Page 156 of The Stranger

She looks beautiful. Reckless. And angry. Because of me.

My anger is swift to rise, hot enough to drown out everything else. I’ve never set aside my children for a woman before today. I’ve never wanted another woman as I have her—can’t she see that?

She should have trusted me instead of assuming the worst. She should have waited instead of reacting, then fucking running. Didn’t she read her phone?

I handled her entrance badly, I know. But Amélie’s arrival had me off balance and on the defensive. I didn’t want to give the woman so much as a thread of interest to pull at. Not that it matters. I expect she has a skilful interrogation of the children planned.

Fucking Primrose. How could she believe so little of me? One misunderstanding and she leaves me for a fucking nightclub—a den iniquity—where men surround her like sharks.

My gaze catches on a man dancing closer. His hands on her hips, he whispers something in her ear. Something ugly curls inside me. I want to twist the fucker’s hands from his wrists. I should’ve gone for her myself, not sent Jacques. And I would have, but for delighting the paparazzi. It was hard enough to get into the club without being seen.

The fist gripping my heart relaxes its hold when she rebuffs the asshole. I know I have no right to this anger. No right to her. No cause to resent the men attracted to her. She’s not mine to keep. Yet here I am. Twisted up inside, furious that she’s here.

The song changes and the women begin to push through the crowd. I watch the change in their body language as they spot Jacques and follow their exchange. The frowns and the exchange of words.

I didn’t ask him how he knew where Primrose was, but I imagined it had something to do with Zoe. He’s a fool if he thinks I haven’t noticed how he avoids the kitchen lately. If I lose my chef because he can’t be mindful of where he sticks his dick, I’m not going to be happy. Double standards, but who gives a shit.

The exchange over, Primrose pulls away. Jacques doesn’t follow, but I have faith in my man. I follow her until I can see her no more, the crowd reduced to flashes of skin and movement between the balcony railings.

I turn back to the room, the music muted here. A low velvet sofa curves around a table laden with gleaming crystal and ice, the suite promising privacy and discretion to those who can afford it. Smoked glass and amber lighting, it’s dark and decadent, designed to make a man forget his better judgement. As though I possessed any at all where Primrose is concerned.

I swipe a hand through my hair as I catch my reflection in the smoked mirrored wall. Black shirt, black pants, fury sitting in the space between his eyes. I look less like a man in a club than a man about to wield one. The woman will drive me to fucking Botox.

I lower myself into a wingback chair and reach for the bottle of cognac to top up my glass. It’s decent, at least, I think. Setting the bottle back, I cross my ankle over my knee and affecting an air of nonchalance. Inside, I am not calm. My body is tense, and my head is a swirl of angry, conflicting thoughts as I wait for her.

I don’t wait long.

“Come on, Doc. Don’t make it hard for me.”

I hear Jacque’s voice before I see him. My gut tightens as I put down my glass and stand.

“I thought that was Zoe’s job?” Primrose snipes from the hallway beyond. Despite her unhappy tone and the conversation we’re about to have, relief floods my veins that she’s agreed to see me. Rather that than be carried out over my shoulder.

“She tell you that?” Jacques sounds tired.

“I have eyes,” she retorts sharply. “Fuckknuckle,” she adds with a violent fricative.

“You kiss your… you know what? I don’t need to know who you kiss with that mouth.”

“Then you should’ve left me downstairs.”

“I don’t like it when I can’t do my job.”

“That’s a you problem. And I’m not your job.”

“Come on, Doc, keep those feet moving. Unless you want me to carry you the rest of the way.”

“Try it and find yourself with a knee somewhere very unpleasant.”

The pair round the corner, Lavender’s wrathful expression appearing first. Jacques’s mildly apologetic once follows close behind her.

“All right, Bobby big balls,” she announces, throwing out her hands. “You got me here. Say what you have to say so I can get the fuck away.”

“That will be all.”

“Me or him?” she demands, incandescent in her rage. “And just so you’re aware, I am nowhere done with this mood.”

“Noted.” My eyes glide to my assistant. “Thank you, Jacques.”