Submitting to the Billionaire

A thought enters my head. Yes, I will show Nikolai whatever his last name is the unvarnished version of me. Let’s see how much he still wants Nigel’s unglamorous wife. I will arrive not as a whore who has been chosen to be the dish of the day, but as the hired help. Maybe, he will find me so unpalatable, he will reject me.

Then I will return and Nigel and I will work through this sorry mess together. There is so much work that needs to be done. So much trust needs to be restored, but if we both truly care for each other we’ll make it work.

The knots in my stomach begin to loosen and I pull out a pair of baggy blue jeans and an oversized patterned shirt. I match it with a pair of worn trainers I use for gardening I find in a bottom drawer. Then, I spray my hair with water, so that it becomes a curly mess again. Haphazardly, I scrape my hair back and snap a band around it. Even if I say so myself, I look pretty unappealing.

I smile with satisfaction.

Let’s see how he feels when he sees this package standing in front of him. I stuff some cash in my bag together with a strip of my contraceptives, my toothbrush, my cellphone and its charger, and I go back downstairs.

Nigel is hanging around the hallway and his eyes widen when he sees me. He strides towards me and grabs my upper-arms with both his hands.

“I swear on the lives of our unborn children, that as long as I live I will never gamble again.”

“Don’t swear on our children,” I scold automatically.

“May I rot in hell if I break this promise to you.”

I stare into his eyes and I see nothing but determination to beat this disease. “I believe you,” I whisper.

“Thank you. I’ll never let you down again, Star. Never. You’re my wife and my life.”

“Is it time?”

“The car is waiting outside.”

I take a deep breath.

“Can I kiss you goodbye?”

I swallow. What has this world come to when my own husband has to ask if he can kiss me? I nod.

He bends his face and takes my lips. The kiss is gentle and sweet and I feel myself start to cling to him. I don’t want to leave him. He breaks the kiss and looks into my eyes. “They think they can break us. They can never. You are mine. You will always be mine.”

“Take care of yourself, Nigel,” I say, then I walk swiftly to the front door.

“I’ll call you,” he says as I open the door.

My throat is so tight I am unable to answer him. I pull the door shut behind me. There is a black limo waiting on the street. As I take a shuddering breath, a man in a chauffeur’s uniform steps out of the car and walks to the passenger door. He opens it and stands next to it. He doesn’t look at me. Just stands there respectfully.

A weird sensation overtakes my body.

Nothing will be the same again. I turn back and look at my closed front door. For a second I want to open it and run back into Nigel’s arms, back into my enchanted house, where I have felt so safe, so loved, and protected. Then I steel myself, and walk down the pathway to the waiting car.

Chapter Thirteen

Star

The chauffeur nods and waits while I slide into the seat. Soft classical music is playing and the car smells of expensive perfume. The door closes, and the man walks around to his side of the car.

I turn my head to look at the windows of my house. At the living room window, I see Nigel standing there staring at me. There is something so lost and forlorn about the defeated droop to his shoulders that I bleed inside.

The driver gets into his seat and the car starts to move. I stare out of the window seeing nothing. All I can think of is Nigel standing at the window. As the car leaves Earls Court and takes the M4 out of London, I start to pay attention. We make steady progress until the car smoothly joins the M25. There is more traffic here, but less than twenty minutes later we take the slip road out of the motorway. After a little while, I see signposts for Virginia Water, Surrey. I’ve been there once. One of Nigel’s friends lives on the Wentworth estate.

We pass the estate and keep on the main road until there is a sign for Windlesham. Less than a mile later we turn off into a tree-lined road. There are large houses on either side of it. The road takes another turn and we come upon two large stone pillars with lions on the top. The name of the house is craved into stone. I take my cellphone out and text Rosa.

Knightsbrook Manor,

Windlesham

Rosa’s reply is instant: Jesus, I know that place. It’s a fucking palace.

The car comes to a stop in front of the tall black gates. Video cameras swivel in our direction. The driver does nothing and after a few seconds the gates swing open noiselessly. The car starts up again.

