Page 153 of Tangled Kisses
“Ma’am.”
I freeze.
The voice is low, polished, and when I turn, it’s not one of Vander’s faceless guards. It’s Whitaker, the house steward—stern, silver-haired, immaculate in his dark suit. He’s watched me pour champagne at charity events, handed me coats at galas. I’ve known him for years.
Whitaker isn’t just staff. He’s lived within these walls since childhood, his father before him serving in the same position. His loyalty is resolute, not to Vander, not even to Mrs. Hale, but to the Hale name itself. To the legacy.
“What are you doing?” His words are calm, but his eyes pin me in place.
I force a trembling laugh. “I just wanted some air.”
Whitaker shuts the door with a quiet click, hand lingering on the handle. “That’s not for you, ma’am.”
But I press on, desperation lining the edges of my voice. “You know what he does to me. Don’t pretend you don’t.” I tug my sleeve up, revealing the edge of a bruise. “Do you want to see? Because I’ll show you every mark.”
His expression doesn’t change. Years of service have carved him into marble.
“How do you live with yourself?” My voice splinters under the strain. “Do you have a wife? Children?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then I hope you treat your wife better than he treats me.”
The silence stretches.
I press a hand to my stomach, desperate. “Can’t you help me? Please. You’ve known me for years. If you do nothing, then you might as well be planning my funeral, because you’ll probably be one of the last people to see me alive.”
Something alights in his eyes. Not pity. Not sympathy. Calculation. But it’s enough to tell me I’ve planted a seed.
I brush past him, my head high though my insides are trembling. “You can at least tell my parents where to send the flowers.”
He doesn’t answer. But his gaze follows me all the way out of the study, heavy and unreadable.
I forcea few bites of food, washing them down with a sharp sip of vodka. The alcohol burns, but I welcome it. If he beats me later, maybe I’ll be too numb to feel it.
I keep to myself, head down, but they find me anyway. Women in couture gowns, lacquered smiles that cut sharper than glass—the wives of Vander’s colleagues, the hedge fund sharks and real estate kings he runs with.
One of them leans close, her perfume choking the air. “I heard you had quite the scandal. A prostitute, was it?”
Anger flares hot in my chest. “Griffin is not a prostitute. He’s a wonderful man, and we made love. For the first time, it meant something.”
Her smirk widens. “Only because you paid him to care.”
My teeth clench as a spike of anger flares inside me. “I’ve never paid Griffin a dime.”
Another wife laughs, tapping her diamond against her glass. “Honestly, we all do it. Just don’t get caught. What were you thinking?”
Disgust burns on the back of my tongue at their blasé description of wedded bliss. “How do you live like this?”
The woman shrugs, casual. “They fuck who they want to fuck, we fuck whowewant to fuck. Everyone stays happy.”
“That’s not love.”
Her laugh rings out again. “Who said anything about love?”
“A foreign concept, right?” Something inside me snaps. “I think I’m done with this party.”
I set my glass aside and head toward the stairs, desperate to disappear into the bedroom and bolt the door.
