Lottie sees our exchange and is over by my side instantly. All those pilates classes she says she does have her moving through the crowd in a blur of lace. She snags two small caviar canapés and hands me one.
“Hangry or trouble in paradise?” she asks before stuffing the other in her mouth. She has no idea what kind of lie I am living, and it’s growing harder and harder to keep secrets from her.
I keep my smile plastered on as I eat the food she’s given me. “Hangry. There could never be trouble when I know Miles is about to come whisk me away for a private rendezvous.”
“Mm,” she eyes me as I take a larger sip of my drink and let the soft fizz tickle my tongue before I swallow. “Well, if Miles ever needs any help in the grovelling department, Marcus spends plenty of time on his knees for me.”
My cheeks heat at that. Not because I feel scandalised or because half a glass of champagne loosens me up, but because I can picture it. Vividly, gloriously. In the short time I have known Lottie and, by proxy, her husband, I have thought that if they were ever to ask me for a threesome, I would jump at the occasion. If only to watch how their love intertwines with their sex life, to see that passion up close. Now I have a clearer picture of what that would be like.
The mega-wealthy, in my experience, falls into two categories: prudes or deviants. Evelyn? Clearly a prude. Me? Well, I happen to fall into the latter category. Lottie has given the impression she does too with how openly she speaks to me about her relationship in and out of the bedroom. Marcus is an eager submissive. And God would I happily get on my knees for her, too.
I polish off my glass before I let that thought go any further. Not only is my dry spell clearly rotting my brain, but it doesn’t matter, even if they did invite me to a little scene. My engagement contract with the red-faced man trying to push through the crowd of well-wishers says no infidelity. I am tying myself to one man. Forever.
“Charlotte, I think Marcus wanted to speak to you about some kind of book auction?” Miles says before he even comes to a stop in front of us.
She blinks for a moment, like she is debating whether she believes his blatant lie, but then winks at me. “Like training a puppy.”
Miles waits only a moment before he grabs me, his hand gripping my free one until my knuckles hurt. It takes everything in me not to flinch, not react. Thoughts that I have had over and over again for months come swimming to the surface.
Why am I putting up with this? Why wasn’t this fucking behaviour a part of the engagement contract? The petty digs about my weight, the way I style my makeup or hair on any given day; it’s all bullshit I have heard time and time again. From my parents to major design labels, while I am unique enough, smart enough, and attractive enough, I’m not the right kind of pretty.
But being the right kind of pretty isn’t going to save my fucking shoulder as Miles yanks me from the bridge deck where the party is officially happening down to the owner’s deck into the private living room space. The heavily glossed wood floors shine, and the white leather sectional in front of us is ostentatious. No doubt the yacht will have cost the Fields family a small mint to have cleaned and decorated. Every floor is on display and has to show the people directly above us that the Bradshaws are not in dire straits.
“Let go of me right now,” I hiss, pulling to get my hand back. We are alone, and I don’t want this fuck touching me.
Miles releases his grip and looks around. We are well and truly the only people on this deck. The full-service bar is upstairs. The catering staff use the elevator that leads directly to the kitchens. There aren’t even some cheeky guests down here having a joint. It is just the two of us.
“Why the fuck are you wearing that dress? I told you not to.”
“You don’t get to decide what I wear-”
“The hell I don’t. You may think that because your family has money, it means shit. But it doesn’t. Not here. Without me, you are nothing. Do you think the Fords or the Astors would look twice at you? Without that fucking ring on your fat finger, you are nothing.” He points at the glass in my hand, the large diamond on it weighing me down like a lead weight. “If I tell you to do something, you do it.”
“Excuse me?” I protest, rage bubbling up. My limbs feel lighter than air all of a sudden, like I could strike with such speed and strength I could knock him right off the yacht.
We get into this argument once a week. He tries to assert some kind of fucked up dominance and toxic masculinity shit, and I tell him to go fuck himself. He isn’t the physical type. The only time I have seen Miles Bradshaw do any sort of exercise is when he forces me to play tennis with him. The trips to the gym are more of an excuse to take suggestive pictures of himself.
Not once have I been scared of this idiot getting physically violent with me, if only because it would leave evidence behind. Grabbing my hand too hard, throwing a vase of flowers at my feet, belittling every ounce of me? The list of offences doesn’t leave enough evidence to be in violation of our contract.
“Do you know who is fucking paying for this party? Me. It isn’t you. It isn’t mommy-fucking-dearest upstairs. It is Delphini Fucking Fields. You don’t get to speak to me that way.” I point my perfectly manicured finger back at him, taking a step forward, ready to fight. “You worthless-”
It’s the first time I’ve seen this look on him. Red in the face from anger or alcohol is a typical look on Miles, but the colour has drained this time. His pale skin isn’t even flushed, but his eyes make me stop. There is something terrifying about blue eyes, a coldness in them that makes me shiver at first glance. Miles’ blue eyes are lifeless when he smiles at me. I’m frozen right on the spot, my insult trapped behind my lips as I look at this sinister face he reveals to me.
I’m scared, and I should be. I am alone with a man who has been nothing but abusive and toxic as shit since we met.
When Miles grabs me this time, I flinch. My whole body jumps right out of my skin as he grips my bare arm and twists. He jerks us around until he has me bent over the back of the sofa. His crotch pushes against my ass as he presses his whole body into my bent arm and back. Air bursts from my lungs in short pants, and my hair falls across my face.
I can’t move. I should be able to push him off. The exact manoeuvre for this rolls through my head like one of those 80s fitness tapes my mom used to put on for us to do together, but my body won’t do anything. Whatever anger I had, that fight in me, twists into something worse. Fear. Miles twists my arm back farther until I cry out.
“I am tired of your goddamn attitude,” he whispers, his hips rolling into mine, and fear as I have blessedly never known drips down my spine. The slick fabric of my dress shifts, rising higher up my legs. “My dick hasn’t gotten wet in six months, Phi, but that ends tonight.”
“No,” I croak, my voice wobbling. It’s not the voice of a strong person. The thought that I am in over my head makes my chest tighten, and my mouth dry up. I need help.
“Yes.” He thrusts against me. “Remember, you are nothing except a means to an end.”
Miles pulls away from me. The weight of him is off me and my balance falters. I faceplant into the leather sofa, but I can’t bring myself to get up. Not yet, not while he is still there watching me. I don’t care that I’ve ruined my makeup or creased my dress beyond repair. He doesn’t get to see the tears in my eyes.
“Get cleaned up,” he sneers. “You look like a fucking middle-class whore.”
