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Nikolai!
I couldn't get her voice out of my head. I really tried, but all my efforts were in vain. Suddenly I heard my phone ring and finally regained control of my thoughts, back to reality.
“Saved by the phone,” I said to myself with a sigh. With a gentle tap on the button on my right Air Pod, I answered.
“Hello?”
“Dobryy den', gospodin. Ya zvonuy, chtoby sprosit', chto by vy khoteloby poobedat'?” In Russian, Olga, my housekeeper asked me over the phone what I would love to have for lunch today.
“Um…ask my wife,” I replied in English. “I'll have whatever she's having.”
“Vasha zhena ne doma, ser.”
Your wife is not at home, sir.
“What?” I frowned, “what do you mean she isn't home? Gde ona?” I reflexively switched to Russian on the question which meant ‘where is she?’
“Ya ne znayu,” Olga replied that she had no idea, not a clue at all.
Where the hell did she go? She has no right to leave the house without my knowledge.
I ended the call, unlocked my phone, and turned my gaze to the street and the device in my hand. I opened a cell phone tracking app and soon I was able to track her down.
Abruptly, I swerved my car, and raced in the direction of her location.
How dare she leave the house without telling me? And what on earth is she doing in a restaurant? Who is she there with? I don't care who the wanker is, he'll pay for it. So will she.
I hated the fact that she was out with someone other than me. She had no right to do that, especially not without informing me first. Anger rose in me as I drove, and swelled as I simmered in silence. I sought solace in the things I would do to this man. Somehow, I was sure she was out with someone else.
Was he touching her? Oh, he better not be.
She was mine. Mine. And I had no intention of sharing her with anyone. My blood boiled as I thought about how I could inflict the most terrible pain on this man, whoever he might be.
All I could think about was how I could get her out of this terrible restaurant and bring her home with me.
This goddamn place is further than I thought.
For the next five minutes, I drove on recklessly but with concentration. I had received insults a few times before from men who were beneath me, but for the first time I didn't care. They had no idea who they were talking to, but it didn't matter now.
I finally reached the restaurant and the tires of my Porsche squealed as I brought the car to a halt in the parking lot.
I got out of the vehicle and closed the door behind me with a loud bang. The doors of the restaurant opened as I entered the building and looked around for her.
From the entrance where I was standing, I finally spotted her in a corner, and I found myself unconsciously clenching a fist in both hands.
There she sat, comfortably seated, laughing, and giggling with another man, just the two of them. She looked unbelievably beautiful in this happy state, but I wasn't the one making her happy, I wasn't the one she was smiling so genuinely with. That fact alone infuriated me even more.
She had never been so happy with me; she had never felt so comfortable and free with me. As I stared at them, I wondered what exactly it was that he said to her to make her so happy. I was jealous of the young man, envious of his ability to make my wife shine so elegantly with mere words. But he had chosen the wrong woman to flirt with, the wrong day to be a lover boy.
I could hear my knuckles cracking at the intensity of the clenched fists. When I got to their table and stood over them, Ashley's face paled as she looked at me. She knew she was in trouble because I had one of those deadly expressions on my face.
“What are you doing?” I asked and she was suddenly speechless.
“I said…” I rested both hands on the table and stared at her sternly, “...what are you doing here, Ashley?”
“Hey, man, chill,” the young boy said to me, “She's with me.”
“I wasn't talking to you, dipshit,” my response was rather rude, but I didn't give a fuck.
