Page 11 of Split

He arches a dark brow. “Excuse me?”

Any sense of self-preservation I have flies out the window at the prospect of enduring another dinner as Roman’s pet. “I won’t sit on your lap and let you feed me in front of your friends,” I rush out, shaking my head adamantly. “Last night was bad enough, but I won’t be humiliated in front of other people for your amusement, I refuse…”

“That won’t be happening,” he deadpans, cutting me off. “As long as you don’t embarrass me, I won’t even touch you. All you have to do tonight is sit there and look pretty. Think you can manage that?”

I eye him warily, struggling to detect the lie buried beneath his words. “I don’t trust you.”

“You don’t have to,” he snaps, looking annoyed. “We’ll leave at eight. I’ve asked Clara to ensure you dress appropriately.”

Without another word, Roman abruptly turns away, striding across the lawn as his declaration settles over me.

Did he just say…?

“Leave?” I call after him curiously. “Where are we going?”

He doesn’t answer. And while I watch him walk away, the knot of anxiety in my belly only tightens further as I’m left to wonder what fresh hell awaits me tonight.

6

“Eliza, that’s such a pretty name,” the brunette across the table from me says in an accent that I can’t quite place, taking another swig of wine from her glass. She swallows it down, beaming a dazzling smile as her gaze slides between me and Roman. “Where did you two meet, again?”

“Family friends,” he replies, not missing a beat.

The ‘associate’ of Roman’s that we’re dining with this evening is a man named Anton, and the excessively perky brunette currently seated across from me is his wife, Cherie. The two of them are clearly still in the honeymoon phase, because they haven’t been able to keep their hands off each other since we arrived at the restaurant to meet them, making this whole interaction even more awkward.

“Aww,” Cherie coos, gazing at me thoughtfully. “Well, you’re much prettier than the last one.”

The last one?

I turn to look at Roman in question, but he completely ignores me, just as he has since we embarked on this double date from hell.

At least I didn’t have to wear red. Clara put me in a tasteful black cocktail dress, my hair neatly pinned back and my makeupunderstated, yet flawless. I begrudgingly allowed the housemaid to dress me up like Roman’s doll, intent on gaining his approval if only to avoid a repeat of last night’s torture. I mean, what’s the point in pushing back if I’m going to pull a runaway bride? As far as I’m concerned, I’ll keep my head down and play my part– within reason– while biding my time until I can make a clean escape. All I have to do until then is survive my husband’s mood swings.

The Roman I’m out with tonight isn’t the taunting, unhinged man from last night. He’s cold and aloof, just as he was when we stood before the priest yesterday and when he caught me feeding his dog earlier. He’s completely indifferent toward me, and I’m glad for it– though I haven’t let my guard down just in case the other version of him rears his ugly head.

“Anton, tell me you have good news regarding the shipments from Carvallo,” Roman says, running his finger back and forth along the rim of his whiskey glass.

“Apparently there was a small hiccup with customs,” Anton responds with a wince. “My men assure me that it will all be sorted out within twenty-four hours.”

“And what am I supposed to tell Alexei in the meantime?”

I stare down at the enormous rock glittering on my ring finger as the men continue talking shop, mesmerized by the way it catches the light. Roman handed me the ring box as soon as we got in the car, along with a demand that I wear it from now on as a way to substantiate this sham of a marriage. The diamond itself is exquisitely beautiful, its gaudy size undoubtedly a power move on Roman’s part to flex his wealth in front of his colleague. I didn’t argue about putting it on, though– it’s clearly worth a fortune, so my new husband’s ego will fund my new life once I manage to escape him.

That’s how I’m looking at everything now; as a potential building block in my plan. This dinner, for example– if takingme out and parading me around his friends is going to be a regular thing, I can use it to my advantage. It’d probably be a whole lot easier to slip away from a crowded restaurant as opposed to his remote estate.

Of course, that’ll depend on whether he usually dines as we are now; in a private room with minimal interruption from wait staff. We even entered through the back door of the restaurant, which indicates one of two things: either my new husband is a very private person, or he’s paranoid.

Private, I can work with. Paranoid is a wildcard.

“And what of Lipovsky?” Anton asks, slinging an arm over his wife’s shoulders and drawing her in closer to his side.

I can’t help but watch the way Roman keeps twisting the platinum wedding band around his ring finger, wondering if it feels like a shackle to him, too. “What about him?” he grumbles, the low, threatening tone of his voice sending a shiver up my spine.

Anton shrinks back slightly, telling me which of these men must be running the show when it comes to whatever business they’re embroiled in together. He shifts his weight on his chair, pulling his wife in even closer and looking decidedly uncomfortable. “What if he refuses?”

“He’ll come to heel,” Roman murmurs, still twisting the band around his finger absently. “I have something he wants.”

The door on the far side of the room swings open, a young blonde waitress stepping inside. She struts over to our table on her too-tall heels until she’s planted herself right beside Roman, smiling down at him in delighted recognition.

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