Covet: Trusting the Billionaire (The Trophy Wife Book 4) (7 page)

“I saw the text message. Stop denying it, I know it’s her,” I scream as I struggle in vain to get out of his grip. He’s clamped his arms tightly around my waist and holds me still.

“I don’t know who she is, I told you.”

“Let me go.” I push away, but Julian has a strong hold on me.

“You really think I’m cheating?” Julian raises a brow.

“Yes,” I respond.

“Marriage is based on trust. You need to trust me when I tell you that I’m not cheating on you.” His blue eyes are fixated on me, but he has a poker face that doesn’t tell me whether or not he is genuine.

“Just let me go.” I push out of Julian’s arms and he releases me.

I grab my cell phone and clear glass tablet, and rush toward the door. “I’m going to sleep in another room tonight,” I call out as I enter the hallway. I scornfully glance at the painting of Julian I’ve created, then head into one of the guest bedrooms.

I lock the door and try to calm my rapidly beating heart. I need to talk to Yula. I sit on the bed and tap the screen of my tablet to initiate the call. She appears on the screen.

She doesn’t need an introduction; her eyes widen.

“What’s wrong, Cheryl?” she asks, alarmed.

“My husband is cheating.” Hot tears stream down my face, and I don’t bother wiping them away. I recall what a mess Yula looked like when she found out her husband was cheating; now I’m in her shoes.

“What makes you think so?” she asks.

“I saw a text from the woman. I can’t be sure, but I think it’s her. He exempted himself and told me he didn’t know who it was, but I don’t believe him.”

“What about the classic signs, does he display any of those?”

“What classic signs?”

“Coming home late, cold and distant behavior…but if you really want to be sure, why don’t you hire a private investigator?”

“Is that how you found out your husband was cheating?”

“Yes. The investigator caught him on video—he met the bitch for dinner and they went to a hotel to fuck. I didn’t want to believe it until I saw the video footage.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“No need,” she says briskly. “I have plenty of people who feel sorry for me. I just pray that you don’t have to deal with the same thing.”

CHAPTER NINE

I haven’t slept all night and all logic has failed me. Once I believe Julian has left for work in the morning, I grab a pair of scissors, go into the hallway, and stand before the oil painting of Julian I’ve created. His face is magnificent, and each handsome feature is clearly evident in the painting. However, looks are deceiving and so is his charm.

I take out all my fury on the painting, slashing it with the scissors. I’ve never gone so wild before, and no man has ever brought out this part of me. I didn’t know I had it in me to be so angry, but I can’t control it.

I slash and cut through the painting so thoroughly that Julian’s face is no longer perceptible; there are only holes and cuts on the canvas. The perfect man, ruined.

I head into the master bedroom, gripping the scissors tightly. I have to release more of my rage, so I begin cutting up the shirts and suits in his walk-in closet. I’ve never loved someone so much and then hated that person so much.

I lose track of time, and though I’ve lost my mind, I finally tire after cutting up several hundred of his fancy shirts and custom-made suits.

I’ve taken out my rage on some of his expensive clothing, but I don’t feel any better. I hate him even more. I grab a cigar lighter and light up the large pile of cut-up shirts and suits on the floor of his walk-in closet. I watch with satisfaction as the heap catches fire. The red and yellow flames quickly devour his clothing, which turns black, then turns to ash. The flames die when they no longer have anything to fuel them.

“What the fuck, Cheryl?” Julian barks.

I didn’t notice him come in, and he stands before his burnt pile of clothing, looking shocked and exasperated. It was worth it, if only to see the look on his face.

Julian glances at me with annoyance, then puts on a poker face. I watch as he calmly collects a few of his shirts and suits and organizes them neatly into a suitcase.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to take a short business trip.”

“Now? You’re fucking going away now?”

“Now is the best time,” Julian explains, but doesn’t look me in the eyes. “I have to take this trip sooner or later, and now would be a good time.”

“You’re probably going away on a trip with that bitch. Oh my God, Julian, how can you do this to me? I can’t believe this. Where exactly are you going?”

“I’m taking a short trip to Tokyo.”

“You’re going with her, I know it.”

Julian finishes packing his suitcase, closes it, and glances at me. “Just for the record, I’m not cheating on you,” he says with disappointment in his voice. “Take care of our boy.”

