~ Disastrous Dinner ~

I'd been in the kitchen for six hours straight preparing an elaborate dinner for Amiir's business associates because apparently being his wife meant being his unpaid chef, and maid.

I'd made everything from scratch. My feet ached. My back screamed. But I'd be damned if I gave him the satisfaction of proving that I couldn't handle even the basic tasks he'd assigned me.

It was perfect. I'd tasted everything multiple times, adjusted the seasoning carefully, and made sure every dish was exactly right.

Now I stood at the head of the formal dining table, watching as Amiir's guests  who'd barely acknowledged my existence when they arrived—took their first bites.

The man closest to me immediately spit his food back onto his plate.

  "Jesus Christ," he sputtered, reaching for his water glass. "What the hell—"

Another man made a gagging sound, his face contorting. "Is this a joke?"

The third man didn't even swallow, just grabbed his napkin and discreetly deposited the lamb into it. "I think... I think someone confused salt for sugar. Or possibly dumped an entire container of it into every dish."

  "Looks like Lot's wife took a bath in your cooking pot," the first man said, trying to make light of it but clearly disgusted.

My stomach dropped. That was impossible. I'd been so careful with the seasoning, had tasted everything—

  "This is a complete disaster," Cordelia's voice cut through my spiraling thoughts. She sat at Amiir's right hand and she hadn't even tried the food. Just pushed it around her plate with a fork. "I did suggest we hold this meeting at a restaurant, Mr. Blackwood."

She looked directly at me, and I swear I saw satisfaction flash in her eyes.

  "But you insisted on a home-cooked meal."

  "I don't understand," I said, my voice coming out smaller than I intended. "I tasted everything multiple times. There's no way I could have made such a mistake."

  "Clearly you did," Cordelia interrupted smoothly. "Unless you're suggesting someone else was in the kitchen tampering with your dishes? Which seems a bit paranoid, don't you think?"

I looked at Amiir, silently begging him to say something, to defend me for once, to acknowledge that this didn't make sense. But he wouldn't meet my eyes. Just stared at his plate like it had personally offended him.

  "It's not too late to make a reservation," Cordelia continued, pulling out her phone. "I can have us at Le Bernardin in thirty minutes if—"

  "That won't be necessary," one of the men said, pushing his plate away. "I think we've all lost our appetite anyway. We can discuss business over drinks instead. Wine, perhaps? Something that isn't seasoned with an ocean's worth of salt?"

The other men chuckled, and I felt heat flood my face. They were making jokes at my expense, treating this like some amusing dinner party mishap instead of the humiliation it actually was.

  "Wine sounds excellent," Amiir said, his voice perfectly neutral. "Gentlemen, I apologize for the dinner. I had hoped—"

  "Is this another one of your schemes?" The words burst out of me before I could stop them.

The table went silent. Everyone turned to look at me with surprise. 

  "Excuse me?" Amiir's voice was dangerously quiet.

But I was past caring. Past pretending. Past swallowing every humiliation he threw at me with quiet dignity.

I turned to Cordelia, letting all my fury show. "It isn't enough that you're sleeping with my husband, is it? You had to come into my home, into my kitchen, and sabotage the one thing I was actually trying to do right?"

Cordelia's face went pale—or at least, she made it look pale. "I beg your pardon? I would not appreciate false accusations, Mrs. Blackwood. Especially not in front of Mr. Blackwood's business associates."

  "False accusations?" I laughed, but it came out bitter, harsh. "Look me in the eye and tell me you didn't sabotage this dinner. Go ahead. I'm waiting."

She opened her mouth, but I didn't let her speak.

  "And while you're at it, tell me that burgundy shade of lipstick you're wearing isn't the same one I keep finding on my husband's shirts. The same one I found on his collar just this morning."

Cordelia's eyes widened, but she recovered quickly. "I have no idea what you're accusing me of. I'm here to do my job, nothing more. If you're a terrible cook, that's not my fault. Don't project your insecurities onto me just because you can't handle basic kitchen duties."

  "My job?" I repeated. "Is that what we're calling it? Fucking my husband is now part of your job description?"

The men exchanged uncomfortable glances. One of them cleared his throat. Another checked his watch like he suddenly remembered an important appointment.

  "That's enough." Amiir's voice cut through the tension. He stood, his expression still maddeningly neutral.

  "Gentlemen, I apologize that the evening has taken this turn. I'm afraid we'll have to postpone our discussion. My wife is clearly under a great deal of stress and needs proper rest."