The driveway is long and curves though land dotted by glorious, old trees. The trunks are so thick it will take two or maybe three of me to embrace them.

We travel at least one kilometer before I see the stately mansion set on elevated ground. The last rays of summer sun fall on it, giving the white stones a beautiful reddish glow. The effect is one of unbelievable majesty and splendor.

My stomach is now doing cartwheels. A strange mix of fear and anticipation. Who the hell lives in a place like this and gets into the kind of arrangement that includes an unseen woman? Why would such a man need or even want to hurt a small fry like Nigel?

We follow the road as it turns around in a semi-circle up to the frontage of the house. Wide, stone steps lead up to enormous double doors adorned on each side by beautiful topiary. I find myself awestruck by the extraordinary beauty and majesty of the house.

The car comes to a halt, and I touch my stomach nervously. It is fluttering with anxiety and tension. The driver comes around to my side and opens my door. I slide out and thank him.

“You are expected,” he says formally with a solemn nod.

I begin to climb the steps. Before I reach the top, a large broad man with a head the size of a football, and almost no neck, comes out of the doors, and stands with his arms folded. His unfriendly, wary eyes make me feel uncomfortable.

I reach the entrance, and he looks at my purse and says, “Do you mind? It’s just protocol.”

I hand him my purse silently and he rifles through it quickly. Satisfied there is nothing there that could be a danger, he returns it to me, and steps back to allow me to enter.

Inside, I stop and stare in amazement.

The hallway is bigger than my whole house and the kind of wealth on display is astounding. It is like I have entered onto a film set in another period, a time gone by when Lords and Ladies rode in carriages and ruled the land.

Pillars soar up to a Sistine Chapel type scene with half-nude muscular men and Rubenesque women; winged cherubs, and a horned demon or two. The floor, an intricate pattern of stone tiles, has been polished to such a high shine I can practically see my own reflection. The wide central staircase is made of white marble with intricately wrought balustrades. It has a red runner carpet on it that looks so pristine it makes me wonder about how many times a day it is cleaned. The walls are full of tall paintings, and higher up there are stained glass windows with elaborate designs. This is not a home. No one could curl up with a good book and a cup of hot chocolate here.

Mr. Muscle clears his throat pointedly to get my attention.

When I turn my dazed gaze towards him, he jerks his head sideways at me, to indicate that I should follow him. I nod and he starts swiftly marching towards a pair of duck-egg blue double doors. Our steps echo in the vast space.

He opens the doors and we enter an elegant, many-windowed drawing room. It has fine carpets, antique furniture, and stunning period designer wallpaper. It smells of lavender polish. My eyes glance around the numerous beautiful paintings adorning the walls.

‘Take a seat,” Mr. Muscle barks from the side of me, and I jump. His tone is that of a Sergeant major instructing one of his recruits. I think it would

be safe to assume from his walk and his voice that he must be some type of ex-military guy. I take a seat on the brocade covered settee closest to me. He leaves the room without another word. His footsteps die away in the hallway outside.

Alone in the vast room, I gaze at the paintings. Unlike other fine houses that display the ancestors of the current owners, all the paintings are modern works of art. One painting, the main one, positioned above the fireplace, and artfully lit up, catches my attention.

I rise from my chair as if in a trance and walk towards it. It is of a child, a well-dressed, blond boy sitting on a chair. There is something strange about his face. I walk closer to him. His face is dirt streaked, his enormous green eyes dare me to pity him.

I glance at the name of the painter embossed into a piece of metal on the gilded frame. It is a Russian name I do not recognize. Why would a man who owns all this splendor have a painting of such pain? My curiosity for the Russian increases. Instinctively I sense I’ve just had a glimpse of a complicated personality.

I’m so engrossed by the painting I do not hear the footsteps heading towards the door. Suddenly the door opens. My stomach tightens. I do not turn around instantly. Instead, I take a deep breath.

“Hello, Star,” a man’s deep voice says. There is supreme indifference in his voice.

A vague recognition flashes inside me. I look at the face of the boy in the painting for another second, then I turn around, and my eyes widen in shock.

“You,” I gasp.