Page 48 of Cruel Heir

Won’t I want to hurt him, too?

And it won’t ever stop.I press my hands over my face, trying to think. If Andre succeeds, if he manages to keep me, I won’t be able to escape having children with him forever. He’ll teach those children the same ideas of vengeance. He’ll give a daughter away to strengthen the empire he’s trying to build. He’ll teach a son to kidnap, steal, and murder for the good of the Family. And according to Andre, it’s what all men in this world do. What my father would do—has done, perhaps.

According to him, my father is weighing the wisdom of rescuing me against what it means to leave me here, now that I’m no longer untouched. And I can’t deny that thought makes me feel vengeful. That it made me wonder what would happen if I told Andre about the message Celeste passed on. If I chose my husband over my father—and if either man is really better than the other.

No one ever taught me enough about the world for me to makethese kinds of decisions. And now I’m having to figure them out all on my own.

I leave my breakfast unfinished, dressing for the other wives’ visit. I can’t get out of it, and if nothing else, I could use the distraction. I slip on a pair of black cashmere joggers and sneakers with a soft dark red sweater, pulling my hair back and adding the rose gold and diamond jewelry. I know I should probably be wearing something other than the same jewelry every time—trying to show off Andre’s wealth—but the only other jewelry that he’s given me is the ruby earrings that I wore the night he arranged our “date.” They’re too delicate to simply wear around the house, and I also don’t want the reminder of that night.

I feel like a traitor every time I remember it—not only because of how it made me feel, but because a part of me very much wants to feel that way again. And not just with anyone—with Andre.

A part of me wants to know what it would be like if everything else fell away, all the games and complications, and we were simplyus—together.

James is already letting Carla and the three other wives in when I come downstairs. Carla has a box of what I see are greenhouse cuttings, and she smiles brightly when I walk down the stairs.

“I brought some things for your garden!” she chirps excitedly. She looks genuinely excited about the prospect, and it makes me feel a little bad about how much of a chore I considered entertaining today to be. But, to be fair, between my fight with Andre and it being the first day of my period, I don’t know if I can be blamed for wanting to curl up alone in my room.

“Let’s go out to the greenhouse then. Unless you want tea or something to eat first?”

“No, that’s fine.” Carla waves a hand. “Let’s go.”

The other three wives look less enthused about gardening, although I’m not sure Annette ever looks particularly excited about anything. I’d be curious to find out what, exactly, would get her enthused. It feels as if she’s watching me as we walk out to the greenhouse, Carla, Bea, and Rosa all talking about using the hot tub afterwe’re finished with the clippings, and it makes me uneasy. I remember from the first dinner party that Annette’s husband, Don Gaeta, seems to be the closest one to Andre. The man who, I expect, Andre would likely choose as his right hand if he took over the Family. She should be ingratiating herself to me, as I understand the social structure of these things, wanting me to continue to put in a good word to my husband for hers through our friendship. But instead, I feel nothing but animosity from her.

Carla opens the trays of clippings—three trays stacked on each other, I see now—and motions to the different small plants. “Amaryllis, pansies, dahlias, and orchids. Orchids areverytemperamental, so if you’re not used to gardening as a hobby, don’t be disappointed if they don’t grow well right away. But in time, I think you’ll be able to grow anything. Now, tools—”

“You’ll have to look around,” I tell her apologetically. “I haven’t been in here before.”

“I’ve never been one for gardening,” Rosa says as she sits down in one of the wicker chairs along the glass wall. “But what if we started a book club? You have thatlovelylibrary upstairs. That could be fun, don’t you think? A weekly meeting—”

“I love that idea,” Bea agrees, glancing at me. “It really would be nice. It’s been just the four of us getting together for a while. Having someone new has been lovely, and trying out some new hobbies—”

Annette shrugs, which is really all I expected from her. She’s leaning against one of the long stone tables, her gaze resting on me as I look over the trays of cuttings, as if she’s expecting me to do something suspicious at any moment. Carla, Bea, and Rosa all seem genuine enough, but I find myself wishing that Annette would simply excuse herself from the group, if she dislikes our company so much.