I stared at him, my mouth falling open. "Your wife needs rest? That's what you're going with? I just told you your PA sabotaged our dinner, and your response is that I need rest?"

  "We'll reschedule for next week," Amiir continued, completely ignoring me. "Perhaps at the office would be better."

The men stood immediately, gathering their things with the kind of haste that suggested they couldn't leave fast enough.

  "Of course, completely understand," one of them said.

  "Take care of yourself, Mrs. Blackwood," another added, and I couldn't tell if he meant it sympathetically or condescendingly.

They filed out quickly, and Amiir went to see them off, leaving me alone at the table with Cordelia.

For a moment, neither of us moved. But when the front door closed, Cordelia's entire demeanor changed.

She stood slowly, adjusting her blouse with deliberate precision. Then she opened her purse—and pulled out a lipstick.

Burgundy. The exact shade I'd described.

She uncapped it slowly, applied it with meticulous care, taking her time with each stroke. Then she pressed her lips together, making that exaggerated smacking sound that seemed to echo in the quiet dining room.

  "Fenty Beauty's latest edition," she said conversationally, holding up the tube so I could see it clearly. "Very pricey. But your husband loves this shade so much he doesn't mind buying it for me." 

She smiled, running her tongue over her bottom lip.

  "He says he can't resist these lips."

The casual cruelty of her words took my breath away.

  "You're proud of sleeping with someone else's husband," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

  "Oh, honey." Cordelia dropped the lipstick back into her purse, then leaned forward slightly, like she was sharing a secret. "I'm doing you a favor, really. Your marriage to Amiir is built on convenience. I know you've never been in his bed—he's told me all about how you refuse to fulfill your wifely duties."

She straightened, her smile widening.

  "So you have absolutely no right to be angry that I'm doing your job for you. You should focus on being the perfect trophy wife—sitting there looking pretty, hosting dinners that you apparently can't even cook properly—and let me handle the parts of marriage you're too frigid to manage."

  "Get out of my house." The words came out strangled.

   "Gladly." She picked up her purse, slinging it over her shoulder with practiced grace. "But just so we're clear: I will continue to make sure Amiir gets his premium fucks from this expensive pussy. Someone has to keep him satisfied, and since you're so determined to play the martyred virgin..."

She trailed off with a shrug, like the conclusion was obvious.

Then she walked toward the door, her heels clicking against the marble floors with sharp, deliberate sounds that seemed designed to echo through the entire house.

I sat there, frozen, as she disappeared into the foyer. Heard her say something to Amiir in a low, intimate voice. Heard him respond with what might have been a laugh.

I stared at the table full of ruined food, at the plates still half-full of over-salted lamb and vegetables, at the wine glasses that hadn't even been touched because everyone had been too disgusted to continue the meal.

Six hours. I'd spent six hours making this dinner perfect.

Footsteps approached. Amiir appeared in the doorway, loosening his tie.

  "I hope you're satisfied," he said, his voice cold. "That display was completely inappropriate. You embarrassed me in front of important business partners."

I looked up at him, this monster who was systematically destroying every piece of my dignity.

  “Your side piece sabotaged the dinner," I said.

  "Cordelia is my personal assistant. Nothing more." He said it with such conviction, such perfect insincerity, that I almost laughed. "Your jealousy and paranoia are becoming a serious problem, Lara. I think you need to see someone. A therapist, perhaps. Someone who can help you work through whatever delusions you're developing."

  "Delusions." I stood, my legs shaking but holding. "She was wearing the same lipstick I found on your shirts."

  "She wears makeup to work. Most professional women do." Amiir moved toward the bar cart in the corner, pouring himself a drink like this was just a minor inconvenience in his day. "That doesn't mean anything except that you're looking for problems where none exist."

He took a sip of his drink, as he walked past me toward the stairs.

  "Clean up this mess. And tomorrow, you'll apologize to Cordelia for your behavior tonight."

   "I will never—"

   "You will." He paused on the bottom step, looking back at me. "Or I'll add it to the list of punishments you're accumulating. Your choice."

Then he was gone, climbing the stairs to his bedroom, leaving me alone with the ruins of a dinner I'd labored for.

I picked up one of the wine glasses and threw it against the wall.

It shattered with a satisfying crash, red wine and glass shards spreading across the white paint like blood spatter.

Then I threw another. And another.

By the time I was done, every wine glass from the table was broken, the walls were dripping, and I was standing in the middle of the wreckage breathing hard.

His side chick had sabotaged my dinner, and somehow I was the one being blamed for causing a scene.