Not to my knowledge.
But had she? He was sober now, and rich as ever. He was good-looking, if you liked hipster vampire types. Hell, she’d gone to see his fucking painting in Paris, fucking cried over that shit. It seemed as though the question wasn’t “Does she still have feelings for him?” but rather “How intense are the feelings she still has?”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
No Simon, nothing to do with him, ever. That was our agreement. Hell, that was one of the first rules I’d established with her, and she had no “out” clauses to fall back on, no reasons why it might sometimes be okay to see him or speak with him. It was never okay.
I didn’t leave the meeting to go down and interrupt them. I was tempted to barge in there and throw him through the frosted glass door, but no. I didn’t do it, partly because I wanted to catch them in the act if she was fucking around on me, and partly because I was paralyzed by fear.
Instead, I watched until he left, clinging to every shake of her head, every expression of distress. Was it distress, or longing? Why the hell would he come here and have an emotional conversation with her after all these months?
I had to know. I waited to be paged by the receptionist. I waited for Chere to come to me and admit she’d met with Simon, and confess everything they’d talked about, but she didn’t, and it slowly became clear to me that she wasn’t going to. She bent back over her work, with no signs of guilt about the crime she’d just perpetrated before my eyes.
Of course, she didn’t know she was on camera, any more than she’d known when I spied on her with my hunting binoculars from across the street. I’d never admitted that I’d had cameras installed before she occupied her office, so I could watch her intermittently throughout the day, like during tedious planning meetings. I had every right to do it if I owned her. The cameras were one more layer of protection, one more layer of control.
Whether she knew about the cameras or not, she had a responsibility to come tell me what had transpired. Our rules regarding her and other men were very involved and very specific, and she’d broken about five of them between nine-thirty and ten o’clock.
I thought, okay, maybe she’s afraid to admit what happened. Maybe she’s trying to think of the right words to say. Maybe she’s working on a deadline. Maybe…
Maybe what?
I took her out to lunch. Nothing. Nothing but distant thoughts and nervousness, disguised in overly cheerful conversation that made me want to slap her. Admit it. Admit what you did, you faithless bitch. After lunch, I took her back to her studio and sat in the chair he’d sat in, and ordered her to blow me. Still nothing. No confession. No mention that he’d been there, sitting exactly where I was sitting.
Now I stared at her across the dinner table, giving her the benefit of the doubt. Meeting with Simon was a huge fuck up. Maybe she was still gathering the courage to come clean. But maybe…
Love lies.
Maybe she had no intention of telling me. If that was true, it was the beginning of our end. If she was choosing Simon—Simon—over what we had together, then I was done. I was done trying to save her, I was done trying to make her life better and more fulfilling. I was done twisting myself in knots trying to make us work. I was done risking my heart, bleeding poetry onto paper. If she wanted Simon…
But I’d let her speak first. I’d make her speak, if she didn’t elect to confess on her own. We went into the kitchen to clean up after dinner. I offered her ice cream. She asked for wine instead, and I thought, now. Now the confession will come. She just needed a little alcoholic fortitude to admit what she’d done. We took the wine into the living room and sat on the couch together. I waited.
Nothing, damn it. She was wondering when I’d take her to the dungeon. I kept her naked at home, always ready. She wanted to play.
I was tired of fucking waiting. I put my glass down on the side table and asked, in as casual a voice as I could muster, “Did anyone visit your studio today?”
There was an awful, soul-destroying moment when she thought about lying to me. I could see it in her features, in her expression. Oh shit, he knows. I better lie. Could I get away with a lie? No, I couldn’t.
At least she realized that. Her expression turned from panicked to wary to grim.
“Yes,” she said. She put her glass down and crossed her arms over her breasts. “Simon came to see me. I didn’t invite him. He just showed up.”