I look away, not wanting to hear her tell me what I already know but don't want to admit.
Elizabeth continues, undeterred, "She might've had good reason to keep things to herself. As shocking as it may sound to a man of your ego, it might not be about you at all. I think she genuinely cares about you."
My wife has told me she loves me. Repeatedly. And she tried to over the last six nights, even though I covered her mouth so I didn't have to hear it and have it lance through me again.
"Did she try to talk to you about … whatever it is?" Elizabeth asks.
"Yeah. After I found out." I try to soften my tone for my sister's sake, and fail.
"So you didn't let her explain."
"What's the point?"
"Unless you honestly don't care, you should give her a chance to share her side of the story before it's too late."
"What do you mean, 'too late'?"
"If you wait too long, she may not want to anymore. Who wants a love so shallow that it doesn't come with a bit of trust?" With a long sigh, she stares into the empty glass in her fragile hands. "I have to go downstairs and mingle. Make people feel good about helping those less fortunate than we are."
I nod, relieved that this conversation is going to be over.
She squeezes my shoulder. "Just … don't be too stubborn and turn her tender feelings for you into pain. Because the next stage will be indifference."
My knuckles turn white around the glass. It's a wonder it hasn't shattered.
"Don't give me some bullshit relationship advice you read from Cosmo, sis," I say, trying to dismiss the panic her words have brought on. Of all the outcomes I've considered, Belle's indifference isn't one of them.
She tilts her chin. "It's not."
The thinly veiled pain in her words makes me snap my head her way. For a second I think I see something shattered and bleeding in her gaze, but she blinks and it's gone. I look harder, but her face is composed, serene and calm, and the alcohol has given her cheeks a light glow.
"See you downstairs." She kisses me gently on the cheek and walks away.
I watch her make her way through the crowd. People stop her to say hello, and she responds, her face lit up with a sweet, welcoming smile. She's at ease and relaxed as Nate Sterling comes over and puts an arm around her waist. Her hand rests on his shoulder, and when he dips his head, she whispers something in his ear, which makes him grin fondly. It is as though she didn't say any of the things she just told me.
The idea of my saintly sister having any kind of strong emotion for stuff other than saving the world is preposterous. I have to be projecting my own feelings onto her.
My eyes search the crowd for my wife. What's her breaking point? She's feisty-a fighter underneath the delicate appearance. She wouldn't …
What if she's already reached the point of no return?
What the hell is wrong with me that I'm freaking out like this? It isn't me who screwed up. Belle fucked it up, and there's no reason for her to feel she's been treated unjustly.
Except …
Elizabeth said Belle looked lonely and maybe a little miserable, and I know my sister's right. And I know I'm the chief reason.
But loneliness and misery aren't indifference. So that means I haven't pushed my wife too far.
Yet.
* * *
Annabelle
The bathroom is huge and luxurious, dark marble with gleaming gilt faucets. It's obviously designed with guests in mind: two big sinks and several stalls with doors that reach all the way to the bottom of the floor. The toilets are Japanese and high-tech like nothing I've ever seen, with covers that raise and lower themselves automatically, the seats heated.
When I come out of the stall, I bump into the one person I prayed I would never see again-Annabelle Underhill. She's as gorgeous as ever. Her face is expertly made up, expensive rubies around her throat and on her ears. Dark brown curls frame her heart-shaped face, and a red chiffon dress hugs her toned and tanned body. The eyelashes seem even longer than I remembered.
She puts a tube of lipstick into her clutch and gives me a sideways look in the mirror. "Well, well, well. Don't you clean up nice?"
I ignore her and wash my hands.
"Didn't anybody teach you any manners?" She smiles, then gasps. "Ohhh, right. They must have stripped them off you at that job you used to have."
It's a stupid thing to say, but the blatant mention of the asterisk-marked portion of my past stuns me. Nobody at the party has breathed a word about it, and I'm certain they've all seen the lurid headlines, if not the actual articles.
"I knew Elliot could be wild, but I thought he would choose somebody with a more stabilizing influence." The smirk she flings at my reflection is extra catty. "After all, opposites do attract."