Mr. Blackwell's Bride: A Fake Marriage Romance (A Good Wife Book 2) Page 6

  How…strange. I didn’t even like my husband.

  How was it possible for my body to react in one way while my mind revolted?

  He had almost kissed me in the limo. I could see that he wanted to before we were interrupted. I found my fingers rising to press at my lips.

  I’d been kissed before by a boy from school. He was handsome and I liked him well enough, but I had felt more curiosity when I allowed him to lean in and press his thin, cold lips against mine.

  Mr. Blackwell’s lips were perfectly formed, precisely defined, and plump with blood so that I couldn’t imagine they’d ever be cold. Just his heart, then.

  What would Mr. Blackwell’s mouth feel like against mine? How would he kiss?

  I brushed these thoughts aside, trying to calm my nerves. I would find out soon enough. Too soon. Not soon enough.

  Something struck me about his room. I stared across to his bedside table, to the mantle above his fireplace, then to the other flat surfaces. That was odd. Where were his photos? In fact, I didn’t remember seeing a single photo frame in any of the rooms so far.

  The few surfaces of my family home were covered in photos of us all; my parents’ wedding, the birth of all us children, and us three girls, in diapers, in school uniforms, dressed in costumes for school plays…

  Where were the photos of him and his family? Where were the photos of his parents?

  That night, I felt immense relief when Mr. Blackwell didn’t arrive for dinner. I sat in the formal dining room in one of the high-backed gold and red cushioned chairs, the only person at the rectangular heavy wooden dining table that stretched across the entire room. The staff door swung open. I straightened up in my chair.

  It wasn’t Loretta. But another housemaid, a pretty girl of ebony skin, thick hair the color of ravens tied back at her neck into a prim bun. She kept her eyes on the crowded silver tray she was holding, a slight crease between her brows indicating her concentration. I fought the urge to get out of my chair and help her.

  She set her silver tray down on the serving table at the side of the room. In front of me, she placed a silver platter domed with a silver lid. When she pulled the silver dome off, steam rushed up around me. The scent of vegetables and garlic filled my nose, clearing to reveal a bowl of thick vegetable soup garnished with a sprig of parsley. My stomach rumbled.

  She set down a small plate of warm brown bread beside it.

  “Hi,” I said to her before she could move away again.

  She blinked at me. “Are you speaking to me?”

  As if there was anyone else to talk to. “Yes,” I said, giving her a warm smile. “What’s your name?”

  She paused before she answered, folding her hands across her stomach. “It’s Celeste, ma’am.”

  Ma’am. As if I was as old as her mother. I guessed she would be a few years older than me.

  “How long have you worked here, Celeste?”

  She flinched as if I’d slapped her. “Did I do something wrong?”

  “What? No. Why would you think that?”

  “All these questions…”

  “I want to get to know you a little bit. I mean, we’re both living here.”

  She gazed at me for a few moments, the whites showing around her inky irises, before she quickly lowered her lashes. “I’m sorry. I must get back to work.” She snatched up her tray from the side table before hurrying out of the room.

  “I just want to talk,” I called out.

  But Celeste was gone.

  Back home, dinner would be a rowdy affair; steam and chatter would fill the warm kitchen as we all helped to chop the food and set the table. The four of us would eat elbow to elbow around our small, low table, laughing or sharing stories about our day.

  In Blackwell Manor, I sat eating dinner with only the stiff-lipped portraits around the room for company, my spoon hitting the side of my soup bowl and echoing off the high ornate ceilings. I felt like an insignificant flake at the bottom of a bowl, my loneliness poised to swallow me up. I eyed the empty place at the head of the table to my right. Maybe eating with Mr. Blackwell wouldn’t be so bad.

  After dinner, I returned to my room, a restlessness itching under my skin. When I reached the top of the stairs, my eyes fell upon the darkened west wing. It was the only place in this mansion I hadn’t explored. Curiosity tickled my insides. What could Mr. Blackwell possibly be hiding there?

