“Switzerland.” She dabbed at the corner of her mouth with her napkin for nonexistent crumbs of food.

I stopped listening to Bryan gushing about the secretary of state and turned my attention to the ladies’ conversation. Francesca looked down, and a hint of her cleavage caught my eye. Her milky tits were pressed together in a tight bra. Looking away was not in my near future. Dying of blue balls—might be.

“Fascinating charity, it was. I remember there was some gardening involved? You gave us a tour a few years back. I couldn’t stop blabbing for months afterward about the sweet American girl who showed us the gardens,” Galia hooted loudly. My eyes dragged from my wife’s chest to her face. Her blush deepened; her face so fresh and youthful even under the minimal makeup she applied. She didn’t want me to know. I could see no reason she’d withhold the information from me, other than fearing that I’d actually take a liking to her if I knew that she was philanthropic.

No trouble there, darling.

“Did you know your wife is also a patron?” Bryan raised his thick gray eyebrows at me when he realized I wasn’t paying attention to his words. I did now. And although she possessed admirable first lady qualities, including her beauty, wits, and ability to entertain women as thick as Galia, who could drive a monkey into alcoholism, I found myself thoroughly aggravated. Francesca had officially proven to have too much personality than necessary. It was time to clip her black-inked Nemesis wings.

“Naturally.” I threw my napkin on the table, signaling the four servants standing against each of the walls of my dining room to clear out our plates ahead of dessert. Francesca avoided my gaze, somehow sensing how irritated I was. She could read me fairly well by now. Another thing to add to the never-ending list of things I disliked about her. When her foot found mine under the table and the sharp pointy heel kicked my loafers in warning, I realized that I wanted a refund on my deal with Arthur Rossi.

His daughter wasn’t a toy or a weapon.

She was a liability.

“We grew self-sustaining vegetable gardens in poor parts of the country, mainly those areas that employed refugees and immigrants who lived in severe circumstances,” Nem provided, sitting back and running her long, thin fingers over her neck, avoiding my gaze. Her heel traveled up to my knee, and then toward my inner thigh. I dragged my chair back before she had the chance to smash my balls with her stilettos.

Two can play this game.

“Is everything okay?” Galia asked Francesca with a concerned smile as my fiancée’s hand flew to her lips. At the same time, I raised my leg under the table, pressing my heel between her thighs. It was a knee-jerk reaction on her part, as if she forgot something on those lips, and I had a knee-jerk reaction of my own when my cock stood at attention at the gesture as if saying, Yes, Nemesis, I’m the thing that’s missing from your mouth.

That kiss on the museum’s stairs felt like a first kiss. But after she’d bragged about sleeping with Angelo plenty of times, and probably rode half The Outfit, I concluded that my future wife was simply a very convincing kisser. If I could see the same disgust on her face again after putting my lips on hers, I’d remember the cold bitch who reminded me so much of her asshole father.

“I could use a cigarette.” Francesca smiled apologetically, pushing her chair back and relieving her groin from my hard-pressed foot, which no doubt put pressure on her clit.

“Such a pretty girl, such a filthy habit.” Galia scrunched her nose, not missing a chance to patronize her younger, prettier companion.

I happen to like my fiancée filthy, I wanted to bite out, but of course, I kept the unwarranted reaction to myself. Smoking was a vice, and vices were weaknesses. I didn’t allow for any of them in my life. I drank very casually with strict control over the amount, quality, and frequency of my drinks. Other than that, I did not consume junk food, did not bet, smoke, do drugs, or even play Best Fiends and Candy Crush.

Zero addictions. Other than Arthur Rossi’s misery, of course.

I couldn’t get enough of that shit.

“May I be excused?” Francesca cleared her throat.

I waved her off impatiently. “Make it fast.”

After dessert, which Bryan and I didn’t touch yet Galia consumed it in its entirety and even asked for a second serving, I noticed that Francesca took two bites of her own before declaring it was sinfully good, but she was too full (that boarding school was worth every penny). Afterward, we retired with our drinks to the salon to listen to my bride-to-be play the piano. Since Nem was nineteen, practically a baby in the world I operated in, it was of essence to show that she was well-bred, soft-spoken, and destined to become American royalty. The three of us sat on the upholstered sofas overlooking the piano as Francesca took a seat. The entire round room had shelves stacked with books for walls. It was my final touch when entertaining colleagues and peers, but having a wife who could play the instrument was even more impressive.

