The Villain

“I thought shotgun marriages were a thing of the past,” Joelle continued, tapping her lips, ignoring her children, who were off running between the legs of the couples on the dance floor. “Everyone is wondering if you two have a little bun in the oven.”

I wish.

Jackson Hayfield, an oil baron from Texas, caught my eye from the other side of the room and saluted me. I saluted back, treating Mrs. Arrowsmith as if she were air. For all I cared, that was exactly what she was.

“It is my understanding that this is Persephone’s second marriage.”

“Do you enjoy talking to yourself?” I wondered, checking my phone for emails. “You seem to be holding this one-sided conversation well. A telltale of your marriage dynamic?” I knitted my eyebrows together.

Her smile faltered, but she didn’t back down.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to come off as forward. I just think it’s so brave, what you’re doing. My husband told me about your condition, and well…” She trailed off, playing with the necklace on her neck.

“And what?” I turned, finally taking the bait.

“And it is clear she is still with her ex-husband. I mean, why else would she be visiting her grandmother-in-law at a retirement home every weekend?”

Joelle flipped her dyed, straw-like hair to one shoulder, going in for the kill.

“I mean, it makes sense. She was penniless with no prospects. And it was high time you got married. The pressure was on, I’m sure. If you ask me, arranged marriages have their merits. So how does it work, exactly? Are there three of you in this marriage, or does Mr. Veitch pop in every few weeks for a visit…?”

The look on my face must’ve told Joelle she needed to rewind. I had no idea how she knew about Persephone’s ex-husband. He wasn’t a society man. Sam told me Paxton was a D-list errand boy for Byrne.

Joelle read the question on my face, waving a hand around.

“Please, Cillian, people talk. The minute the country club folks in Back Bay heard about your nuptials, tongues started wagging. Paxton Veitch was my tennis mate’s student in high school, so she volunteered the information. Apparently, she still visits his grandmother, too. Poor thing has no other relatives in Boston, and she’s in quite a state. I’m told your wife hasn’t missed a visit in three years, not long after she started dating him. Familia primum, huh?”

Family first in Latin.

So Joelle was one of those women.

Fluent in Latin, mingling, and designer brands.

Gently bred to become the wife of men like me.

“Here’s the thing.” I inclined my head toward her, bulldozing into her personal space as she did into my business. “My marriage may be a sham, but at least my wife and I are upfront about it. Your marriage is a farce, and I bet you’re dumb enough to believe it’s the real deal. Let me guess—you come from money, don’t you, Joelle? Never worked a day in your life. You have a nice, albeit useless bachelor’s degree from an Ivy League university, a prestigious lineage, and trust funds coming out of every hole in your body?” I arched an eyebrow. By the way she flinched, I’d hit a nerve. I plowed through it, gutting it with a pitchfork. “Everything Andrew Arrowsmith has done from the moment he was born was to try to make up for the fact he wasn’t born into the Fitzpatrick family. He ate from our plates, played in our backyard, and attended the same extracurricular classes I took part in. His family went as far as to send him to the same schools as me. But make no mistakes—the Arrowsmiths never sliced through the airtight seal of Boston’s upper crust. He is our hang-on, and you, my dear, are his meal ticket. While it is true that I, too, stand in your position of feeding an ambitious, good-looking go-getter of the world, at least I married a woman I’d like to take to bed every night. You married a social climber who wouldn’t touch you with a ten-foot pole given the chance. When was the last time he ate you out?” I leaned down, my lips brushing her ear. Her body responded with an excited shiver. “Ravaged you like you were a precious prize and not a check he needed to deposit? Your husband is cheating on you, isn’t he, Mrs. Arrowsmith?”

She paled under her makeup, staggering backward. I shot out a hand to clasp her arm and help her to her feet, a polite smirk on my lips.

“That’s what I thought. Tell anyone about my wife visiting her former grandmother-in-law, and I will make sure everyone in America knows your husband has side pieces. Enjoy the rest of your evening, Mrs. Arrowsmith.”

“Mrs. Fitzpatrick will be spending the night at my place. There’s no need to stop at her apartment,” I announced to my driver when we slid into the back seat of the Escalade.

Persephone took off her heels with a joyous sigh, dropping her head to the cool leather, too exhausted to discuss this new development.

She’d danced with every man worth knowing in the ballroom tonight. Was handed from one pair of arms to the next. A dazzling, shiny toy that belonged to the most closed-off man in New England. Everyone wanted to see who had managed to tame The Villain, and since most people had long given up on approaching me directly, Flower Girl was the next best thing.

“I see I’m growing on you.” She rubbed her swollen, red foot, propping it on my knee in hopes I’d give her a massage.

“You might be needing glasses.” I patted her wiggling toes, ignoring her pleas.

“How can you be so unhappy when everything went smoothly tonight?” She blinked at me. “Are you programmed to be miserable or something?”

I paid my dues in this marriage and with a healthy interest rate. Not only keeping my wife alive—which turned out more challenging than I’d expected—but also showering her with everything a twenty-first century woman could dream of.

If Persephone thought she was going to run around, visiting her ex-husband’s family, and keeping in touch with the Veitch clan—maybe even with Paxton himself—she was sorely mistaken. She was mine now, and if I had to close the deal by impregnating her this week, I was up for the job.

Once we arrived at my house, Petar dashed from his room to see if I needed anything.

A loyal wife would be nice.

“Out of my way.” I waved him off. Persephone and I headed to my study on the second floor, ascending the Tuscan staircase.

I closed the door behind us, strolled over to my desk, retrieved the stupid contract from my breast pocket, and slapped it on the table. Producing my own pen from a nearby drawer—one without a goddamn plumbing company’s name—I signed the contract, handing my soul over to my wife, then held the paper between my index and middle fingers in the air.