Page 40 of Iridescent
No one at the table breathes. A few seats away, Guinevere lets out a soft, shocked “Mon Dieu…” under her breath, and Alejandro mutters a curse.
I don’t care.
None of them matter anymore.
Clutch tucked under my arm, I turn on my heel. My head is high, my back straight—every inch the composed wife as I stride away from the table. Each step drives another nail into the coffin of this farce.
No one dares to stop me. Not even my supposed husband.
At the grand double doors of the dining hall, I pause, looking back over my shoulder.
What I see is a portrait of shock—faces turned toward me, mouths agape, eyes wide.
Xavier hasn’t moved, one hand half-extended as if reaching for me, his expression wrecked. Pleading.
Too late.
I offer them all a final, cold smile. “Bon appétit,” I say, my voice clear and steady.
Then I turn and walk out, letting the heavy doors swing shut behind me with a decisive thud. Leaving behind the golden glow of candles, the cloying scent of wine and indulgence, and the lingering stench of betrayal.
Chapter 8
People like to say hindsight is twenty-twenty. That’s a comforting lie.
Most of the time, you know.
You just keep bargaining with yourself—one more excuse, one more benefit of the doubt—because facing the truth means admitting you helped build the lie.
I saw the signs. I knew something was off the first time Xavier mentioned his “cousin” in that flat, detached tone. I knew I wasn’t imagining the distance. The neglect.
I knew. And I still let him fuck me in his parents’ driveway, like a few reckless minutes of being wanted could make up for months of being overlooked.
Hot water slams against my skin now, nearly scalding. Steam billows around me, blurring the marble and gold of our bathroom into a hazy smear. I scrub until my skin burns, but it does nothing for the filth creeping beneath the surface.
God, did he come home to me after touching her? After fucking her?
My stomach lurches, bile burning the back of my throat.
I scrub harder, nails raking over my arms, my throat, my stomach, until my skin turns red, then raw. I scrub like I can sand the memory out of my body. No amount of soap or scalding water can erase the image of his hands on me after they’d been on someone else.
The same hands. The same mouth. The same—
Fuck.
I gag, bracing a hand against the tile as nausea rolls through me.
What else is he lying about? How long have I been sleeping next to a stranger while he smiles, kisses me goodnight, and pretends none of this is happening?
While I cried over the one thing my body couldn’t give us, he was choosing her. Right in front of me.
Did he ever truly see me as his wife, or was I nothing more than a placeholder—a warm body filling the space she left behind until she decided to waltz back into his life?
I don’t know what hurts more—what he did to me, or how easily I helped him do it.
Early on, we went through our pasts. Xavier made it sound like nothing before me had ever really mattered. We promised each other complete honesty. No omissions, no half-truths. Not once did he mention the woman he couldn’t let go of. Not once did he breathe her name. I built my life around those promises. And now? Now I don’t know what was real and what was a lie.
A tremor works through me that has nothing to do with the cooling water. I need answers. And if I have to drag them out of him myself, so be it.