  “You are never to go in the west wing. Never. Do you hear me?”

  Defiance flared in me. Who does he think he is dictating where I may go and who I might speak to? He refused to let me talk to my father, I refuse to obey his orders.

  If he found out that I disobeyed his orders, he’d be furious.

  He’d never find out. Who was around to tell him?

  I took a confident step towards the darkened corridor.

  My step faltered as I moved into the edge of the dim space. I remembered the flash of pain that went across his face when he eyed the west wing. Whatever secrets the west wing was hiding, they were painful for him. I chewed my lip, the defiance buried underneath a rising pity, a knowing curiosity. Perhaps if I understood him more…?

  Would it hurt if I looked?

  I glanced around again. I couldn’t see anyone. I couldn’t hear anyone coming.

  Just one minute. Just one quick look. I let the darkness swallow me as I hurried farther into the dim hallway, my heart beating faster in my chest.

  What would I find?

  Discovering the first door was unlocked, I pushed it open and slipped inside.

  15

  ____________

  Noriko

  The room was large and dim, dust motes floating in the only strip of dying sunlight coming in from between the dark drapes drawn across the windows. I tried the light switch. Nothing happened. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust. Slowly the darkness receded.

  I was standing in a bedroom, the walls a pastel yellow and cream, the bed unmade, the sheets yellowing with age, a moth-eaten bathrobe draped across the back of a chair. Dust was everywhere, thick like a gray cloth on the furniture on the window sill.

  I let out a long breath, almost laughing with relief. It was an unused bedroom. Why was Mr. Blackwell insistent that I never come here?

  I walked over to the window and peered out. The view looked across the other side of the back gardens, across a thick carpet of trees and bushes.

  I wandered over to the dresser where glass perfume atomizers sat among beads and lipsticks. This was a woman’s bedroom. Mr. Blackwell’s mother? His sister? A chill seemed to go through the air. Where was she now? Why isn’t she living here?

  I picked up a gold photo frame, so thick with dust I couldn’t see the photo. I wiped a streak across the glass with my thumb, clumps of gray molting off. I revealed a boy, perhaps eleven or twelve, with dark hair and dark eyes. He had such a solemn look on his face as he stared at the camera, the weight of the world already bearing down on his shoulders.

  This was Mr. Blackwell, I realized. This was him as a boy.

  Oh, sweet boy. Why are you sad?

  Who’s in the photo with you?

  I reached with my thumb again to—

  Someone grabbed my arm and I let out a scream, dropping the frame with a clatter to the dresser.

  “What are you doing here?” Mr. Blackwell was glaring at me, his grip so firm it bordered on pain. He must have just gotten home.

  “Y-You’re hurting me.”

  “I told you never to come here.” His voice was cold. Hard as steel.

  I gulped back my excuses. I disobeyed him because I wanted to get him back for refusing me any contact with my family. And because I was curious.

  “Whose room is this?” I asked, trying to remain brave but failing.

  His jaw twitched. “Get out.”

  “It’s just a room. What’s wrong with it?”

  “What’s wrong with it?” His voice rose in volume and pitch. “What’s fucking wrong with it?” He grab
bed the back of my neck and marched me to a spot near the bed. He forced my head down as if I was a naughty puppy who peed on the carpet. “You nosy girl. You want to know the truth?”

  I was too terrified to move or say anything. I stared at the faded cream fibers, now gray with dust. I couldn’t see anything different about this spot.

  “Do you?”

  I nodded my head as much as I could with his thick hand still wrapped around the back.

  Mr. Blackwell leaned right in, his hot breath in my ear. “My mother died right here.”

  16

  ____________

  Drake

  Noriko gasped. Her eyes snapped to mine. Bending over her like this, I realized in that second how close we were. I could smell her sweet, subtle scent of cherry blossoms.

