Vanessa took her time undressing, what with the thirty-five different parts of her complicated outfit, so he had some time to fume in peace.
This week had been one blow after the other, and at this point, he wasn’t sure he could handle much more.
It had started with the surprise of the elementary school. It had, apparently, been the first time in Amatbahn history that a man had shown up to read to the children. Amad played the part of being happy to help his wife, who he’d claimed was very ill, but stepping outside of his gender role didn’t feel good, lodging deep like a stone trapped in his shoe.
It felt even worse when he’d returned to his tribal meeting to find Vanessa lingering at the table, which prompted the snark of his fellow leaders. One had joked that they’d exchanged pants in the relationship, that Vanessa might as well stay since he had obligations with the schoolkids.
And now this. Her news today was probably the worst blow of all. He wanted to look supportive, but the dark edges of his anger were unfurling, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep it under wraps. This wasn’t okay. She was infringing in a huge way and basically backstabbing him in his own world.
The dark thoughts kept unfolding, pushing him deeper and deeper into his pit of frustration. By the time she got into the shower, his whole body prickled with the urge to say something.
“About time,” he snapped. “You know, if you weren’t so obsessed with how you looked, you wouldn’t need a full hour to do anything or go anywhere.”
Vanessa’s surprise filled the air between them. He grabbed for the bar of soap, keeping his back angled toward her.
“Well, excuse me,” she finally said. “I thought you appreciated the way I look. Maybe I’ll just stop trying altogether.”
He huffed, soaping up his chest. He’d wanted a quickie in the shower, but with this news slamming around inside of him, he couldn’t even fathom it.
“Let me help,” she said, reaching for the soap.
“I got it,” he snapped.
He felt her recoil—not just physically, but emotionally, somehow, even though it was impossible to sense that. Maybe that was a sign they’d been growing closer. Probably too close.
Amad hadn’t wanted this—a woman who stepped out of line, who overstepped his boundaries.
And now he had no idea where to go next.
“I don’t know what your problem is,” she said, yanking open the shower door. “I thought you’d be happy about the business deal.”
“Thrilled,” he shot back. “I’ve got things on my mind that don’t concern you, you know. Not everything revolves around your little dalliances with the department store.”
He was shooting out hurtful stuff now, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care. He needed to process this betrayal in peace.
“Fine. Let’s talk when you’re not so moody then.” She stormed across the bathroom, snatching up her clothes, and disappeared.
Amad didn’t leave the shower for a long time. He needed the peace and quiet to figure out his game plan.
It wasn’t just the tribe’s finances at stake. It was his place in the tribe at stake too. His authority. His ego.
It was damn near everything.
And he hated that Vanessa was the earthquake that had made it all threaten to crumble.
15
Once Amad had taken his long and cleansing shower, he felt slightly more prepared to begin reining in this wild horse called his personal life.
Step one: Call Marie Frechard and formally take over communications.
Step two: Make sure everyone knew that a new dawn for the tribe was on the way.
He stayed in the bedroom as he rang Marie, his laptop open on the coffee table in front of him. His throat tightened as he awaited an answer. He finally had his in, though it came via the worst possible undercut. Someone outside his team, going behind his back to court the customer he would have given his right arm to bring to the table. He steered his mind away from the betrayal—it was too fresh. He didn’t need to kick up his anger again by going there just when he’d calmed himself down.
A receptionist for Marie answered, and Amad stated who he was, the new liaison for Calla’s maternity line. He was put on a brief hold. His knee bounced as he suffered through the tinny music. The same receptionist responded a moment later.
“Ms. Frechard cannot speak with you,” she proclaimed in stilted English. “She will only speak with Ms. Hammerman about this account.”