He passes me without another word, leaving me standing alone in his walk-in closet. The fire inside me has cooled, and melancholy takes over.

It hurts so much to think that I’m not enough for him, that he desires another woman. Julian is all I want; I have no desire for another man.
Why can’t he feel the same way about me?

Even if Julian is cheating, I couldn’t possibly let him go.
I can’t let the bitch win.
He is my husband, the father of my child—he’s mine and I don’t share. He is my air, and without him in my life I will suffocate.

I rush out of the bedroom and down the long-winding banister staircase so that I can catch Julian and prevent him from leaving.

I pass one of the maids, who is dusting the living room.

“Where is Julian?” I ask frantically. My breathing is rapid and my heart is racing.

“He already left, Mrs. Stone.”

I grab the house phone and try to reach Julian, but he is ignoring my calls. After the fifth call, he finally picks up.

“Julian, please don’t leave,” I plead.

“I have to take this short trip, but I’ll be back in two days.”

“Please don’t go,” I plead.
At least if he’s with me, he’s not with her.

“I have to…but I’ll be back soon,” Julian explains.

“Where are you now?”

“M
y
chauffeur is taking me to my private plane, and I’ll be staying at one of the hotels I own in Tokyo.”

“Call me when you get there,” I demand.

“I will.”

In the evening, I check on my boy. By this time I expect that the nanny has put him to bed. I turn on his bed stand lamp and find him tucked under his dark blue covers, sleeping soundly. His long, delicate eyelashes flutter. He appears to be having a dream. My heart skips a beat—I love him so much. For a moment, I forget all my worries as I gaze at him.

I turn off the lamp and close his bedroom door. The heartache I feel is unbearable. I know the only thing that will numb the pain.

I grab a wine glass from the kitchen and head downstairs into the wine cellar. There are thousands of wines set on racks that are enclosed in row upon row of glass cabinets. I’m no wine connoisseur, so I pick the wine with the highest alcohol content—a 1735 vintage Port wine.

I head into the movie theatre, pour myself a glass, and turn on a movie. I watch blankly at the moving images; it’s just background noise. At least it doesn’t make me feel so alone in this colossal mansion.

I gulp down several glasses of wine and start to feel a nice buzz in my head. Once I’ve finished the bottle, I stumble over to grab another from the cellar. I make myself comfortable in the plush movie theatre and sip the marvelous red liquid.

I’ve never drunk this much before, this fast, and it’s starting to affect me. The wine eventually puts me into a serene state, and at least for now, the pain is numbed. All my worries are gone as I fall asleep.

In the morning, I’m awakened by one of the maids. “Mrs. Stone, please wake up. Mr. Stone is on the phone and he’s very upset.”

My eyes flutter open. The maid is holding the house phone in front of me, waiting for me to take it. I realize that I’ve fallen asleep in one of the theatre seats. There are numerous empty wine bottles laying on the floor beside me.

“Not now,” I mumble incoherently. I suddenly feel nauseated. My stomach lurches and I rush to the nearest washroom. The maid follows and holds back my hair as I heave. After I’ve finished, my head starts pounding.

“Mrs. Stone, this will make you feel better,” the maid says as she hands me a bottle of water and a hangover pill.

I swallow the pill and, after a few minutes, my headache subsides.

“Mr. Stone urgently needs to speak with you,” the maid insists and pushes the phone into my hand. “He’s upset you drank so much.”

“Hello,” I croak into the phone.

“Cheryl, what are you doing?” Julian asks. “Do you really think I’m fucking cheating on you?”

“Yes. I saw the text messages. I know it’s your whore. You’ve always loved whores. You told me yourself when we first met. Some things never change,” I shout.

“How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t know who messaged me.
”
Julian’s voice is clipped.

“Can’t you trace the number?”

“It’s untraceable,” he explains. “This woman has been texting me for several weeks.”

Does this explain everything? Could one of Julian’s jealous ex-girlfriends be trying to destroy our relationship?

“Is that what makes you think I’ve been cheating on you?” Julian asks.

“Yes,” I respond.

“Cheryl, I love you. I would never cheat on you.”

I don’t know what to believe anymore
.
If it wasn’t for Julian’s dubious past, I’d probably have an easier time trusting him.

“I want you to find out who sent those text messages,” I demand.

“I’ll try. Anyway, I’m going into a meeting,” Julian says. “I’ll call you later.”

