Page 64 of Isle of Beauty

He’s not running away.He never ran. You did.

“That night, you were everything I needed. You were so honest and raw, and you saw me for more than just the criminal I was. You shared your life with me without restraint and I admired that courage so much. Leaving you was one of the hardest moments of my life but my family comes first. I’m sorry I hurt you, Lisandru.”

He gathers me closer to his chest, his arms a band of steel across my hips and on my nape. His thumb massages my neck and I sag against him. Tears run down my cheeks unbidden and I let them, not swiping the regret away.

“I forgave you the moment I saw you in your father’s office, mo cara. It just took me a little while to recognise it. What happened in Mallorca?”

I never mentioned where Eduardo was from but I shouldn’t be surprised Pierce knew exactly who I married and buried. I’m surprised Giulia and her team managed to keep me hidden from him for so long.

“Eduardo was… I don’t know how to describe it. I think he loved me or I wanted to think he did. The first few months of our marriage were amazing. He showered me with gifts and compliments, treated me like I was special and everything he’s ever desired. But after the initial honeymoon phase, he changed, isolated me, changing staff often so I wouldn’t have friends or anyone to rely on. He sent Igor to Menorca so I wouldn’t see him. He agreed to let me work with him only because he believed he could keep me under his thumb. He never thought I would find out he never came to my bed because he warmed his with underaged girls.”

It’s three pm when I park in front of Noir, the club I’ll be focusing on this week.

Club Noir is exactly what its name sounds like. All black luxury. Black marble floor, black tapestry on the walls, black moulded ceilings. When you enter, it’s like you are in the lair of an evil Lord.

During opening times, soft light illuminates the liquor shelves behind the dark marbled bar and the stage, where all eyes are riveted. Comfortable and plush sitting areas are distributed across the floor and on each side of the room, three booths line the side walls.

It’s not about the privacy of a private dance here but about seeing and being seen. I’m so proud of the dancers and the manager to have created such an open and safe place, that remains the talk of the island, good for politics and closing deals.

“Hola guapa,” I hug Serena warmly when she arrives.

We’ve grown close since I started looking after the team, but I’m doing my best not to show it. If Eduardo hears about it, he’s gonna move her or worse, fire her. Selfishly, I need her to keep working here. She’s my only friend, and I use that term loosely. My husband sometimes accompanies me on my tours. He says it’s to check up on the team and learn from the ground but I have a feeling it’s to spy and make sure I don’t grow too close to anyone.

“Let me go get the books from the office.”

Walking behind the bar, I push the door with the word “Staff” written on it. A long corridor greets me. The music from the rehearsal in the main room stopped and I hear strange noises. It must be coming from all the equipment in the kitchen but as I enter, it’s fainter. I go back to the corridor and check the changing rooms. They’re all empty, clothes discarded everywhere.

Sweat beads on my forehead, dread settling in my bones. My body feels hot and clammy, but I also shiver. Because the closer I get to the closed office door, the closer I get to that weird sound I’ve been tracking. And it’s not weird at all. It’s noises anyone would recognise. My brain zeroes in on the sounds, taking them apart one by one. Grunting. Friction. Moans.

I already know what I’m going to find when I open that door. My rational mind knows. Me? I know nothing. I’m a void of emotion. I’m nothing. I press the door handle down and push it gently inside. The lights overhead are on and there’s no mistaking what’s in front of me.

My husband, balls deep into some brunette girl.

Her face is down on the desk, facing the other way. She’s bent over the desk I bought last month to replace the ugly functional one that occupied the space previously. This one is mahogany. I bought a very comfortable chair to go with it. I had the floor lined with the same black marble in the main room to match. The same floor that’s now stained with spit and other bodily fluids I don’t want to name.

They don’t hear me, they don’t see me, and I don’t move. I just stand there and watch as my husband pumps his hips into the brunette faster, chasing his release. He comes with a roar, the tendons of his neck stretching grotesquely.

But I barely hear it. I hear a sound though, like broken glass in my ears. Maybe it’s what was left of my heart, like the last piece that believed maybe someday the man I married would come to care for me, even love me.

I close the door with a bang, startling both of them. They turn their faces to me, eyes wide, scrambling to put their clothes back on. The brunette skimps under the desk to cover herself. I get down to pick up her dress and cross the room to hand it over to her.

“Get dressed and get up,” my voice is cold but not harsh. Empty. I turn around to give the girl some privacy while she covers herself.

“Alana, what are you doing here?” Eduardo asks, pathetically pulling up his pants. I raise a hand to shut him up before he starts to spew some lie. There’s no need to say anything. I’ve seen it all. I stood right there. And he knows it. He knows the hold he has over me just vanished.

Someone clears their throat behind me and I audibly gasp when I turn to the girl my husband fucked at my place of work.

She is young.

Too fucking young.

Way too fucking young.

Ice fills my veins. My throat closes and my gut roils. I’m going to get sick. I close my eyes and take a step back, fighting to regain composure. It’s one thing to know your husband cheats. Another to catch him doing it. And another league entirely to know his lover must be underaged.

“How old are you?” I ask the young girl, a little more nicely than I addressed her a moment ago. Because if she tells me what I think she will, she’s not here of her own volition, even if she believes it.

“Eighteen, ma’am,” she says, barely above a whisper, her head cast down in submission. She visibly paled, her arms crossed over her stomach as if to protect herself. She fears me. I can’t blame her.

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