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, Drake…” Her voice swelled with sadness. I couldn’t stand to hear it. I couldn’t stand to see the pity in her eyes. It was like a blast of heat on this icebox of a heart in my chest, stinging as it thawed. I shoved her away from me. She almost tripped but managed to right herself.

  “Get out,” I growled. For a second she remained on the spot, her eyes still gouging me with pity. “Get the fuck out!” I roared.

  She yelped as if I’d slapped her. She sprinted out of the room as I stood there shaking, chest heaving. The door slammed close behind her and some of the tension slid out of me.

  I shouldn’t have yelled at her. I was just so mad. She disobeyed me. Nobody disobeyed me. Nobody ever dared to.

  “Mom?” I called as I knocked on her bedroom door. She didn’t respond. I sighed. “Louisa?”

  God.

  This room.

  So many ghosts here.

  Why did Noriko have to come here? Why did she have to go stirring up old memories? I felt them clawing for me, trying to pull me under. The room swiveled around me.

  I pushed open her door, slowly. In the gap of her bedroom door I saw part of a leg hanging off her bed. Her bare leg was skinny. Too skinny. I needed to get her to eat something. I pushed her door open wider and moved slowly to her side so as not to scare her. “Louisa?”

  No movement.

  I shook her.

  She let out a small moan.

  “You need to eat something. Please.”

  Her eyes fluttered open, revealing her startling blue eyes. For a moment she stared back at me with such clarity in her irises that I felt a surge of hope. Maybe she’d come back to me. “You’re such a good boy, Drakey,” she said, her voice cracked and her breath sour. The whites of her eyes were bloodshot and yellowed.

  Stay.

  Instead they unfocused and glossed over.

  I rubbed my face, trying to shove her back down in my mind.

  I let my ghosts chase me out of the room, slamming the door firmly behind me.

  17

  ____________

  Noriko

  All the next day I berated myself for going into the west wing. The way Mr. Blackwell’s voice cracked, the slip of pain showing from under his façade. The memory stabbed me. I thought of the unloved and lonely state of his mother’s bedroom, imagining this was what the inside of his heart looked like.

  My cheeks burned with shame, my chest felt heavy with swollen pity. Thankfully, he never seemed to be around so I didn’t have to face him. Maybe I could avoid him for the entire year?

  When I entered the dining room that night, I found I wasn’t the only one eating.

  Mr. Blackwell was there, sitting at the head of the table, staring at his phone. He was actually home early enough for dinner.

  My nerves began to jumble. Was he still angry? Should I say something? Should I apologize for what I did yesterday?

  He looked up from his phone and our eyes met. His dark stare pinned me to the spot and I had to fight to breathe. My insides twisted into a bunch. I didn’t want to fight with him. I didn’t want him to hate me.

  “Are you going to stand there all damn night?”

  Well…that broke the spell. “As charming as usual, I see,” I muttered.

  I sat in the chair to his side feeling very underdressed in my cream linen pants and plain white blouse. Drake was still in his suit, albeit his jacket had been discarded and his sleeves rolled up. My eyes drew to his thick, tanned forearms. What would he feel like under my fingers? Shocked at my thought, I forced my eyes up.

  He had slight bags under his eyes. Did he not sleep very well last night? His hair fell across his forehead. I found myself wanting to push it out of his beautiful eyes, his lashes so thick and dark, almost pretty, I found myself envious of them.

  I licked my lips, which had gone dry. I wanted to tell him how sorry I was. For invading his privacy yesterday by going into the west wing. I wanted to reach out, place my fingers on the back of his large hand and tell him that I understood what it was like to lose a mother.

  The words wouldn’t come out.

  “What?” he snapped.

  I blinked. “What?”

  “You’re staring.”

  My cheeks burned. “No, I’m not.”

  His eyes narrowed. He didn’t believe me.

  Celeste entered to place our plates on the table, and we were forced into silence. After she set everything out, she bobbed and hurried out. Drake and I were left alone in this vast dining room.

