Submitting to the Billionaire(10)

I lift my chin and turn around. "And what of it?"

"Nothing. You don't wear it for me."

"You don't like red lipstick."

His forehead burrows. "I love it. I just didn't want other men to see  you wearing it. I would have loved you to wear it for me when we were  alone at home. Remember when you used to cook and I would make the  cocktails. We'd eat and drink and I'd make love to you in front of the  fire  …  Sometimes you'd get so drunk I would have to carry you upstairs."

The old magic of him weaves itself around me. "Maybe I'll wear it when we are alone again," I say softly.

He smiles sadly. "Yes, I'd like that very much."         

     



 

I stare at him. He walks towards me and wraps his arms around me. I  stand stiffly in his embrace. He pulls back and looks at me. "I love  you, Star," he whispers fiercely.

Suddenly, I can take it no more, and I break away from his hold and race up the stairs.

Nobody knows what I have with Nigel. Nobody outside our relationship can  understand. I rush to the mirror and scrub away the red lipstick. I  scrub so hard my lips feel raw. Then I clean off the mascara. There are  two twin spots of color on my face.

I won't make it easy for the Russian.

I'll make him regret the day he thought he could ruin my relationship  with my husband. Yes, my husband has a disease, but people like him make  it worse. He had no business letting Nigel run up such a big debt.

A thought enters my head. Yes, I will show Nikolai whatever his last  name is the unvarnished version of me. Let's see how much he still wants  Nigel's unglamorous wife. I will arrive not as a whore who has been  chosen to be the dish of the day, but as the hired help. Maybe, he will  find me so unpalatable, he will reject me.

Then I will return and Nigel and I will work through this sorry mess  together. There is so much work that needs to be done. So much trust  needs to be restored, but if we both truly care for each other we'll  make it work.

The knots in my stomach begin to loosen and I pull out a pair of baggy  blue jeans and an oversized patterned shirt. I match it with a pair of  worn trainers I use for gardening I find in a bottom drawer. Then, I  spray my hair with water, so that it becomes a curly mess again.  Haphazardly, I scrape my hair back and snap a band around it. Even if I  say so myself, I look pretty unappealing.

I smile with satisfaction.

Let's see how he feels when he sees this package standing in front of  him. I stuff some cash in my bag together with a strip of my  contraceptives, my toothbrush, my cellphone and its charger, and I go  back downstairs.

Nigel is hanging around the hallway and his eyes widen when he sees me.  He strides towards me and grabs my upper-arms with both his hands.

"I swear on the lives of our unborn children, that as long as I live I will never gamble again."

"Don't swear on our children," I scold automatically.

"May I rot in hell if I break this promise to you."

I stare into his eyes and I see nothing but determination to beat this disease. "I believe you," I whisper.

"Thank you. I'll never let you down again, Star. Never. You're my wife and my life."

"Is it time?"

"The car is waiting outside."

I take a deep breath.

"Can I kiss you goodbye?"

I swallow. What has this world come to when my own husband has to ask if he can kiss me? I nod.

He bends his face and takes my lips. The kiss is gentle and sweet and I  feel myself start to cling to him. I don't want to leave him. He breaks  the kiss and looks into my eyes. "They think they can break us. They can  never. You are mine. You will always be mine."

"Take care of yourself, Nigel," I say, then I walk swiftly to the front door.

"I'll call you," he says as I open the door.

My throat is so tight I am unable to answer him. I pull the door shut  behind me. There is a black limo waiting on the street. As I take a  shuddering breath, a man in a chauffeur's uniform steps out of the car  and walks to the passenger door. He opens it and stands next to it. He  doesn't look at me. Just stands there respectfully.

A weird sensation overtakes my body.

Nothing will be the same again. I turn back and look at my closed front  door. For a second I want to open it and run back into Nigel's arms,  back into my enchanted house, where I have felt so safe, so loved, and  protected. Then I steel myself, and walk down the pathway to the waiting  car.





