33. Ginevra

CHAPTER 33

Ginevra

S unday night we’re at an art opening for one of Blake’s business associates in Manhattan. Normally, I’d drown myself in the free flowing champagne and chat with the many acquaintances here, but I don’t feel like indulging in either tonight. I haven’t felt like myself since the wedding, which was made worse the other day when Blake confirmed that we’ll divorce in a year, then gave me that black credit card.

My clutch feels heavier with the card taking up space. I should have left it at home. Actually, I should cut it up and burn it. Doesn’t Blake understand that I don’t want his money? I’ll be in a tricky spot once we divorce, but I’m not going to take advantage of him, I know how much he despises gold-diggers, and my future financial issues are mine to sort out. Not his.

I don’t want to give him the impression that I can be bought. I’m never going to use that card. Not ever.

The more crushing thought—that he’ll never love me—I keep at bay. I can’t face it right now.

Soft, seductive music filters through the dimly lit gallery. The only real illumination is on the artwork. The paintings are amazing, evocative, and on any other evening, I’d enjoy them. Instead, I loiter by Blake’s side, getting introduced as his wife, then ignored as he discusses business.

After the fifth such occurrence, I excuse myself and go to the restroom. I never thought I’d say this but I’d rather be curled up at home watching one of my cooking shows than at this party. What is happening to me? Where has the old Gin gone? She knew how to have fun no matter what.

I regroup in the bathroom, layering on another coat of lipstick to pass the time. Several elegantly dressed women come and go before I decide to brave another hour of being Blake’s arm candy. This kind of thing never used to bother me, but it does tonight.

As soon as I exit the restroom, a hand clamps around my throat tight enough to cut off my airflow, and drags me into a shadowy corner. Panic seizes me at the familiar, tainted scent of spicy vanilla, Oliver’s custom cologne. I try to scream but there’s no air in my lungs. He spins me to face him, my back to the wall.

“Ginny, I finally caught you alone. Shh, babe, don’t make a sound or your husband will find you on your knees for me. I don’t think that’s the impression you want to give a man like him, is it?”

All I can do is shake my head. My eyes water. My throat burns.

Oliver steps closer, dominating my personal space, his solid grip tightens ever so slightly around my windpipe. “The contract is almost finished. I didn’t put any clauses in there pertaining to you and me, but if you want me to sign the final draft then you’ll be at my office on Monday morning. Be there at nine. Wear something sexy for me.”

He grabs the back of my head and slams his mouth on mine. I try to protest, but I can’t breathe. My fingers dig into his arms, silently fighting, begging him to release me, but he doesn’t listen.

As soon as I’m on the brink of passing out, Oliver lets go.

“See you on Monday, Ginny. I don’t think I need to tell you this, but if you don’t show up I’ll come find you. Baron always leaves the house early on the weekdays for work.” With that threat, he blends into the crowd.

I cough and sputter, my head spinning as I try to get control of my breath and my pounding heart. A cold sweat breaks out across my skin, leaving me shivering in the dark corner.

“There you are.” Blake’s deep voice makes me freeze. “I was beginning to worry… Why is your lipstick smeared?” He steps closer. “You smell like cologne.”

I panic. “S-someone pulled me into this corner, but now they’re gone.”

He scoffs, the sound makes me cringe. “Do you think I’m a fucking idiot? Who is he, Gin?”

“Who is who?”

“The man you’re sneaking around with, cheating on me with. Tell me his name.”

I gasp. “I’m not cheating on you. I’d never do that!”

“Liar. You look like you just got fucked,” he spits out the harsh words. “Come. We’re going home.” He takes my hand and all but drags me from the venue. Fury rolls off of him in waves and the people in his path quickly step out of his way.

In the back of the car, he fumes, sitting as close to the opposite door as possible. I stay on my own side, seriously considering telling him everything, but the words won’t leave the tip of my tongue. I’m shaking, but I’m not sure if it’s from the fear of seeing Oliver tomorrow or the devastation of hurting Blake’s feelings. Or maybe I’m angry at him for calling me a liar—again.

But that’s what I am, right? A liar, if only by omission.

He deserves the truth, even if it will destroy us. One of the many reasons I don’t want to tell him is because Blake’s never looked at me like other men do, he’s never treated me like nothing, like trash. Even when he first blackmailed me, I felt like he was looking at me, not some object. There was an intensity between us, we played and toyed with each other, and it was actually fun. For the first time in my life, I really felt seen . If he knew the truth then he’d see me as nothing more than a used toy.

I’ve been used and abused by so many men that somewhere along the way I started to embrace it, to accept that I deserved to be treated that way. It didn’t matter whether I gave them consent or not. They acted like it wasn’t my place to do so anyway.

Until Blake changed all of that. He made me realize that I was wrong, I don’t deserve anything that’s happened to me. But everything that I’ve been through makes me feel dirty and cheap.

He’s the only man who’s ever cared for me, who’s ever talked to me and treated me like a human being. He found out that the slutty-girl reputation I created for myself was not the whole truth.

I had a choice to make back then, I could either be a victim or I could embrace a positive, empowered sexuality. I’d rather be known as the girl who enjoys sex whenever she wants it, than the girl who got sexually assaulted too many times to count.

I learned from a young age that no one ever believes the girl. So why bother?

But Blake saw past all of my brokenness, and he helped heal me. Now I really am the girl who enjoys sex and who knows she’s worthy of pleasure—and maybe love.

I don’t want to lose that. I can’t stomach the thought of losing him.

I don’t know what to do. My secret and lies are eating me alive. But if I confess everything, then he’ll never look at me the same. He’ll treat me differently. How could he not? I want to hide the worst version of myself forever—especially from him. It’s too shameful.

I keep my lips sealed and the distance between us seems to expand further, as never ending as the universe.

Will I lose him by keeping my shame to myself?

I quietly scoff. We’re getting a divorce in less than a year, so does any of it really matter?

Yes, it does. I want this fantasy for as long as it will last. So my lips have to remain sealed.