Stealing the Heart of Mr. Steele

[Cordelia]

I never get my husband’s love. He is too busy giving it to others while I’m stuck here watching them, helpless to do anything about it. 

Keeping the newspaper firmly in front of my face, I try to seem casual as I take a small sip of my cold, bitter coffee, grateful that I grabbed my gym hoodie, sweatpants and a pair of sunglasses from my car as a last-minute disguise. 

I don’t want anyone to recognize me, especially not him. It’s bad enough that my marriage is a joke to everyone who knows us, I don’t need to make it worse by making myself look like a jealous stalker.

She must have said something funny because I hear the faint echo of his laughter from across the cafe. I can’t believe how casually he is flaunting his relationship with this…girl. She can’t be any older than me. He’s always saying I’m such a child and yet here he is with a silly blond at least a decade younger than him. 

He told me he couldn’t come to my family brunch this morning because of work. I had to endure listening to my parents judge me because I couldn’t even bring my husband to our once-a-month meeting. 

This doesn’t look like work. 

A tear falls on my newspaper. Grabbing a napkin I blow my nose quietly, wiping my eyes, and adding it to the pile already on the table. 

“I am so sorry to disturb you, Ma’am,” a young male voice interrupts my thoughts. “but if you don’t need something else, I’m going to need to clear this table for a paying customer.”

“I am a paying customer!” I say a bit louder than I intend. A few confused faces look my way. I can tell that some of them want to say something, but they turn away, embarrassed for me. “See!” I point at the cheap cup of stale coffee. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m trying to read my newspaper.”

“It’s the funny pages,” he points out, his finger tapping on one of the comics. “And you are holding it upside down.” He then takes a look at my scruffy appearance and asks. “Do you have enough money to pay for that coffee?”

“Here!” I pull a grimy bill out of my pocket and hand it to him. “Now can I…”

I look around. 

Atlas and the girl are gone. 

Pushing past the waiter, My head whips from side to side as I search for any sign of them. 

I can’t find them. They must have taken a car. Slumping onto the dirty, LA sidewalk, I lean against the wall.

Removing my sunglasses and rubbing my tired eyes with the palms of my hands I rest there for several minutes, taking deep, long breaths, listening to people pass. 

My phone buzzes. I see the words “unlisted number” blink in bright, bold letters again. 

This is the 6th “unlisted number” message I have received from the anonymous texter this month. Whoever this unknown messenger is, they want me to see the truth. Maybe it is the blond, doing this to make me jealous, to show off how much closer she is to my husband than I am.

“Executive suite. Room 1145.” The message contains a single line of text, and a photo showing them entering a five-star hotel. One I recognize instantly. It is one of many owned by his family.

To Atlas, our marriage is little more than a business merger. I’m not even the wife he was supposed to have. He was supposed to marry my beautiful, perfect sister Angelica. But when she disappeared, I was all that was left.

But that doesn’t mean he should rub his affairs in my face. He isn’t even trying to be discreet. Doesn’t he know the employees at the office are already talking about us behind his back?

I am done feeling like a second-class substitute for my lost sister. 

This time I’m going to do something I haven’t dared to do before. I’m going to confront him, catch him red-handed, and let him know exactly how disappointed I am in him. He needs to learn how to respect the wife that he has, not the wife that he wishes he had.

It takes me minutes to reach the hotel. As soon as I cross the threshold I march towards the elevator.

“Miss!” a sharp voice calls out. I turn around to see a snotty-looking concierge coming around the front desk. “You need to check in before entering the hotel.”

I take a moment to do a quick survey of my appearance. My makeup is no doubt smeared down my cheeks making me look like a deranged raccoon. Flip-flop sandals are peeking out underneath my old gym sweats with my dress only partway tucked. An oversized hoodie pulled down over my head completes the look. No wonder he stopped me.

Fed up with everything I’ve already had to deal with today, I pull my sunglasses off to give him the full effect. I say in my most confident voice, “My name is Cordelia Steele.”

I pause after I say my name to give him time to hear my last name clearly. “My family owns this hotel and as an owner, I do not need your permission to be here.”

The concierge is visibly startled and he comes to a complete stop. Looking at me he is uncertain that I am telling him the truth. I think he is expecting someone more elegant and poised to have the last name “Steele.”

 “If you don’t mind, Miss,” The concierge coughs into his hand, looking away from my glare. “I need to see your ID and confirm your information. I am sure as an owner you understand.” He then stands there, waiting, his hand extended.

After a few minutes of silent glaring, neither one of us budging, I take a deep breath and pull out my ID. After he is satisfied that I am who I say I am. I turn on my heel and rush towards the elevator.

Once the doors close I wipe away a single tear. I am not going to cry. I refuse to cry.

As the elevator rises to the third floor, I feel my anger rising to match. I keep picturing the two of them together and my mind is a filthy place. Even though I’m a virgin, that doesn’t mean I don’t know what I’m going to find once that door opens. In my mind I can see her riding him, her skirt pushed up to her hips, her sharply tipped stilettos on either side of his thighs. Her perfectly formed breasts bounce up and down as she screams “Atlas!” over and over again.

We have never had sex, not once in our five years of marriage. Not because I do not want him, but because he has never wanted me.

Vision blurring with rage and tears, I march to room 1145, lift my hand high, and pound on the door with as much force as I can manage.

“Open up, you son-of-a-bitch! I know you’re in there!”

I hear a shuffling of papers on the other side of the door. I am leaning forward, about to hammer my fist against its surface again when it opens in a rush. Tripping over my own feet I fall forward and my hands land on a warm mass of muscle.

Taking up the entire door frame is the well-dressed muscular body of my arrogant, CEO, husband. Atlas Steele.

And he looks pissed.