Liar Liar by Alam Donna

Author:Alam, Donna [Alam, Donna]
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Published: 2020-07-18T16:00:00+00:00

27

Remy

‘You’re still awake. Good.’ I’m sure some would say I deserve to go to hell for leaving one woman only to join another, but I’ve never cared for the opinions of others. Besides, I should’ve done this long ago.

‘Jet lag.’ Her attention moves from the open Gucci suitcase on her bed to shoot me a tight smile. If she has any thoughts about me appearing at the threshold of her bedroom, she doesn’t share them as she turns away again.

‘Where have you been again?’ I’m not sure why I ask. A prelude to an awkward conversation?

‘Remy, why are you being like this? You know I went to a spa in Florence.’

‘For almost three months?’

‘Well, no. I hitched a ride with Serge to Paris then on to New York. I would’ve been back sooner if you’d let me use the Gulfstream.’

That’s what it always comes back to with her. What she can get out of me and how. There was a time in the beginning when she’d tried to use sex, but I don’t respond well to manipulation.

‘Are you ready to tell me who that was in your office now?’ Her words are pitched lightly. Deceptively so.

‘No.’ As I answer, I slide off my jacket and throw it over the back of the ridiculous Bibendum chair. A chair that will be, no doubt, piled high with clothes before long. Because why unpack your case properly when you can have the maid do all the hard work in the morning?

She turns her attention back to her case, her trim frame encased in pastel pink yoga wear, her expensively highlighted hair—for which she engages a full-time stylist, paid for by me—is fashioned into something that looks like a donut. Why was I stupid enough to become engaged in the first place? Why did it have to be her?

The answer is the same as always: I’d have done almost anything to better him. And I have. The Wolf name was always highly regarded within the region, but since his death, we’re revered. Feared.

I press my hands to my hips and drop my head. We’ve both played our parts. It’s time to move on. ‘It’s over, Amélie.’

She snorts, swinging around to face me. ‘What, again? Because I didn’t call you from New York? Or is this because I spent over the limit of my credit card again?’

Again with the delusions. I note the transatlantic twang she’s acquired since she started spending time with the rich and useless, and women who live by the outmoded maxim that you can never be too rich or too thin.

‘When have I ever given a damn how much time you spend out of Monaco with your stupid friends?’ As for the credit card, yes. We’ve had arguments about her spending. The woman has a problem, and it’s not the usual sort for a woman of her station; exercise, plastic surgery, champagne, or cocaine. She’s addicted to shopping; addicted to impressing her so-called friends. ‘We knew this would end sometime. Quite frankly, I’m surprised we’ve managed this long.

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