Page 102 of Filthy Little Regrets

He shrugs. “What? I’m a man. She’s hot.”

If only he knew. I shake my head and get back to the report of Mei, fueling all my frustration into cataloging every bit of evidence of infidelity.

This day sucks.

More on edge than usual, I stomp up the steps of Mace’s mini mansion, ignoring Tony’sI’ll see you tomorrowand slam the door closed as soon as I’m inside. The house iswarm and full of mouthwatering scents that draw me to the kitchen. Chef.

She’s not here often, but when she is, we always eat better. I’ve had more steak in the last few weeks than I have in the last year, and I even tried squid.

Chef glances up from the stove, taking me in with an unimpressed once-over. “Why are you angry?”

I bristle, take a seat at the island, and set my purse to the side. “I’m not.”

She chuckles. “Uh-huh. There’s a line between your eyebrows that tells another story.”

Reaching up, I smooth my finger over the wrinkle, hating that she’s right, and relax my facial muscles.

“Rough day?”

“Something like that.” The stove has a few pans, a pot of boiling water, and another pot filled with what appears to be tomato sauce. “What are you making?”

Chef moves to a cutting board and quickly dices some yellow onion. “Classic Bolognese and homemade breadsticks.”

That’s what smells so good. My gaze strays to the oven and the pan full of baking garlic- and butter-coated dough. “Do you need help?”

She gives me a look. “Do you need help with your work?”

“Okay, point taken.” Though maybe I do need help, since I can’t seem to find incriminating evidence against Mace. I release a long, drawn-out sigh.

“All that bad energy will make my food taste bad.” She leaves the onions, grabs a glass of wine, fills it, and places it in front of me. “Shoo, shoo.” She dismisses me with a wave of her hand.

“My feelings are hurt, Cheffy. I thought we were friends.”

She rolls her eyes and points toward the door. “Out.”

Her lack of concern for how I’ll react makes me grin. At least I’m not the wife that terrorizes the staff. I slide out of the barstool, sipping my wine and heading to change for a quick swim. That’ll help me reset.

The knot of tension between my shoulder blades dissipates the harder I push my body. I’m a glass of wine down and thirty minutes into my laps when Mace appears. I stop halfway across the pool and hold his gaze. He stands on the side of the pool where I had placed my things, watching me tread water.

His expression is hard to read. “Come on, it’s time to eat.”

I narrow my eyes. A week of him being distant, and he expects me to follow his demands? He can dine alone. I’ll make a plate once he’s done. Grabbing my towel, he holds it open, eyes shimmering in challenge.

“Come.”

The command bursts along my skin, prickling over me like a thousand needles.

“No.” I turn, cutting through the water. Pulling myself out of the pool, I grab a towel from the table near the door and cast a glare in his direction. “Go fuck yourself, Mace.”

He smirks. “Think about what’s going to happen if you leave this room without me.”

Hmm. Let me guess—he’ll try to assert his dominance? Memories of how good being under his control felt flood mymind, warming my body from head to toe. His threats don’t scare me. I wrap the towel around me, lift my chin, and spin around, leaving the room and rushing upstairs to change.

Fuck it. I’m going to dinner. I’m hungry. Mace won’t stop me from eating. He thinks he can be cold to me for a week and everything will be fine? That’s not how it works, and maybe he needs to hear that. If he expects a pliant, submissive lady who’ll let his transgressions slide, he picked the wrong wife.

After a quick shower, I tug on a pair of shorts and an old band tee, leaving my hair to air dry. I make my way down the stairs, pulse thrumming as I approach the dining room. Chef is placing the last dish on the table. Her focus cuts to me, and I can already hear the reprimand in her narrow-eyed expression.

“Yeah, yeah. I’m sorry I was late.”

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