Page 33 of King of Ashes
On the drive to the location, I reapply my lipstick, red like the fire raging inside me, and prepare to crash his party.
The car stops in front of an old brick building, and one of my men rushes to open the door.
I step onto the red carpet and straighten my skirt. “Stay here.”
“Ma’am,” he tries.
I don’t fear my husband, and I certainly don’t fear the fine people of Chicago. If I know how to do one thing, it’s make an entrance.
I lift my palm in a stop gesture and approach the two bulky men serving as security. I smile, give them my name, and as one checks the list, he scratches his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “Ma’am, you’re not on the guest list.”
The muscle in my jaw tics. The asshole.
“I don’t need an invitation. My husband didn’t know I would make it,” I say, keeping the polite smile on my face, which requires incredible acting skills.
I try to enter, but the other guard blocks my way.
“You don’t want to do that. Believe me.” My tone doesn’t waver, landing like arrows in his confidence.
He drops his arm instantly. “Who is your husband, Mrs.…?”
“Ma’am, to you. And my name is Zara Monroe Giancana.”
Their eyes bug out, and I say to the guy in front of me, “Now move before I have you removed.”
He rushes to comply, and I step inside the event space. Hundreds of people crowd together, the dim light creating an intimate atmosphere. A quartet plays onstage, the only pleasant, real thing in the room. The ballroom reeks of pretense and money.
Plucking a glass of champagne from a passing server, I scan for my husband. Instinctively, my eyes find him, as if an invisible compass guides me straight to him. I inhale deeply to compose myself when I see he is in deep conversation with a brunette who eyes him with familiarity, smiling brightly. Oh, I will gladly pluck her eyes out so she can remain in the dark forever.
With every step, people glance at me, some more discreetly than others.
My husband says something, and she throws her head back and laughs. It’s an insult to crows to compare her laugh to them, but surely she’s exaggerating. Vian is not funny.
She places her hand on his arm, wearing a soft look on her face. This woman has moved to number one on my shit list. She really shouldn’t test me.
She doesn’t remove her hand from what’s mine, and neither does he, which only worsens my jealousy. I will cut her arm off and shove it down his throat so he never forgets he’s fucking mine.
I haven’t been here for a full ten seconds, and I want to murder my husband. He should know better.
I come to an abrupt stop, breathing deeply to calm down and avoid going over there all ballistic, but it’s like sound travels to him because he cocks his head and our eyes lock. Time and space distort, creating a tunnel straight between us.
He arches a brow, gives me a once-over, and then redirects his attention to that woman, tearing my composure to smithereens. I forget all my good intentions of staying collected and speed-walk straight to him.
Instantly, the air around the high table charges, thickening with tension until it’s a wonder neither of us suffocates.
The woman sweeps her gaze from him to me, her brows furrowing as uncertainty crosses her face.
My future dead husband sips from his drink, unperturbed. He chose the wrong woman to piss off.
“Won’t you introduce us?” I ask sweetly, batting my lashes at him.
“Amber, meet Zara,” he says in a neutral tone, pissing me off even more.
I curl my hand around his arm, clawing my nails into his suit. It’s a wonder I don’t cut the material. “I think you forgot to add a small detail.”
“Hmm, can’t think of what.” There’s a challenge etched in those blue eyes.
He’s doing that on purpose, the asshole, and his tactic works because I am all riled up. Keeping our eyes locked, it’s like we shoot thunder and wait for the other to crack.
