Page 40 of Madam, May I

Desdemona rose and turned with calmness as she watched Brent valiantly trying to block the open-handed blows the woman was throwing at him with the speed of Ali. She walked over to the bar, naked and in her heels, to pour herself a drink. She chose a shot of bourbon.

“No, she is not strutting around here naked.”

Desdemona glanced at them over the rim of her glass as she sipped the brown liquor. The woman was thick and tall with bright red hair and pale skin. “I really should get dressed,” she agreed, finishing the drink and walking over to the sofa to pick up her frock.

“Whoareyou?” the woman shrieked, trying her best to walk past Brent, who blocked her like a defensive lineman.

“Who are you?” Desdemona asked in return as she eased her dress up over her body and reached behind her to zip it up.

“His wife,” she stressed, poking her chest with her finger.

“Could you leaveplease?” Brent asked, his voice tight with anger.

“Yes, just as well, as you could have told me you were married,” she said, picking up her clutch and tucking it under her arm. “My apologies, Mrs. Yarborough.”

“Get the hell out!” he roared, pointing toward the door.

“No,” she told him before shifting her focus to his wife standing behind him with her hands on her hips and her chest still heaving with her hurt and anger. “Do you have any questions for me before I leave? That’s the only way you’ll get the truth tonight, and you deserve it.”

“Bloody hell, are you crazy?” Brent asked, his accent thick.

Desdemona gave the wife one last look of question before nodding and turning to walk to the door.

“Baby, please let me explain. I was drunk—”

Desdemona shook her head at his pitifulness as she turned the doorknob.

“How long have you known my husband?” his wife called over to her.

Desdemona paused, hearing her hurt and need for clarity on the true standing of her marriage.

“Amanda, please,” he pleaded. “Let her go.”

She turned and faced them. “I just met him tonight. We happened to have adjoining rooms. We’ve never had sex. He doesn’t have my number. I don’t live in Vegas and he has no clue where I do live. He agreed to spend my birthday with me—”

Amanda grunted as she pushed against his chest with both hands. “You celebrating birthdays?” she snapped.

“We had dinner downstairs at Picasso’s, gambled, went to 1 OAK and then a strip club,” Desdemona told her.

“But all night you were sneaking and calling me,” she said, her tears falling in earnest.

“She’s lying,” he lied, trying and failing to wrap his arms around his wife to comfort her.

“He paid. Check his credit card statement when it’s available,” she said, walking back over to the bar to pour another shot. “And of course, you saw how we were going to end the night for yourself.”

The woman’s body crumbled to the floor as she covered her hands with her face and cried with loud wails.

“Amanda, I will never see your husband again, and I’m sorry I ever met him,” Desdemona said, moving toward them as she swirled the drink in the glass she still held.

She watched as he dropped to his knees to pull his wife’s body close to his chest and whisper comforting lies to her. At this moment, in the midst of flames that might very well destroy their marriage, she was clear on why she never wished to wed.

Her chest ached with a pain that she knew was nowhere near what this betrayed wife felt.

She tapped his shoulder, and he whirled to look up at her with anger in his brown eyes. Desdemona raised her hand swiftly and gave him a wicked backhand that echoed in the air, caused his head to swing to the right and made her hand sting.

“That’s for treating me like a whore,” she said, her eyes like steel as she met his hostile stare.

He jumped to his feet.

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