43

After a time well spent in the garden, Giselle decided to go back to her room, she was walking toward her suite, her robe sweeping the floor, when a shadow detached itself from the alcove near the library.

Monica stepped into the center of the way, her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and her jaw was set in a jagged line of resentment.

"We aren't finished," Monica hissed, her voice echoing off the vaulted ceiling.

Giselle stopped. She didn't look startled; she looked inconvenienced obviously. She adjusted the cuff of her robe and met Monica’s gaze with a terrifyingly calm stare.

"I’m fairly certain I finished with you earlier," Giselle said. "Unless you’ve come to ask for the Wi-Fi password? It’s 'Irrelevant,' with a capital I."

"What was that back there?" Monica stepped closer, her heels clicking aggressively on the floor. "You think because you have a ring on your finger that you can talk to me like I’m some dirt stain? You think you can humiliate me in front of Chase and his father?"

Giselle took a slow, deliberate step forward, invading Monica’s personal space until she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact.

"I don't think I can talk to you like you’re dirt, Monica. I know I can," Giselle whispered. "You seem to suffer from a very dangerous lack of memory. Let me refresh it for you. This is my home. Those are my guards at the gate. The only reason you are currently breathing the climate-controlled air of this hallway instead of sitting on the curb with your luggage is because I haven't bothered to snap my fingers and have you removed. You are a guest. A temporary, disposable guest. Act like it."

"You're pathetic!" Monica shrieked. Her self-control snapped like a dry twig. She pulled her hand back, her palm swinging in a wide, desperate arc toward Giselle’s face.

Giselle’s hand moved with the speed of a viper.

She caught Monica’s wrist mid-air, her grip tightening with a strength that made Monica gasp and yelp in pain. The silence that followed was heavy with the sound of Monica’s ragged breathing and the distant ticking of the clock.

"Don't," Giselle warned, her voice dropping to a lethal, low register. She leaned in closer, her eyes boring into Monica’s. "I will not be so lenient with your insolence next time. If you raise a hand to me again, I will make sure the only place you can find work in this city is behind a glass partition. Do you understand me?"

Giselle shoved Monica’s arm back with a look of utter disgust. Monica stumbled, rubbing her wrist, her chest heaving.

Suddenly, Giselle stopped. Her brow furrowed, and she raised a hand to cover her nose and mouth with a look of genuine alarm. She stepped back, waving the air in front of her face.

"Good God," Giselle gasped, her voice muffled by her hand. "What is that?"

Monica blinked, confused. "What's what?"

"That smell," Giselle said, her eyes watering. "Are you a bioterrorist, Monica? Is that your plan? To kill me with oozing warfare before I can divorce him? I can actually feel my sinuses closing. It’s a public health hazard."

Monica’s face flushed a deep, embarrassed pink. She instinctively smoothed her hair. "It’s my perfume! Chase got it for me for our six-month anniversary. It’s a designer fragrance. It cost more than your entire existence probably before you married into money!"

Giselle let out a loud, mocking laugh, finally lowering her hand but still standing at a distance.

"Chase got you that?" Giselle asked, shaking her head in faux pity. "Oh, darling. It seems Chase’s taste has dashed right out of the window along with his common sense. Little wonder his choice for his mistress was a knock-off so potent it could double as a mosquito repellent. It doesn't smell like a designer fragrance; it smells like a high-end industrial cleaner used in a subway station."

"It’s not a knock-off!" Monica yelled, though her voice lacked conviction.

"It’s a disaster," Giselle countered. "If you walk past the smoke detectors, the sprinklers might go off just to save the upholstery. I’ll have to have the hallway steam-cleaned in the morning. Truly, Monica, even for a mistress, you should have higher standards. Or at least a better pair of nostrils if at all you can afford to get a nose job done without bleeding my husband’s money, but go ahead."

Monica was gagged. She stood there, her ego bleeding out. She searched for something—anything—to throw back at the Giselle who was dismantling her piece by piece.

"Well, no matter what you say about my perfume or my status," Monica said, her voice trembling with spite. "At the end of the day, Chase belongs to me. He comes to my bed. He tells me his secrets. He hates you, Giselle. He hates the very ground you walk on."

Giselle tilted her head, looking at Monica as if she were a particularly slow child.

"You can have him in your dreams, Monica. You can even have him in that dusty guest room down the hall. But let’s be very clear about the reality of your situation," Giselle said, her voice turning cold and flat. "As long as this marriage stands—and it will stand for as long as I find it useful—Chase is mine. Legally, socially, and financially. He is an asset of the Hemingway estate, and I am the CEO’s favorite. You aren't a threat. You aren't even a rival competition."

Giselle stepped closer one last time, her gaze raking over Monica’s cheap cocktail dress.

"You’re a rental mental case," Giselle whispered. "And you seem to be under the impression that you’re taking my place. Rentals don't get the title. They just get used until the lease is up and the owner wants something newer. Now, get out of my sight before I decide to call the EPA to deal with that stench."

Giselle didn't wait for a reply. She turned her back on the mistress and walked away, the click of her heels sounding like the ticking of a countdown.

Monica was speechless. She opened her mouth to scream, to curse, to hurl an insult, but the words died in her throat. She looked down at her wrists, still red from Giselle’s grip, and then at the empty hallway.

The realization that she was outmatched—not just in money, but in sheer, cold-blooded will—hit her like a physical blow.

She turned and stormed off toward the East Wing, her face hot with shame. When she reached the guest room, she slammed the door so hard the framed art on the wall rattled, almost falling off, but it did nothing to silence the echoing sound of Giselle’s laughter in her head.