Chapter Thirteen





Star




https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ETxmCCsMoD0

(Money, Money)





The chauffeur nods and waits while I slide into the seat. Soft classical  music is playing and the car smells of expensive perfume. The door  closes, and the man walks around to his side of the car.

I turn my head to look at the windows of my house. At the living room  window, I see Nigel standing there staring at me. There is something so  lost and forlorn about the defeated droop to his shoulders that I bleed  inside.

The driver gets into his seat and the car starts to move. I stare out of  the window seeing nothing. All I can think of is Nigel standing at the  window. As the car leaves Earls Court and takes the M4 out of London, I  start to pay attention. We make steady progress until the car smoothly  joins the M25. There is more traffic here, but less than twenty minutes  later we take the slip road out of the motorway. After a little while, I  see signposts for Virginia Water, Surrey. I've been there once. One of  Nigel's friends lives on the Wentworth estate.         

     



 

We pass the estate and keep on the main road until there is a sign for  Windlesham. Less than a mile later we turn off into a tree-lined road.  There are large houses on either side of it. The road takes another turn  and we come upon two large stone pillars with lions on the top. The  name of the house is craved into stone. I take my cellphone out and text  Rosa.



Knightsbrook Manor,

Windlesham





Rosa's reply is instant: Jesus, I know that place. It's a fucking palace.



The car comes to a stop in front of the tall black gates. Video cameras  swivel in our direction. The driver does nothing and after a few seconds  the gates swing open noiselessly. The car starts up again.

The driveway is long and curves though land dotted by glorious, old  trees. The trunks are so thick it will take two or maybe three of me to  embrace them.

We travel at least one kilometer before I see the stately mansion set on  elevated ground. The last rays of summer sun fall on it, giving the  white stones a beautiful reddish glow. The effect is one of unbelievable  majesty and splendor.

My stomach is now doing cartwheels. A strange mix of fear and  anticipation. Who the hell lives in a place like this and gets into the  kind of arrangement that includes an unseen woman? Why would such a man  need or even want to hurt a small fry like Nigel?

We follow the road as it turns around in a semi-circle up to the  frontage of the house. Wide, stone steps lead up to enormous double  doors adorned on each side by beautiful topiary. I find myself awestruck  by the extraordinary beauty and majesty of the house.

The car comes to a halt, and I touch my stomach nervously. It is  fluttering with anxiety and tension. The driver comes around to my side  and opens my door. I slide out and thank him.

"You are expected," he says formally with a solemn nod.

I begin to climb the steps. Before I reach the top, a large broad man  with a head the size of a football, and almost no neck, comes out of the  doors, and stands with his arms folded. His unfriendly, wary eyes make  me feel uncomfortable.

I reach the entrance, and he looks at my purse and says, "Do you mind? It's just protocol."

I hand him my purse silently and he rifles through it quickly. Satisfied  there is nothing there that could be a danger, he returns it to me, and  steps back to allow me to enter.

Inside, I stop and stare in amazement.

The hallway is bigger than my whole house and the kind of wealth on  display is astounding. It is like I have entered onto a film set in  another period, a time gone by when Lords and Ladies rode in carriages  and ruled the land.

Pillars soar up to a Sistine Chapel type scene with half-nude muscular  men and Rubenesque women; winged cherubs, and a horned demon or two. The  floor, an intricate pattern of stone tiles, has been polished to such a  high shine I can practically see my own reflection. The wide central  staircase is made of white marble with intricately wrought balustrades.  It has a red runner carpet on it that looks so pristine it makes me  wonder about how many times a day it is cleaned. The walls are full of  tall paintings, and higher up there are stained glass windows with  elaborate designs. This is not a home. No one could curl up with a good  book and a cup of hot chocolate here.

Mr. Muscle clears his throat pointedly to get my attention.

When I turn my dazed gaze towards him, he jerks his head sideways at me,  to indicate that I should follow him. I nod and he starts swiftly  marching towards a pair of duck-egg blue double doors. Our steps echo in  the vast space.