The Wrong Wife by Maya Alden

Chapter 13

Esme

Ihad an orgasm with Declan. My feelings of insecurity had floated right out the window as I'd felt his fingers inside me.

I held on to the arm he offered because my legs were wobbly. I dug my nails into his forearm when I felt the first sting of camera lights.

"It's just some photographers," he whispered, brushing his lips against my ear.

I nodded, feeling unsure.

"I must look terrible."

He tucked my hand in his arm tighter and shook his head. "You look beautiful."

I ignored his comment. "Keep holding on to me because I'm going to break my neck in these shoes."

"Next time, we'll let Baker know you prefer a shorter heel."

"Or flats?" I asked wistfully.

He laughed and kissed me, brushing his lips against mine. "Or flats."

The photographers went wild, screaming his name and, surprisingly, mine.

Esme, please look this way.

One more kiss, Declan.

He didn't comply, and we walked into the chic Santa Monica gallery. It was a dramatic space with glass walls on the far side with a view of the Pacific, gently frolicking on the sand.

My father was there, as was Declan's mother. Their spouses were absent. Gerald, Declan's father, was still in Asia, and my mother was under the weather. Had he asked Monica not to join as he'd suggested I didn't either?

"Hello, dear." Nina did the air-kissing thing, and I responded in kind.

My father nodded at me and then took my arm. "Excuse us."

He all but dragged me away. "What are you doing here?"

"Declan said that he wanted me here," I replied meekly. He was angry, and I could feel it flow through his fingers on my arm. I was glad the dress had long sleeves. Otherwise, the marks would show.

"You weren't supposed to tell him I didn't want you here. You were supposed to have a fucking headache," he retorted.

"I'm sorry, Daddy."

He leaned closer to me. "The damage is done. Wear some makeup because you look terrible, and keep your mouth shut. Let Viv and Dec lead the way during dinner. Got it?"

I nodded.

He let go of me and went back to Nina. I looked around, seeking Declan and found him standing next to Viv. She was dressed in an ivory silk dress that looked like it was made for her, which it probably was. She stood nearly as tall as Declan in white strappy sandals. She held a small white clutch. She was dressed like a bride.

I decided not to go to him while he talked to his ex-fiancée and instead walked the gallery halls to enjoy the art.

I read the brochure that told me the artist was Phoenix Blackwood, who was inspired by artists such as Picasso and Oswaldo Guayasamín. I loved the art of Guayasamín, an Ecuadorian painter, and the influence was apparent. Phoenix, however, had a more playful style that should've been inconsistent with the starkness of his black and brown paintings—but he made it work.

"Hello," a voice said behind me, and I turned.

"Your paintings are lovely." I immediately recognized the man in pair of black pants and a black shirt from the brochure photo.

"Thank you." He held out his hand, and I shook it.

"I'm Esme Hartley…well, Knight."

"Dec's wife. I heard."

Phoenix looked toward where my husband stood with my sister and smiled. "Quite a scandal. Engaged to one sister and married to another. So, who dumped whom, Mrs. Knight."

I felt my shoulders slump. I had hoped we'd talk about his art, but he was interested like everyone else in the gossip.

I turned to the painting I was standing in front of. "I like how you have the lovers fighting in this painting, but it's just a small fight; their relationship will not be impacted."

"Yes," he smirked, "I wanted to paint the end of a fight right before the makeup sex."

The way he spoke made me uncomfortable. First, the gossip, and now the sneer about sex.

I wish I could've walked away, but who could I go to? Not my husband, who looked like he was enjoying his wine and the conversation he was having with his ex-fiancée. Not my father. I touched my arm, still sore from his grip, or my mother-in-law, who probably disliked me just a little less than my father did, and only because she hadn't known me very long.

"Mr. Blackwood, are you trying to make me uneasy?" I asked bluntly.

His eyes were amused. "Yes. I'm sorry. It was petty, but I'm friends with Dec and Viv, and I don't know what went down because they’re both being pretty tight-lipped about the whole thing. I care for both of them, and I know he loves Viv. Are you pregnant or something?"

Loves not loved.

“Something,” I whispered, looking to see how I could escape.

“When I saw you come in together, do you know what I thought?” He didn’t wait for me to respond, “That you seem incongruous together. Now, those two,” he inclined his head to Viv and Declan, “they look like they were made for each other.”

"You think he married the wrong sister?" I was to meet another friend and colleague of Declan's at the dinner, Mateo Silva—that meeting, I feared, would probably be similar to this. Their friends would rally around them, painting me as the villain who stole Viv's future husband. The news of her quickie marriage had not been announced publicly, but my marriage to Declan had been.

"He thinks…or maybe knows that he married the wrong sister. Don't you agree?" He tilted his head toward Declan and Viv again. They were now looking at art, her hand resting against his forearm, her body leaning toward him. He seemed comfortable holding her, much like Declan had held me when we'd stepped out of the car after he'd given me an epic orgasm.

It shouldn't have hurt because I was so used to being second…no tenth or fifteenth best to Viv, but it did; and not just because of the intimacy we'd just shared, but I was starting to like Declan, going beyond that childish crush to appreciate him and want him.

Stupid, stupid, Esme. Always wanting things, she can't have.

"Since you're such a good friend to Declan and Viv, maybe you should discuss this with them. I barely know you, and as much as I appreciate your art, this conversation is inappropriate."

He seemed surprised by my response, stuck his hands in his dress pants pockets, and eyed me carefully.

"Phoenix," a female voice called to him.

"Excuse me, that's my agent. It was nice meeting you, Esme Knight."

I didn't reply with a likewise because meeting him hadn't been nice at all. I turned my attention to the painting in front of me, now blurred because of the unshed tears in my eyes.