Although, I suppose, as Don Gaeta’s wife, she likely has as little say in the matter as I do.

Carla comes back with the tools, and we pass a couple of hours as she shows me how to pot the flowers, arranging them in the right spots for the amount of sunlight they need. Rosa pays some attention, although Bea keeps distracting her with small talk about anupcoming gala, and Annette is silent throughout all of it. By the time we’re finished, I feel warm and a little dusty, but I have to admit it was fun. I could see myself enjoying this, if I stayed here and became closer friends with Carla. I could see us branching out into the larger garden in the spring, planning out the landscaping, making it our project. It makes me feel a pang of regret, knowing that if my father succeeds in getting me out of here—or if Andre fails in his plans—none of that will happen.

I also feel more than a little guilty, knowing that I’m not really on the same side as these women—three of whom have been nothing but kind to me. If I’m rescued, it means that Andre will have failed. I don’t know if I believe everything Andre said about the sort of man that my father is, but I doubt he’ll show mercy to men who sided with Andre against him. I don’t know what that would mean for their families, exactly—but it would at the very least mean social ruin for them, if not financial…or worse, according to Andre.

I bite my lip at the thought, turning away for a moment.Is the world I live in really so terrible?The thought that Carla and her children might suffer because her husband chose to side with Andre over my father feels immensely unfair.Surely, I can convince my father to make sure they’re not harmed in any way.It’s not her fault, after all—she said as much the other day, when she told me that her husband doesn’t discuss business with her. But I think of Andre’s claim that my father is waiting to come and rescue me, and I wonder if anything I say would make a difference. If what little influence I had with my father is diminished now.

I think of what Andre said about his own family, about the repercussions they suffered from his father’s decisions, and I feel a cold knot in my stomach. I might want to believe that these women and their families wouldn’t suffer for their husbands’ choices—but the truth is staring me in the face, even if I don’t want to accept it.

This world that I live in is more ruthless than I’ve ever realized. And I’m beginning to see that I have to face that, if I want to make it out of this—regardless of whether that’s with my father, or with Andre.

“The hot tub sounds nice,” Bea says, breaking me out of my thoughts as I realize what the other wives are discussing. “Should we go change?”

“Go ahead. There are bathrooms downstairs and more on the second floor. I’ll ask the kitchen to send out some food,” I tell them, setting aside the last of the pots as I dust off my hands and follow them out of the greenhouse.

The last thing I want to do is change into a swimsuit and get into the hot tub, but if I don’t, I’ll have to explain why. What I want even less is to hear the other women murmuring how sorry they are that I haven’t gotten pregnant yet, and have to pretend as if I’m upset about it too—when, in fact, I’m actively taking steps to avoid it. So I go up to my room and dig through the drawer where I hope I’ll find something, eventually landing on a black one-piece. It’s cut lower in the front than I’d like, but it’s better than the bikinis I find tucked in with it. I look at a few of the tags on them—all expensive, all designer—and wonder why my husband had someone buy these for me. It’s not as if he’s going to take me on a honeymoon. It’s not as if he cares about doing any of the things with me that would require something like this—

Or does he?

Something about the swimsuits makes me pause, rubbing the soft material between my fingers as I look down at them. They seem to hint at hopes for a future between us more than anything else has so far in a strange sort of way—as if Andre thought of vacations with me or a belated honeymoon, when he asked for these to be added to the clothing he had purchased. If I’m nothing but a broodmare to him, meant to be kept and fucked until I produce the requisite heir and then ignored, why buy something like this?

Or maybe he just told the personal shopper to buy anything they thought I might need, andtheydecided that might mean bathing suits.

The latter option seems more likely. And yet, as I throw on a dress over my swimsuit and head out of my room, I can’t help but still feel that there’s something more to it.

---