Page 59 of Savage Daddies

The hair thing is strange, because everything else about him is very particular and neat. Even in crisp lighting, not one prick of stubble can be seen on his face, and that’s because he shaves twice a day. Beards, he says, are messy and look unprofessional. He hires somebody to get rid of his facial hair as soon as it sprouts—there’s zero. You could say he’s baby-faced, but the collection of wrinkles that have formed around his forehead and eyes suggest anything but youth.

Something about his face doesn’t sit right with me. He has one of those complicated faces, so it’s hard to look at him. Facial asymmetry is totally normal, and the glam team often like to remind me that I have it myself, but Felix takes the phrase to a whole new level. He doesn’t look like a stroke patient, but his eyes are shaped differently—one is more round and the other more square. Cameramen always seem to capture him from the left—the rounded eye—as if to show his good side and paint him in a good light. Features on the right side of his face come off a little too sharp. The nostril is too flared, and the chin pokes out slightly, like he grew an extra bone there.

This wing of the house has an empty feel to it. Despite the hanging chandelier and the grand staircase leading up to conference rooms one through seven—signposted on the plain white wall—there’s nothing. I wear flats, but the soles still clack against the marble floor, ringing loud through the lobby as if to remind me where I’m heading—hell.

We enter his office and the heavy mahogany door bangs shut behind us, leaving an echoey ring that vibrates to the very core of my being. Instructed to sit, I locate the chair positioned behind Felix’s desk. It’s no surprise that the office has no personality either. Arched floor-to-ceiling windows draw in lots of light, whitening the already bleached-white walls. Bookshelves cover two of the walls, but few books have been placed there. It’d be interesting to have a browse and see the kind of thing he takes inspiration from.Mein Kampfby Adolf Hitler, probably.

Felix takes a seat opposite me and nets his hands together.

Two things to know about my husband.

One: He never slouches.

Two: He’s never wrong.

“I know,” he says.

My lungs fail.

Putting all the media training to practice, I straighten in my seat and frown. “About?”

“Them.”

I neutralize my features and continue breathing steadily, even though there’s a panic attack calling my name. “Oh? You’re referring to those showmen bikers I was photographed speaking to yesterday at Paul’s casino?”

“Paul’scasino?” Felix frowns, engraving wrinkles into his face even more. “How do you know Paul? You’ve never met the guy.”

“I did yesterday when I went in to visit Father.”

Felix’s holds his poker face. It’s the only face he has, to be honest. He knows how to smile, but only when cameras lift in his direction. I remember overhearing a conversation once when the pap team paid us a visit.“No, sir, you’re just baring your teeth. You wanna lift the ends of your mouth and lighten your eyes.”

I’ll be the one needing a smiling lesson soon.

They whitened his teeth the same bleached shade as his office walls to make him look more impressionable on camera, I think.

Not like it works.

“Are you fucking them?”

Jesus Christ, where’ve the formalities gone? It’s not like Felix to be uncouth.

He re-nets his hands, awaiting my response as silence stretches between us. Faintly, I hear melodies of birdsong outside, and it both eases and worsens my nerves to know that there’s life outside of this room. But that life might be shut off from me forever after this meeting.

“No.” I keep my voice light. “Of course not. Why would you think that?”

Felix smooths his tongue over his teeth and continues staring at me. His eyes appear more black, even in this lighting.

I sit on the edge of my seat, anxiously anticipating his response, but his mouth remains closed. He scents the room with something. Rosemary, I think. A diffuser sits on the windowsill behind him, sprouting wooden sticks that release the fragrance into the air. Before setting it down, he probably measured the dimensions with a ruler to ensure it was directly in the middle, and not a centimeter over. The stationary on his desk is the same. A notebook rests perpendicular to three pens that have been placed vertically, each the same width apart. Felix only writes with Parker pens, black. The company sponsors him, and all over his social media pages you’ll find closeups of him holding the pens as he works.

Felix parts his lips, and I feel the whole world silence as he gets ready to speak.

But he doesn’t.

Just exhales.

I relax my shoulders when he takes his eyes off me. Interrogation over.

Dipping his chin, he locates something in one of the desk drawers and pulls it out, hooked around one of his fingers—red lace panties. He makes a point of gently placing them in front of me, ironing out the creases.

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