In the evening, I read my boy a story, shower, and slip into bed. I roll onto my side and touch the spot that Julian always sleeps on.
I miss him.
I feel so lonely without him.

I grab the pillow he sleeps on and hug it tightly. It smells like him. I hug the pillow tighter. Though it’s not him, it’s comforting, and eventually I drift off to sleep.

I’m jerked awake when I hear the house phone ringing. I glance at the time; it’s 3:45 a.m. I stare into the dark, trying to adjust my eyes.

I turn on the bed stand lamp and reach for the phone.

“Hello?” I answer in a croaked, sleepy voice.

There is dead silence.

“Hello?” I say several times.

I listen intently and hear someone breathing on the other end.

“Julian?”

The silence continues even though I hear someone on the other end.

“Who is this?”

I suddenly feel frightened by the silence and hang up.
Who was that?

The phone rings again, but I stare at it with apprehension. It continues ringing insistently.

I grip the pillow that smells of Julian and stare at the phone, feeling anxious. The ringing stops for a moment, then starts again.

The ringing is getting on my nerves, and rather than feeling frightened, I start to feel annoyed. I reach for the phone.

“Who is this?” I demand.

The breathing is louder, but the person on the other end doesn’t say a word.

“Stop calling,” I yell and hang up.

It seems to work, as there are no further phone calls. I turn off the lamp and go back to sleep.

I am jerked awake again by ringing. I turn on the lamp and reach for the house phone.

“Stop calling me,” I shout.

There is a moment of silence, then quiet, muffled laughter that sends a chill though me. I can’t tell if it’s a male or female voice. I hang up the phone.

A few minutes later I hear my cell phone ringing. I reach for it and blink at the bright screen:
Caller Unknown.

“Hello?”

I hear heavy breathing.

“Tell me who you are,” I say, trying to sound assertive, but my voice comes out shaky and hesitant.

The breathing gets heavier and I wait, listening for any kind of response. The person on the other end seems to enjoy the anxiety they are instilling in me.

“It’s too bad Julian isn’t there to protect you,” someone says with a deep, rumbling, terrifying tone created by a voice muffler. It sends a shiver down my spine.

“Who...is this?”

“You’ll find out soon,” the frightening voice says before whoever is behind it hangs up.

I call Julian. Surprisingly, he picks up after the fourth ring.

“Hello, Cheryl,” Julian says sweetly. “What are you doing up?”

I recall that Tokyo is eight hours ahead of Geneva.

“I’m scared, please come home,” I plead.

“What happened?” Julian responds, concerned.

“I don’t know who it is…” My voice is trembling and I try to steady my speech. “Someone called the house. Julian, I’m scared, please come home.”

“Who called the house? It’s 4:32 a.m. in Switzerland.”

“I was going to show you the text message I received,” I reply. “I think it’s the same person as the caller.”

“What text message?”

“I got a text message. From what I recall, it said:
I’ll have you soon
.
Kiss your husband goodbye
.”

I hear him entering a busy street and a car door opening. “I’m coming home.”

“When?”

“I’m on the way now. I’m taking the long-range business jet, so I’ll be home soon.”

I am jostled awake to my urgently ringing cell phone. I blink my eyes several times to clear the fog of sleep.

I am startled when someone knocks on the door.

“Mrs. Stone?” the nanny says through the door.

I put on a robe and open the door. “Yes?”

The nanny is holding my boy in her arms. “I’m sorry, but he wouldn’t stop asking for you.”

“It’s okay, I’ll take him.” I pull little Julian into my arms and shut the door.

“You miss Mommy, don’t you?”

He smiles broadly and hugs me, holding onto me tightly as I carry him to the bed.

I realize the phone is still ringing as I place my boy on the bed. He gets under the covers and gives me a satisfied smile. I turn cartoons on the flat-screen 3D television directly facing the bed.

I reach for the phone. “Hello?”

“Cheryl, I’ve been trying to reach you,” Julian says, irritated. “Don’t answer any more calls. I’ll be home soon.”

“Okay, please hurry,” I respond.

“Don’t answer the phone,” Julian insists before hanging up.

The phone rings again. I pick it up. “Julian?”

Silence ensues. I am about to hang up when a voice stops me.

“I’m so close, Cheryl,” the voice growls through the voice muffler.

I glance at my boy, then rush into the en-suite washroom and close the door.