AN AFFAIR WITH MY HUSBAND (NINE)

— GIANNA (RENEE) —

I’m trying to stay calm, taking deep breaths like I did this morning when I first saw him. Pictures hardly did him justice—he’s a walking masterpiece, as though sculpted for a world more elegant than this one. He makes me sound poetic, which I’m not, but it’s his fault—his voice is deep and velvety, soaked in an intoxicating British accent, laced with effortless charm.

I came here to seduce him, to control the situation. But at this rate, he might as well be the one doing the seducing. The turquoise of his eyes is a striking contrast to his sharply defined features, like some forbidden god descended to earth. And worse, there’s something familiar about him—his voice, his presence. But that must be my mind playing cruel tricks on me. Right?

When he commented on my outfit earlier, the urge to grab a handful of his perfectly styled hair and remind him who he was talking to was overwhelming. But no, I can’t risk showing my hand. The plan demands subtlety, and until I figure out how to get what I came for, I have to maintain the perfect facade—the submissive, dutiful maid.

It isn’t easy. I wear that mask flawlessly, executing Mrs. Whitlock’s petty errands without a single complaint. But then he dismissed the meal I’d slaved over, asking me to throw it away like I hadn’t spent hours wrestling with kitchen demons to prepare those dishes. Cooking isn’t even my strong suit; it’s more like a forgotten relic of my past that resurfaced as if the universe knew it would someday save me.

When he apologized, I was forced to reconsider everything—him. Should I even be doing this? His tone was so genuine, so innocent, and I felt an odd pang of guilt for lying. Sooner or later, he’d give in to my charms, we could wrap this up, and I could get my money.

I can tell he’s already interested in me. I noticed him staring last night, and even now, while serving breakfast in front of his wife, his gaze remains on me.

Their silence at the table speaks volumes; his attention is solely on his meal, while Mrs. Whitlock keeps glancing nervously at him. Maybe they fought last night—that would explain why he stormed out of the bedroom. A marriage already in ruins is fertile ground for an affair; my job just keeps getting easier.

“Renee, I need you to get something from the supermarket today,” Mrs. Whitlock states, breaking the silence as I turn to leave.

“Of course,” I respond. “What would you like me to buy?”

She opens a notepad on the table and tears off a sheet before handing it to me. I scan the list loaded with extravagant grocery items we probably don’t even need:

— White truffles.

— Imported wild mushrooms.

— Exotic fruits like dragon fruit, durian, and rambutans.

— Saffron threads.

— Organic, single-origin honey in a crystal jar.

— Aged balsamic vinegar imported from Modena.

— 50 pounds of Himalayan pink salt.

— 3 gallons of artisanal olive oil.

— Crates of sparkling water infused with gold flakes.

— Gourmet caviar chips.

— Handcrafted macarons with edible gold.

— Rare chocolates from Venezuela or Madagascar.

— Fresh-cut orchids.

— Scented candles.

— An entire crate of lavender sachets for freshening drawers.

— Wagyu beef steaks.

— Alaskan king crab legs.

— Live lobsters flown in from Maine.

— Custom-made silk napkins.

— Imported mineral bath salts for soaking vegetables.

— A box of champagne-infused sugar cubes.

“Here’s my card,” she sighs, passing it to me. “It has the exact amount for everything you’ll buy.”

The fact that I have no idea where the store is makes this hectic for me. Conveying these goods is another problem; she can't expect me to go there on foot, can she?

“I’m sorry, umm… maybe a cab f*e would help a little. This is too much to carry on my own.”

She glares at me, dropping her fork. “A cab f*e? Really? Are you trying to get greedy now?”

It’s her groceries. Why should I pay for something I won’t even eat?

“I don’t see how buying things you need constitutes greed,” I respond, trying to keep my voice steady as she rises and slaps me hard across the cheek.

My face flushes—not just from the force of the slap, but from the anger brewing in my chest. I want to retaliate right then and there, but I can’t risk jeopardizing what I need to achieve.

“And this will teach you to never disrespect me again—”

“Enough, Anna!” Tobias yells, his fists clenched and his forehead creased with fury. Both Mrs. Whitlock and I flinch; she trembles as she slowly looks at me.

