes his champagne with him to the al fresco area, padding across the tiles with socks on his feet and dumping his suit jacket across the back of one of the dining chairs. He ignores me as he drinks, enjoying the view his wealth has afforded. There is nothing left for me to do but start serving our meal. At least that might distract me from the hurt and rejection.

  Thankfully, after a few glasses of champagne, he starts to relax. I’m still sipping the same glass I poured for myself at the beginning of the night. I learnt my lesson once; now I never let my guard down. It wasn’t pretty, and I certainly don’t want to go through it again. So I sip, while he talks, the alcohol loosening his tongue.

  Dinner seems to be well received, at least he cleared his plate. When it’s time for dessert, I brew his favourite coffee to serve with it. I don’t indulge in dessert, knowing I will receive criticism if my body even displays the smallest sign of weight gain. Cellulite and rolls of excess flesh are a complete no-no in his book. Best to be good most of the time, and then I don’t have to exercise as ridiculously to keep it off.

  While I sip a black espresso, I watch carefully out of my peripheral vision to see Alex delve his way through the assortment of petite fours I have put out for him. He takes a small bite out of each before moving on to the next one. After sampling them all he swills his coffee around his mouth as if to clear the sugary goodness from his teeth.

  ‘The petite fours are nice,’ he says. I smile—not proudly for making them, but ecstatic for a compliment for something I have managed to deceive him in.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Did you make them?’ His steel-grey eyes rove over me, seemingly searching for a crack in the façade, a lie, a cheat. It’s like he can sniff it out. The muscles in his jaw clench tightly, a clear sign a storm is brewing.

  ‘Why do you ask?’ I swallow deeply, not at all wanting his reply or this conversation. I may have just made a very big mistake.

  ‘Because you’re either becoming a much better cook overnight, or you bought these.’ He’s still watching me like a hawk.

  ‘Perhaps your cooking lessons are finally paying off,’ I offer, careful not to take my eyes off him as I sip my coffee.

  ‘Perhaps. But I think you mistake my generosity as an excuse for you to be lazy.’

  ‘No, Alex… I didn’t—’

  ‘Don’t you fucking lie to me!’ With one fluid motion he scrapes the remnants of our dinner off the table, crockery and crystal shattering on the tiles around us. On any other floor perhaps somebody, anybody, would hear. Up on the top floor the noise is drowned out and taken away on the wind. It’s as if it never happened. Except I have Alex’s murderous face in mine.

  Four

  ALEX

  White hot fury rages through my body. Her deceit causes my blood to spike, and I can feel the sudden throb of adrenalin as it pitches at my heart. Each and every time I see these little episodes of defiance from her it enrages me to the point that I want to lash out irrationally at the woman I need to own completely.

  Her behaviour is unacceptable. It’s as though each lie slips from her lips, trails the air between us and then reaches my ears like poison and starts to infect my mind. I’ve never been able to stand liars, making it very easy for me to spot one a mile off. Evie’s jittery, nervous demeanour only makes the lie ten times more visible.

  While I’m flying off the handle, I can’t help but get a little aroused as well. The sudden sweep of the plates off the table was enough to strike fear in her heart. She flinches back, unable to contain her weakness to my hold over her. I am the commander, she my subject.

  My dick springs to life as I lunge forward to release my wrath. She will bow down. She will submit. She will do everything I ask, when I ask, and how I ask. It’s time to teach this Princess a lesson on becoming a good Queen.

  ‘Don’t fucking lie to me!’ She flinches, arms reflexively rising to cover her beautiful face.

  ‘No, no Alex, it’s not like that. I only wanted the best for you darling, the very, very best. I thought if I bought you something so much better than what I could make for you then it would make you happy.’ Her pleading has no effect on me whatsoever; it only pushes me to desire a ‘reset’ in her personality. An adjustment, if you like.