  Mr. Blackwell attacked his food with all the enthusiasm of a man who hadn’t eaten in weeks. He cut his steak and vegetables into enormous pieces before they disappeared into his mouth. The silence, broken only by the clattering of cutlery, felt like it was swallowing both of us. How could I feel even lonelier with him here? I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I was so desperate for some human interaction, I was prepared to overlook his coldness, to try to make the best of this marriage.

  I cleared my throat. “So…how was your day?”

  He looked up from his meal and swallowed. “Excuse me?”

  “Well, we are married. We could try to be…civil to each other. Talk.”

  “About what?”

  I sighed. “I don’t know. How was work?”

  He frowned. “Busy.” He shoved a piece of meat into his mouth.

  O-kay. “Are you working on anything in particular?” I suddenly realized that I had absolutely no idea what my husband actually did for work.

  “Of course.”

  I repressed a groan. This was like pulling teeth. At home it was a fight to get a word in edgewise. “What are you working on exactly?”

  He wiped his mouth with a napkin, his brows creased. “Why can’t we just eat?”

  I sagged into my chair, tears pricking at my eyes, loneliness suffocating me like a too-tight blanket. I didn’t know why I thought that he and I could talk, to be civil at least? I was married—married—to a man who wanted nothing to do with me, whose staff were too terrified to speak to me. I was all alone on the other side of the world in this huge house with no one. I picked at my vegetables, leaving my steak. I wasn’t used to eating so much meat. Besides, I’d lost my appetite.

  I realized from the lack of cutlery noise that he hadn’t resumed eating. I looked up to find him staring at me. A strange prickle of awareness skittered across my skin.

  “What is it?” I asked, my voice a little too eager.

  He didn’t answer.

  Hope sank like a stone inside me. I turned back to my plate, trying to ignore the sadness welling up inside me.

  When I was younger, I wasn’t sure I would ever get married. If I did, it’d have to be with someone…special. Blame my parents for setting a high standard with their deep, true love. I told myself I’d never settle for anything less than what my parents had. And now…

  It’s only for one year, Noriko. It’s not a real marriage.

  “I…” Mr. Blackwell began.

  I glanced up.

  “I’m not used to…” He waved his hand around.

  “Being polite?”

  He scowled. “Dinner.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re
not used to having dinner?”

  “Dinner with someone. Here. I mean.”

  “Oh.”

  “I spend so much time talking…at work…”

  “Okay.” I focused back on my plate.

  He still didn’t pick up his knife and fork again. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” He was still staring at me, confusion written across his face. I almost felt sorry for him.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know anything about you.”

  “I’m 34, CEO and majority shareholder of Blackwell Industries, worth billions, graduated summa cum laude from Harvard Business School and with an MBA from Yale, third richest man in America. What else do you need to know?”

  I laughed. “You forgot to tell me your driver’s license number and shoe size.”

  He frowned. “Why do I get the feeling that you’re mocking me?”

  I shook my head and smiled. “What do you like to do when you’re not working?”

  His lips pressed into a line before he answered. “If I’m not working, I’m either sleeping or eating.”

  Was he serious? “That sounds…”

  “Busy.”

  “I was going to say…sad.”

  His eyes widened in surprise before narrowing. “It’s not sad.”

  “There’s more to life than work.”

  His frown turned into a glare. He opened his perfectly formed mouth, most likely to argue with me again. Before he could, his phone began to ring. He snapped his mouth shut, staring at his phone screen before scowling. “Excuse me. I have to take this.” He grabbed his phone as he stood. “I am not sad.”

  I said nothing.

  He scowled and grunted what? into the phone, still glaring at me.

  He left the room and I turned back to my dinner.

  I didn’t see him for the rest of the night.

  Pity was quickly replacing the hatred in my heart. Drake Blackwell might have money, but he was the poorest man I’d ever met.