Bartered Passion: The Billionaire's Wife, Part 6 (A BDSM Erotic Romance) Read Online Free PDF Page A

dead inside, my heart twisted in my chest, a little ache born of pure human empathy, and a little jealousy, too. If I could hide like that... I probably wouldn't have had to get married in the first place, for a start. And yet we'd both arrived at the same place despite our opposite natures.
    I chewed my lip and shadowed them to the car, my mother chattering away and Anton nodding politely. As he handed her inside, his eyes caught mine.
    For a brief moment, I saw a fire in him as we stared at each other, a warning, a feeling, a passion flaring up, and my breath caught.
    Then he broke away and the moment was gone. "Yes, of course, Mrs. Dare," he said formally as he slid into the car after my mother, in response to something I couldn't hear.
    Thoughtful, I let the driver guide me into the front seat, and we were off.
     
    *
     
    Twenty minutes later I wished I had a gun. I didn't know what I was going to shoot, but it was going to be something, and it was going to be dramatic. All over the news. Billionaire Bridezilla Busts Boutique, Caps Cake. I'd be the lead-in on the late night talk shows for months. It would be grand.
    "Do you think we should do the boxes or the plaques?" my mother was asking my husband. "The boxes are lovely, make me think of a little gift, but the plaques are more commemorative."
    "I think you are right," Anton said noncommitally. In the ten minutes we'd been in the shop, my mother had gone through at least twenty different wedding invitation designs, cooing over each of them as if they were her grandchildren. I felt like I was on a Real Housewives episode. There hadn't been Real Housewives when I was a little girl, but it was exactly like my childhood.
    And I was thirteen again, awkwardly standing in the background while my mother whirlwinded her way through thousands of dollars, oohing and aahing over the most ridiculous things. No one needed a five thousand dollar picnic basket, and yet we owned two. And I just let her dress me up like a doll all those years, even when I was most comfortable in a t-shirt and jeans. And sneakers. I liked my Nikes. And yet she'd taken me shoe shopping once a month, simply because no girl could possibly go longer than a month without buying a set of ridiculous heels.
    I hate shopping. I wished, suddenly, that I had turned Anton down. Nothing was worse than being held captive to my mother's acquisitive whims. If I'd known it was all going to end in frilly-boxed wedding invitations, I would have said no and moved out of the country.
    I should probably still do that.
    "Felicia, dear, you still haven't told me your wedding colors."
    I started. I'd been too lost in thought and stuck in the past to realize that my mother had been speaking to me.
    "What? Oh. I don't know."
    She gave an exasperated sigh. "You don't know? You don't have a favorite color? Just pick your favorite color and we'll decide what others will go with it."
    God, this was all so inane. Pressing my lips together, I racked my brain. "Orange?" I said at last.
    My mother turned and looked at me. Then she closed her eyes and appeared to collect herself. "Orange?" she said at last.
    "I like orange roses," I said defensively.
    "Not yellow? Or white or red?" she asked hopefully. "Even purple... there are some lovely purple-hued roses..."
    I turned to Anton, mutely pleading with him for help, but he simply stared back at me. His gaze was watchful. Curious. He was waiting to see what I would do.
    Thanks, douche, I thought. Way to stick up for your wife.
    My therapist had told me to set boundaries and stick to them, and I was determined to do it. "No, I said orange," I told my mother.
    "Nothing goes with orange," she said. "Why not pink?"
    "I like orange."
    Her lips thinned and she seemed to be sizing me up. "I think cream would work best. Cream with a tinge of pink. Orange is too gauche for a wedding, and cream with a tinge of pink is almost orange."
    Almost orange is not orange! I wanted to scream. I didn't even care