Page 137 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
Because I thought he was different.
My nails dig crescents into my palms as I replay every soft look, every breakfast he cooked, every night he insisted I get rest, every time he reached for my hand like it was his right. I let myself believe he was different.My husband.Ha.
By the time we pull up to the curb, I’m a storm in sneakers, ready to explode.
And there they are—Eslin and Tatum—waiting for me on the curb like two avenging angels. Both in lethal black dresses, heels sharp enough to end a man, their faces carved with curiosity and the promise of danger.
I explain, my voice tight with rage. “Myhusband’sphone is pinging inside. Which meanshe’sinside. Which meansI’mabout to go cut a bitch!”
“I’m really loving this bad bitch side of you! Who knew you had a little violent streak?” Tatum teases.
Eslin raises a single finger, professor-mode activated, before letting her gaze sweep down over her and Tatum’s outfits. “Um. Okay. So, love the energy. And you know we got your back and all, but I feel like maybe…just maybe…you should have warned us about what we were doing beforehand. Because clearly—” she gestures to her plunging neckline, “—we are dressed for the wrong occasion. And I usually carry vaseline for things like this.”
I raise a brow. “Vaseline?”
Before I can respond, Tatum mutters, “Clearly, you have no idea who you’re dealing with,” and spins on her heel like an action hero mid-scene.
“Where the hell are you going?” I call after her.
“BRB!” she shouts over her shoulder, sprinting toward the valet stand like she’s about to tackle someone and steal their car. The poor valet boys scatter, not sure if they should stop her or just get out of her way.
Two minutes later, she reappears smirking, clutching a massive black duffel bag like it’s Santa’s sack of vengeance. She drops it at our feet with a dramaticthud.
I frown.“What’s this?”
She huffs like it’s obvious. “Thankfully, I always travel prepared for either a workout or a beat down. The attire is the same either way.”
“I’m sorry?” I blink.
“There are workout outfits in here that me and Eslin can change into. Extra shoes and everything. Once we’re inside, we’ll use thefacilities, put our sexy clothes in a locker, and then go yank some slut off your husband’s dick.”
Eslin and I trade a look. Then shrug in unison.
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I say.
Chapter forty
Supper Clubs & Showdowns
Marlow
The Supper Club is high-end, members only, and the kind of discreet that costs an annual salary. Since my father has been a card-carrying member since I was a teenager, I’m able to get in on his name whenever I want.
The main floor looks like a designer lounge—sleek bar with crystal decanters, a velvet-roped VIP, a low stage for performances (music during the week, other types on weekends), and beautiful staff weaving through with trays of complimentary drinks. If you didn’t know better, you’d think you’d wandered into a very expensive hotel bar.
Five minutes later, Tatum and Eslin exit the locker corridor in black leggings, sports bras, and sneakers—hair up, earrings off,ready to square up. I was already dressed for a fight so now we look coordinated.
“Should we ask someone if they’ve seen him?” Tatum asks, her voice a little too eager.
I shake my head. “No. I prefer the element of surprise.”
We pile into the elevator, the air between us thick with adrenaline and simmering anger. My pulse drums in my ears, but what steadies me—what fuels me—is the presence of my Stand-Ins at my side. No hesitation. No questions. Just loyalty. They’re ready to go to war for me on little more than my word and a phone ping.
My phone glows in my hand, Declan’s little blue dot pulsing like a beacon. I can feel my pulse syncing with every ding. Second floor. Third. Fourth. Each chime might as well be the strike of a war drum.
The doors glide open and for a second I forget how to breathe.
The fourth floor doesn’t look like the den of debauchery I had conjured in my head at all. This place looks like money. Quiet, understated, luxury hotel money. Muted cream carpet underfoot, gilded numbers glowing softly on each door, lighting low, designed to soothe or seduce. The scent of something expensive lingers in the air, faint sandalwood layered with the sweetness of champagne.
