Bought By The Billionaire - BDSM 18 novel Chapter 69

“I… hadn't thought about it at all.”

“You'd better think about it.” Once more, Grace touches her hand to mine. “Listen, Beth, even if you don't want it, you're still going to have to play the game. Especially dealing with the paparazzi. Sorry, but the whole city wants to know the woman who persuaded Richard Haswell to hang up his bachelor’s boots. They’ll want to know, who dressed you? Where you bought the clothes? When you plan to have children? If you give them nothing, they'll track you down. On occasions like this, smile and play the princess. Give them their photos. Give them their performance. But don't say anything beyond banal crap unless it’s something where you seriously want to get on your orange box and shout it to the world.”

“Richard said something about that…” Beside me, ever so slightly, he’s nodding.

“Richard was right. In public, play the pretty, polite wife. The woman behind the man. Give them enough that they’ll go away. And then, go home with your husband and live your life. You got that?”

I inhale... “Got it.” … Exhale...

“Good. Now… Chin up. Relax. Paint that smile back on and try to enjoy the evening. If nothing else, the food'll be great.”

Across the table, Irene, stiff, stares at me…

Ignore her…

She breaks into her facsimile of a smile. “So, Beth, where are you from? Not from around here, I think, from your accent.”

I keep my own smile sweet. “No, not from around here,” I agree.

She pauses, waiting for more to my answer. When I don’t oblige, “And your family name is Kimberley? Do I have that right? Is that the London Kimberleys or the Boston Kimberleys?”

“I doubt it’s either of those. It’s just plain Kimberley. I don't know where my family came from originally.”

She purses her mouth. “Well, dear, the Boston Kimberleys were in shipping, sugar and tea. The London Kimberleys are in merchant finance. What is it your father does?”

“He has a hardware store.”

Her answering smirk drips saccharin. “Ah, yes. I think I did hear something about that.”

How long do I have to be polite to this bitch?

“Excuse me, madam.” The waiter behind me, with the first course.

All aside from giving me the excuse to ignore Irene, it smells divine. Some kind of soup, creamy and fishy, sprinkled with parsley, and thick enough to qualify as a stew. I reach for a spoon, then…

Damn…

The place in front of me is set out left and right, with battalions of cutlery. And now that I look, four different wine glasses are ranked to my right.

Uncertain, I turn to my Master, but he is distracted, talking to Chancellor Wilmore across the table. As I hesitate, Irene watches. Heat pricks at my cheeks.

Something nudges at me, Grace’s elbow in my ribs. Behind a napkin, out of Irene's line of sight, she wriggles fingers, then picks up the rightmost item, a spoon. Dipping into her soup at twelve o’clock on the dish, she drags the base of the spoon over the rim, clearing the drips. Bringing the spoon up to her lips, she sips from the edge.

Watching from the corner of my eye, I parallel Grace’s performance. It takes several sips before I relax enough to register that the soup is, in fact, quite delicious.

Irene's smirk fades. Then, between sips of her soup, she says, “It's so good to meet you, Beth. We've all been so intrigued to meet whoever put a ball and chain on Richard here…” Next to me, my Master stirs, his attention returning…

“… So many lovely girlfriends over the years,” she continues. “Did you meet any of them?”

My teeth are gritting. “Only Adele.” Below the table edge, my Master’s hand shifts to my thigh, squeezing slightly.

Irene, wearing wide-eyed dismay, sets down her spoon. “Oh, yes, poor Adele. For her to come to that…”

I cough, snatching a napkin up to my mouth. “Poor Adele?”

The hand squeezes harder. My Master snarls, “There was nothing poor about Adele. At the end, when I saw her for what she truly is, she turned my stomach.”

Irene’s eyes glitter satisfaction…

Why?

Drawn a reaction?

She’s that narcissistic?

The conversation’s heading south, but Will Harrumphs. “Adele Barrington is serving a custodial sentence. After her actions, she will certainly be imprisoned for many years.”

Irene protests. “But that’s so cruel. I’m sure Adele shouldn't be in prison. She must have had some kind of breakdown. She should be receiving medical treatment in a specialist hospital.”

My Master’s snarl drops to a growl. “Adele knew exactly what she was doing.”

Irene’s head tilts. “What did she do? Exactly? The newspapers didn’t give too many details.”