“Enough? You heard her! I pay her—”

“She’s human, too. You can’t just walk all over people. Let it go; I’ll take her to the store.”

“W-what?” Mrs. Whitlock stammers.

I don’t know what’s happening, but I love it.

“Are you even listening to yourself? You’re taking her side over mine—your wife!”

“Anna, I’m not having this conversation with you. Renee, let’s go.”

Tobias stands, grabs his car keys from the table, and walks past me, prompting me to hurry after him. I hear Anna throw plates to the floor in a fit of rage. Great, now I have something to clean up when I return.

Tobias is considerate enough to wait in the car while I quickly change out of my uniform into a pair of blue jeans and a white knitted top. I initially thought of wearing something more revealing, but I decide against it—now isn’t the time for that.

When I come out of the house, Anna drives off with her driver. I wonder why Tobias didn’t just hire his driver for me. I can sense he’s trying to get close, but part of me insists he’s just trying to avoid conflict with his wife. I stop overthinking it and climb into the passenger seat.

I fasten my seatbelt.

“All set?” he asks.

“Yes,” I reply, and he nods as he drives out of the building.

The chateau is located in a nearly isolated area; I’m told Tobias bought the whole land for privacy.

I try to focus on the view outside—probably staring at the league of trees we’re passing—but he’s just so alluring. His eyes are fixed on the road, one hand steering the wheel. The scent of his cologne fills the car, and the way he bites his lower lip while waiting for a car in front of us to pass… he’s perfect.

“Do you have anything to say?” he asks, glancing at me as the light turns red; we come to a brief stop next to a couple of other cars.

“Um… I’m sorry if I sounded rude today. I just didn’t have any money for transportation,” I try to explain, even though I certainly don’t mean that apology. She deserved it, and if he hadn’t intervened, if she weren’t my boss, I would’ve returned that slap twice over.

“I should be the one apologizing. Hurting you was uncalled for, and I apologize on behalf of my wife as well.”

My stomach twists at the mention of "my wife," and I notice his plain silver wedding band—simple, with nothing attached. Just like his tumultuous marriage.

“It’s okay; thank you for the lift,” I say, forcing a smile.

He nods, and the traffic light turns green again, allowing him to continue driving.

“I don’t know… it feels like I’ve done this before,” he chuckles.

“Done what?”

“Driven you before. Honestly, you looked familiar when I first saw you.”

“You looked familiar, too.”

“It’s no surprise. My company recently started using my image on certain products, and of course, blogs and tabloids have all sorts of ridiculous things to say about me.”

“I barely knew you existed, to be honest. A lot of what I know about you is stuff I looked up after getting this job,” I confess.

He briefly turns his head to glance at me. “Looked me up?” He chuckles, then focuses back on the road. “What do you know about me so far?”

“Well, they say you’re private and reserved for a Whitlock. Nothing much; your portfolio is pretty boring, no offense.”

He laughs, a thrilling sound that lingers in my ears. “No offense taken, actually. I’ve got quite the talent for boring people to death.”

“It’s a good thing you haven’t used it on me yet,” I grin, turning to look out the window. We’ve just arrived at the supermarket.

I can sense him looking at me and probably smiling, and that thought warms my stomach, coupled with the fantasy of straddling him in the car and kissing him senseless. But I restrain myself from misbehaving.

He helps me gather the items from the outrageous list, and once we load the bags into the trunk, we’re on our way back home.

“You seem less bothered about the paparazzi,” I sigh as I adjust my seatbelt while he starts the car.

“That’s on them. But don’t worry; if any pictures surface today, I’ll handle it.”

His words cause my lips to curl into a slightly awkward smile. “What? Are you some secret hacker or something?”

“I have a few connections; it’s necessary to survive in this world, to keep everything from leaking to the public,” he explains calmly. “If you don’t mind being photographed again, can I steal you for a few more minutes for coffee?”

I don’t want this to end—staying here with him, even if I only have my eye on getting him into bed. So I nod with a giggle. “Sure, I don’t mind.”