"Frankie, don't be mad at Evelyn," Britt murmured from the safety of Francisco's arms, her voice weak and trembling. "She's probably just having a hard time accepting... After all, she is Mrs. Morgan."
The words were a masterclass in manipulation. On the surface, a plea for understanding; underneath, a sharp reminder to Francisco that Evelyn was using her position to bully his beloved.
Francisco's gaze on Evelyn turned glacial. "Apologize to Britt," he commanded. The words were flat, devoid of emotion, an order from a superior to a subordinate.
Evelyn stared at him, a chasm of disbelief opening in her chest. The pain was so intense it was almost a physical thing, a hand squeezing her heart until it couldn't beat. "Francisco," she whispered, her voice cracking, "what am I to you? Am I your wife, or just some stranger your friend can walk all over?"
She needed to know. She needed him to define the last three years of this sham.
He didn't even look at her. Cradling Britt, he started towards the stairs, moving around Evelyn as if she were a piece of furniture in his way. As he passed, he dropped the words that would become her brand.
"Know your place, Evelyn."
The sentence was a bucket of ice water, drenching her, shocking the very marrow in her bones. It extinguished the last ember of warmth she had held for him.
"And what is my place?" she called after him, her voice rising with desperation.
He paused on the landing, turning his head slightly. A cruel, chilling smile touched his lips. "You're the commodity I purchased for a price. That is your place."
He had finally said it. He had stripped away the pretense of marriage and laid bare the ugly transaction at its core. Evelyn flinched as if he had struck her. She felt naked, exposed, utterly humiliated.
"So she can just barge into my home and insult me?" she demanded, her voice shaking.
He didn't answer. He simply continued up the stairs and disappeared with Britt into one of the guest rooms. The soft click of the door closing was the sound of her own heart shutting down.
"She provoked me!" Evelyn screamed at the empty staircase, but her words echoed in the cavernous space, unheard and unanswered. In his eyes, she had no credibility, no voice.
She stumbled into the kitchen, a ghost in her own house. On the counter sat the tiramisu she had made yesterday for their anniversary. A dessert he would never eat. She dug her fingers into the soft cake and brought a messy scoop to her mouth. The bitterness of the espresso and the cloying sweetness of the mascarpone cheese filled her senses. It tasted like her marriage.
She remembered the first time she saw him, at a gala years ago. He had seemed like a god, impossibly handsome and powerful. She had fallen for him instantly, a secret, foolish crush that was the real reason she had agreed to his contract. She had hoped, somewhere deep down, that he might one day see her.
That night, she fell into a fitful sleep on the living room sofa. She was jolted awake by a heavy weight pressing down on her, the reek of expensive whiskey filling her nostrils.
She panicked, trying to push the body off her. "Get off me!"
In the dim moonlight filtering through the tall windows, she saw his face. It was Francisco, his eyes dark and clouded with drink.
He should be with Britt, was her first confused thought. For three years, he had only come to her bed on one designated day a month, performing his duty with cold, detached efficiency. He never kissed her. He never spoke a word of affection.
He grabbed her chin, his grip painfully tight. "What's wrong? Unwilling?" he slurred, his voice a low, mocking growl. "Isn't this the job you're best at?"
His thumb traced the line of her jaw, his gaze roaming over her face as if he were inspecting a piece of property for defects.
"Evelyn..." he murmured her name, the sound a strange mix of anger and something else she couldn't identify. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he tore the silk of her nightgown.
