Page 33 of On Thin Ice

It started out in January of the previous year with an entry about a birthday celebration for Warren who had just turned six—and it sounded like a disaster. They’d invited kids of many of their family friends and Warren had thrown a temper tantrum about the cake. He’d wanted chocolate with chocolate frosting but it was a white cake with chocolate frosting—and when they’d cut it, he’d had a complete meltdown.

It sounded like his nanny was part of the problem as well.

But I was reading rapidly, hoping to find out more about her friend Xavier.

It wasn’t until I was a quarter of the way in that I found an entry about him—early February, the year before Sinclair was born.

* * *

Gus brought to dinner the most intriguing man. His name is Xavier Zelinsky and he has the darkest eyes I’ve ever seen—like little pools of onyx.

Gus has him looking for rare artwork. He built that gallery a year ago and we have one pathetic statue in it. Gus wants to fill it with art that will make his colleagues jealous. I don’t know why he cares so much. This mansion is impressive enough. It’s like his entire life is one big dick contest.

Maybe that was what attracted me to him in the first place—that raw passion for winning, regardless of the cost, that need to be not good but the best. And not just to be the best but making sure everyone knew it. One time he’d said he wanted his competitors to feel like they were sucking his dick and had to pretend they were enjoying it.

I should have known then.

* * *

I paused. What did she think she should have known? That her marriage would have been unhappy? But she didn’t explain. Instead, she moved back to the dinner guest.

* * *

Anyway, Xavier promised to obtain whatever it was Gus wanted, but that it would cost. More than once, Gus said price was not an issue—so long as it was something he wanted. Xavier promised to show his portfolio after dinner so that Gus could see firsthand all the treasures the man had already dug up for wealthy customers.

Xavier himself appeared to be pretty well off. I know an Armani suit when I see one. And I’m pretty sure he wore a Bruguet watch, but it kept disappearing under his suit jacket. Gold and diamond cufflinks, highly polished black leather shoes. This guy didn’t look like a million bucks. He looked like he was WEARING a million bucks.

And Gus was obviously impressed.

* * *

As I continued reading that entry, I thought to myself that she too was impressed. And, the way she described the man, I didn’t wonder why.

Most of the next few entries centered around Xavier. He was at the house a lot, especially for dinners, where he would show the Whittiers the art he had found for them, letting them decide if they wanted it. Or, rather, letting her husband decide—because there was one painting she adored that he said no to.

* * *

Gus left for Europe again this morning and Xavier showed up unannounced—with that painting I’d fallen in love with. Gus said it looked like a “glorified Kinkade” and he would “never have that shit in my house.” But I didn’t care. I loved it. It was a painting of a small stream surrounded by pines, just like my grandparents’ house I used to visit when I was a child.

It was like Gus was rejecting my past. And, of course, he was. More than once he’d said he shouldn’t have married below his station. And every time he said that, I reminded him that I’m the reason why his company is so successful today.

I would never tell the children this because I want them to love their father. He’ll come around. He has to. But he only married me because I was one of his top executives, and I was being courted by one of his rival companies. Of course, he’s never said that. He’s said he loves me, but his behavior of late is proving to me that this marriage was nothing more than a business deal. I was an acquisition, one he’d been forced to make, and he was making the best of it.

I now know he never cared about me.

But Xavier is helping me get over it. Today, when he brought that painting, I knew he cared. But I told him I couldn’t take it. “Where would I put it?”

“Wherever you like,” he said, with that teasing smile.

“I can’t pay for it,” I said. “Gus would find out.”

“Not if I didn’t charge you for it.”

I told him I couldn’t possibly accept it—but then he told me he had other ways of getting paid and I didn’t need to worry about it. Still, as much as I wanted that beauty, I ultimately told him no. Finally, he said, “In a home this big, you couldn’t find a place to hide it from your husband?”

I toyed with the idea of putting it somewhere he’d never look—like in the game room upstairs. Or in my closet. But he’d find out. I know he would. He hated that painting so much, he’d never forget what it looked like.

It was like he was rejecting me. But I knew he was—he’d already done it.

---