Claimed for the De Carrillo Twins
The castillo. It even sounded intimidating. She said, as coolly as she could, as if this was all completely normal, ‘Maybe this would be a good time for you to let me know exactly what you expect of me as your wife.’
Maybe, crowed a snide voice, it would have been a good idea for you not to get so attached to two babies that aren’t yours in a bid to create the family you never had.
Trinity gritted her jaw.
Cruz said, ‘My calendar is already full for the next three months, and I should warn you that my social events are more corporate-orientated than celebrity-based... I’ll expect you on my arm, looking the part, and not scowling because you’re bored.’
Trinity boiled inside. Clearly he was expecting her to last for about two weeks before she ran for the hills. And he was obviously referring to Rio’s predilection for film premieres or events like the Monte Carlo Grand Prix, which Trinity had
found excruciating—all she could remember of that particular event was the overwhelming diesel fumes and the constant seasickness she’d felt while on some Russian oligarch’s yacht.
Rio had invariably paraded her in public and then promptly dropped her once the paparazzi had left—which had suited her fine. She’d usually been in her own bed, in her own separate room, by the time he’d finished partying around dawn. But she could just imagine telling Cruz that, and how he’d merely shut her down again.
Then she thought of something. ‘What do you mean, “looking the part”?’
He swept an expressive look over her, and at that moment she was aware of every second of sleep she hadn’t got in the past couple of years. And the fact that today was probably the first day she’d worn smart clothes and actually put on make-up in months.
Compounding her insecurity, Cruz said, ‘As my wife you’ll need to project a more...classic image. I’ve already arranged for you to be taken shopping to buy new clothes.’
Trinity tensed at the barb. ‘But I have clothes.’
His lip curled. ‘The kind of clothes you wore around my brother will not be suitable and they’ve been donated to charity.’
Her face grew hot when she recalled seeing Cruz again, for the first time since her marriage to Rio, three months ago. His effect on her had been instantaneous—a rush of liquid heat. And then he’d looked at her as if she was a call girl. How could she blame him? She’d felt like one.
Rio’s sense of style for women had definitely favoured the ‘less is more’ variety. He’d handed her a dress to wear for that party that had been little more than a piece of silk. Skimpier than anything she’d ever worn.
She’d protested, but he’d said curtly, ‘You’re working for me, Trinity. Consider this your uniform.’
It hadn’t been long after their row and her finding out exactly why he’d married her. Rio had been acting more edgily than usual, so Trinity hadn’t fought him on the dress and had assured herself that she’d talk to Cruz that night—seek his help. Except it hadn’t turned out as she’d expected. She’d been a fool to think she could turn to him.
The memory left her feeling raw. She averted her eyes from Cruz’s now and said stiffly, ‘It’s your money—you can spend it as you wish.’
The air steward came back with Trinity’s lunch, and she focused on the food to try and distract herself from a feeling of mounting futile anger and impotence. But the fact that she was destined to dance to the tune of another autocratic De Carrillo man left the food in her mouth tasting of dust.
She gave up trying to pretend she had an appetite and pushed her plate away. Cruz looked up from the small laptop he’d switched his attention to. He frowned with disapproval at how little she’d eaten—it was an expression that was becoming very familiar to Trinity, and one she guessed was likely to become even more familiar.
Her anger rose. ‘Was this marriage really necessary?’ she blurted out, before she could censor her tongue.
A bit late now, whispered that annoying voice.
As if privy to that voice, Cruz mocked, ‘It really is futile to discuss something that’s already done. But by all means, Trinity, feel free to seek a divorce whenever you want.’
And leave Matty and Sancho at this man’s mercy? Never, vowed Trinity.
Just then a plaintive wail came from the back of the plane.
‘Mummy!’
She recognised the overtired tone. Seizing her opportunity to escape, Trinity stood up and tried not to feel self-conscious in her creased dress and bare feet.
‘Excuse me. I should help Mrs Jordan.’
She walked away with as much grace as she could muster and tried her best not to feel as though her whole world was shrinking down to the size of a prison cell—even if it was to be the most luxurious prison cell in the world.
* * *
A few hours later Trinity shivered, in spite of the warm Spanish breeze. They’d driven into a massive circular courtyard and she was holding a silent and wide-eyed Sancho in her arms, thumb stuck firmly in his mouth. Mrs Jordan was holding a similarly quiet Matty. They were still a little groggy after the naps they’d had on the plane.