  I strike while the iron is hot. This is not a negotiation. There will be no terms met except my own, and I will secure exactly what I want with brute force. Her eyes dance as they flicker about every little tic and move my body makes. She’s watching closely, anticipating the moment my hand will find her face. She doesn’t have to wait long. I give her exactly what she’s expecting, and she just about comes out of her chair from the force.

  Although she was expecting the blow, the shock still seems to stun her. The backhand to her cheekbone causes the skin to instantly welt. Wild doe-eyes find mine, with only questions remaining. They will go unanswered, as I answer to no one. Both my hands find the arm rests of her chair. She sits as still as stone, unaffected by the tipped over champagne bottle on the table that still leaks its bubbly liquid right onto her lap.

  Her nipples harden from the wind blowing at the sticky, wet liquid that soaks her dress. The sight is enough to make my erection painfully obvious in my pants. I need her hot body encasing me like a glove. I need control again, and there is only one way to feel that so completely.

  There is little resistance as I snatch her wrists up with my hands. Her blonde hair has come loose, falling around her face and masking the tears I know are there. She’s so light, it takes nothing of my strength to hoist her from her chair and lean her over the table.

  ‘Alex…’ There is desperation there, but it’s falling on deaf ears. The roar of blood and sex swirls about my senses making me single-minded in my thoughts. I bend her, chest down over the table as I hold her thin neck with my hand. Her bottom is in the air, teasing and taunting my already aroused cock.

  ‘Please.’ The word is so subtly delivered that I almost miss it. But it was spoken, muffled and distorted as it left her mouth amongst the torrent of things happening. I move closer to her, rubbing my dick against her backside as my lips move to find her ear.

  ‘Please?’

  ‘Yes, Alex, please don’t.’

  ‘Don’t what?’

  ‘Please don’t hurt me.’

  ‘Oh, Princess, I’m not going to hurt you. I’m going to love you. Forever.’

  ‘This isn’t love, Alex!’ She bucks and thrashes beneath me which sends a flicker of rage through my body. She has never dared to insinuate that what we have is anything but. I’m shocked she even has the balls to say such a thing with the position I have her in. Her words only anger
me more. Grabbing her hair, I pull hard, making her back arch beautifully, graceful as a swan. I whisper harshly in her ear.

  ‘This is love, Princess. The only kind of love you’ll ever have again, so you better get used to it. Your audacity astounds me. First you insult me with store-bought food, and now this crap? If I wanted anything but the best I would have a maid, not a wife. It’s your job to honour me, honour me in a way a wife should honour a husband. If you wanted to give me the best then you should have taken the time to make my dinner yourself!’ With a flourish I pin the side of her head back against the table.

  A sharp breath of air escapes her lips and her eyes roll into the back of her head. I still have her hair in my hand, which I use to manipulate her any way I please.

  ‘Am I in any way unclear, Evie?’

  ‘No, Alex.’

  ‘Good! Now you can love me in a way a wife should,’ I hiss.

  Pulling off her undoes me. Her dress has shifted up her arse and revealed the see-through black panties I had picked out for her. All my anger switches to red-hot lust that is almost uncontainable. With my free hand, I quickly un-buckle my belt and free my cock from the restrictions of my briefs. I press the engorged head of my dick against her bottom, the cool champagne that still soaks her clothes pleasantly cooling the tip. Evie becomes completely still, my intent clearly felt against her skin.

  I’m about to delve into the warm depths of her body and consume her whether she’s ready or not. Hooking my thumb over the edge of her panties, I pull them aside to reveal the milky flesh of her arse. Peeking ever so subtly below the base of her bottom is her pussy. Tiny droplets of sticky champagne leak from her dress and run down the cheeks of her arse, making it glisten in the soft light. It’s all the invitation I need.

  I release her hair from my grasp, my hands taking up residence on her hips. My firm grip of her tiny waist allows me to feel a power so great it’s almost palpable. My dick, now released, springs forth to claim its prize. Blood pumps around my shaft, engorging it in anticipation of consuming every inch of Evie Stratford.