Francesca arranged her dress on her seat with admirable precision, her back straight as an arrow, her neck long and delicate, begging to be bruised. Her fingers floated over the keys—flirting, barely touching them. She took her time admiring the piece I’d inherited from my parents. The late Keatons were big on classical music. They’d been begging for me to learn up until the day they died.

Bryan and Galia held their breaths, staring at what I had no choice but to look at myself. My fiancée—so painfully beautiful in her black velvet dress, her hair secured in a French twist, as she gazed adoringly at an antique piano, caressing it with her fingers while wearing an enchanted smile on her face. She was, to my utter displeasure, much more than an ivory pawn, expensive and striking, but useless and still. She was a living thing with a pulse you could feel from across the room, and for the first time since I took her from her father, I truly wished I hadn’t. Not only because of the picture, but because she was not going to be easy to tame. And difficult, I’d decided from a very young age, was a flavor I found distasteful.

She began to play Chopin. Her fingers moved with grace, but it was the look on her face that betrayed her. The intense pleasure music brought to her both mesmerized and enraged me. She looked like she was coming, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, her lips humming silently to the music. She was chasing the notes with her lips.

I shifted on the couch, looking to my left at the Hatch’s as the room grew smaller and hotter with the dramatic music bouncing on the walls. Galia was smiling and nodding, unaware of the fact that her husband was sporting a hard-on the size of her arm. Up until now, I had no issue with Bryan Hatch. In fact, I quite liked him, despite his incompetence to take care of a goldfish, let alone occupy a seat in the Cabinet. This, however, changed my view of him.

My things were mine.

Not to be admired.

Not to be desired.

Not to be touched.

Suddenly, the need to ruin the moment for my young bride-to-be was overwhelming, almost violent. My provocative fiancée, who had the guts to fuck another man on the night I’d presented her to my colleagues and peers after having put an engagement ring on her finger that cost more than some people’s houses, would most definitely pay.

Dispassionately, and oh-so-smugly, I raised my tumbler of whiskey to my lips, standing up and sauntering to Francesca. Since I was positioned behind her back, she wouldn’t see me even if she opened her eyes. But she didn’t, caught in a trance of art and desire. She was dripping lust on the floor for our guests to see, and they gulped every drop of it—so much so that I had to make a point, both to them and to her.

With every step I took, the tune under her fingers became louder and more dramatic. The piece reached its peak just as I planted the first, soft kiss on her shoulder blade from behind, causing her eyes to snap open and her body to jerk with surprise. She kept her fingers on the piano, still playing, but the rest of her body shuddered as my lips dragged along her soft, warm neck, sinking to the spot behind her ear for another seductive kiss.

“Play away, Nemesis. You’re giving us quite a show, coming all over my antique piano. Are you ready to try to measure up to Emily?”

I could feel her skin blossoming with heat, quivering with passion as my lips moved again, over her shoulder, biting into her inviting flesh, dipping my teeth to her soft skin in front of our guests and exhibiting terrible lack of self-control that made me want to punch myself in the face.

Francesca messed up her notes, her fingers fumbling on the keys without direction. I took pleasure in the fact I threw her off balance. I started to pull away and straighten. Withdrawing from the sweet mist of her body, I assumed she’d stop playing, but she repositioned her fingers on the piano, took a deep, calming breath, and started playing “Take Me to Church” by Hozier. I knew instantly that this was an invite for more kissing.

I looked down. She looked up. Our eyes met. If this was how she responded to chaste kisses on the neck, what kind of reaction did she have in bed?

Stop thinking about her in bed, you tool.

I sank right back, brushing my thumb along her neck as I nuzzled my nose into the crook of it.

“They can see how wet you are for me. It turns them on.”

“Jesus,” she hissed between closed lips. She was beginning to screw up the notes again. I liked the song better under her fingertips. Less perfect. More of what I craved—her failure.

“It turns me on, too.”

“Don’t do this,” she breathed, her labored panting making her chest move up and down quickly. Yet she didn’t do one, simple thing—she didn’t tell me to stop.

“They can watch if they want. You’re not the only exhibitionist in this household, Nem,” I taunted.

“Wolfe,” she warned. It was the first time she said my name. To me, anyway. Another wall fell between us. I wanted to raise it back up, but not as much as I wanted to hurt her for exceeding my expectations.

“Please don’t come on my piano. It would leave a terrible impression in front of our guests. Not to mention, you’d have to lick the seat clean with your tongue.”