Bruised Petals

As soon as we got past the paparazzi, Wilbet immediately let go of my waist and glued his eyes to his phone. In the earlier months of our marriage, I would have been worried worried that maybe I did something wrong, something to piss him off, that made him withdraw his attention from me. But now, I honestly couldn't care less. Besides, if he held me any longer, I don't think the bruise underneath my dress would heal properly.

You see, this event is a charity gala they hold every single year, with rich patrons flying in for an evening of unlimited champagne and networking spending money to make more money. This was the environment where Wilbet thrived; after all, he had an empire to run. But me? I didn't do anything. I had attended once, right after we got married, and was bored out of my mind. The rich and elite are as bland as their food, and let's not even talk about what happens when the champagne starts flowing.

So, when Wilbet told me about this year's event, I declined, stating that I wouldn't be attending.

Huge mistake on my part. A man like Wilbet, whose ego was easily bruised, didn’t take that well. And how lucky were we to be standing next to the stairs while we had this conversation?

After I declined again, Wilbet didn’t say much. He was just quiet—but visibly angry. I had thought it went well, that maybe he’d just be pissed for a while and then come back home to blow off some steam. Boy, was I wrong. Before I could even register what was happening, I was crashing down a flight of stairs.

Everything hurt.

The housemaid, who had been cleaning nearby, rushed over in fright to help me.

"Leave her the fuck alone, or you're fired!" Wilbet screamed from the top of the stairs.

I could see the girl's hesitation. She wanted to help.

I flashed her a weak smile. "I'm okay," I managed.

She must be new here. The older staff knew better than to interrupt when Wilbet had one of his moods.

"You will attend this gala with me. How bold of you to assume you even had a choice in the first place. Raya will be here soon, so you better pick yourself up and get ready for her, whore!"

He stormed off.

I lay on the ground a little longer, wishing something—anything—would happen to me. But the pain had me sitting up almost immediately. I touched my head, feeling for a bump. Wilbet hated leaving behind evidence.

"Are you okay, miss?"

I turned to see the maid still standing beside me. She was very brave.

I forced a smile. "I'm okay, just a little bruised. If you want, you can help me to the couch."

She nodded and assisted me into the sitting room.

"Are you sure you're okay, miss?"

"Yes, I am. Just one of his bad moods. I promise, it's not always like this," I said, immediately regretting it. Because the truth was, Wilbet was always like this. Why was I defending this man again?

"Should I call someone? The police, maybe?"

"No! No police. I'm fine, I promise. I just need some Tylenol and a little rest. I'll be fine."

"This isn’t fine, miss. This isn’t normal. He hits you. You should speak to someone," she said, throwing a blanket over me.

"I promise, I'm fine—"

"Sarah."

"I'm okay, Sarah. I just need a little nap. Please wake me when Raya gets here."

I managed to get an hour or so of sleep before Raya, my personal stylist, arrived. She came in with an array of designer clothes and expensive makeup, ready to transform me into the picturesque image the public perceived me to be.

While dressing me, if she noticed the huge purplish bruise on my side, she didn’t say a word.

I badly wanted her to. I wanted her to acknowledge it, to ask, to talk—but she just kept quiet. She curled my hair, transformed my face, and put me into my custom dress and shoes. Then she left, the same way she came in.

I'm sure Wilbet had her sign an NDA because the number of times she had covered up bruises with makeup would make any ordinary makeup artist worry.

We finally entered the main area of the gala, and just as I had predicted, it looked boring and gloomy. Numerous men and women shook hands with Wilbet while I smiled and nodded, answering the occasional polite question thrown my way.

This was exactly what Wilbet wanted—a docile wife who did as she was told and didn’t talk too much.

As we made our way to our assigned seats, a woman approached us. A very beautiful woman. Emile. The daughter of the French president and—more importantly—Wilbet’s former lover.

Draped in enough diamonds to sink the Titanic again and wearing a very bold red dress, Emile was the embodiment of sex appeal and allure. She gave me a once-over before smiling at Wilbet, pulling him into a hug, and leaving a lipstick smudge on his cheek.

"Wilbet, long time no see."

"Well, you had suddenly disappeared for six months. If anyone’s guilty here, it’s you," Wilbet replied.

She laughed, flipping her gorgeous blonde hair. "Well, in that case, guilty as charged. I needed to find myself for a minute—I was lost, if you can say that. Imagine my surprise when I came home only to find out that you had gotten married to someone."

The way she said "someone" sounded so repulsive that I instantly wished I were anywhere but here.

"Life goes on, chérie. With or without you," Wilbet said, the tone of endearment piercing my heart.

"Well, congratulations. And I suppose you’re the wife?" She gave me a thorough head-to-toe assessment. To anyone else, I must have looked stunning in my Versace outfit. But to Emile? I felt like a little girl playing pretend.

Trying to fit into shoes that weren't mine 

"Yeah. Nice to meet you. I'm Aziza."

"Oh, honey, I most definitely know who you are. Interesting character, I must say." She then turned to Wilbet, flashed a smile, and said, "See you around," before walking off.

They were obviously flirting, weren’t they?

I must have looked like a fool to anyone watching, standing still while my husband caught up with his ex.

I should have just stayed home.

Speaking of said husband, he simply guided me to a table in the corner and disappeared.

I noticed a waiter passing by with tall flutes of bubbly champagne. I called for his attention and took two glasses, downing the first one immediately.

I needed a little buzz if I was going to survive this evening.