Page 18 of The Devil's Pawn

Wait a second. I take a closer look.

That isn’t my cell phone.

I walk over to it and pick it up. It looks like the latest model, and as I wake up the screen, the words ‘Hello, Imogen’ appear.

What the fuck? Phones purchased off the shelf aren’t personalized from the get-go. I brandish the phone at Maisie.

“Whose phone is this?”

Her gaze flickers to the device, then her eyes meet mine. “It’s yours. Mr. De Vil had it delivered earlier today with instructions we were to leave it here for you.”

I heave a sigh, irritation crawling over my skin and lifting the hairs until they’re standing at attention. “Which Mr. De Vil?” There are five of them, after all.

She rubs her lips together. “Your husband, Ms. Imogen.”

So, we’ve evolved from “Miss” to “Ms.” That isn’t any better. And ugh. Husband. The word alone makes my stomach tilt.

“Just Imogen, Maisie.” All this formality is giving me a headache. “And where is my cell phone?”

“Of course. Whatever you prefer. As to where your phone is, I’m afraid I don’t know.”

My teeth gnash together. Another question for Alexander. How dare he take my phone. It has all my personalnumbers in it, not to mention private messages I’ve shared with Emma and many of my other friends. It has my entire chat history.

“May I help you dress for bed?”

I blink, jerked from my thoughts by Maisie’s question. “No, you may not.”

Her face falls, and guilt swells in my chest. I rush to make amends.

“I didn’t mean it to come out like that, but it’s fine. I can do it.” I want her to go now, to get this night over with. The waiting is the worst. Once it’s done, I’ll be fine. Iwill.

“Thanks for everything, Maisie, but I guess you’d better go.”

“Of course, Ms. Im—” She dips her chin to her chest and backs away. “I mean Imogen. I’ll be back in the morning. If there’s anything you need in the meantime?—”

“I doubt I will.” The only thing I want is to go home, and Maisie can’t make that happen. Tea and sympathy aren’t what I need.

She gives me a small smile and, seconds later, the door closes, leaving me alone.

All alone.

I go through the setup on the phone, and when I get to the end, relief swarms through me. All my photos are there, as well as my contacts, my chats with Emma, my parents, my college tutors and my other friends. Thank God. Although it does raise the question of what the point was of a new phone. Mine was only a year old.

Checking the settings, though, shows me it’s a new number. I guess having a US number makes no sense if I’m living in England, although it would’ve been nice if he’d justasked me. Then again, asking for permission doesn’t seem his style.

I fire off a message to everyone in my address book, letting them know my new number, then set the phone down on the nightstand and pick up the nightdress, running the material through my hands. Rebellion burgeons within me. Tossing the nightgown on the floor, I rifle through the drawers. Aha. Perfect. I take out my blue Dodgers hoodie and grab a pair of gray sweats. If my beloved husband thinks I’m going to dress like a high-class hooker for his benefit, he can take a seat, because it isn’t happening.

I slide my wedding dress off and let it pool on the floor. The ivory lingerie is the next to go. I grab the biggest pair of boring, white cotton panties I own and pull them on, then dress in my chosen bedtime outfit.

Catching sight of myself in the floor-length, freestanding mirror, I smile. That ought to do it.

I sit on the bed and bring my knees up to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. My phone dings a few times with acknowledgements to my message, but there’s nothing from Emma. She’s probably at the beach playing volleyball, or on a date, or visiting the cinema and scarfing down a gigantic bucket of popcorn alongside a tray of cheesy nachos.

Another bout of loneliness washes over me. I haven’t heard from her today, although I didn’t expect to after she sent a text last night wishing me luck.

Ha! Luck. That’s not what I need. What I need is an escape route.

Minutes pass, then an hour, then two. I wait. And wait. And wait, but Alexander doesn’t come. I glance at the clock on the opposite side of the bed. Twelve forty-five.Where the hell is he? Am I in the wrong room? Is he expecting me to go to him?

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