Heart In A Cage

16

Isabella

"Why is it so hard to treat me like your wife? You don't even have a tinge of respect for me!"

We had been granted refuge from Dalia and her inevitable presence for almost a week. A serene few days in which the only adversity to trouble my days would be an exasperated customer or Andreas rebuking me for sitting on his bed with unwashed uniform still on. But today, when we had been wrapped in the piercing air of the storage room, untouched by even a speck of sunlight, the atrocious woman had decided that attending to the background operations of Aressia was something on mind.

Andreas had raked fingers through his hair, and he sighed at the high ceiling. "You, Dalia," he had said softly, "are not my fucking wife. The only thing supporting that delusional idea of yours is the paper you're yet to sign."

She had kicked a loaded box propped beside her and turned a poisonous stare to me.

I returned a tainted smile and ran a finger up Andreas' arm.

A whole hour―we endured her stomping and sulking and upbraiding for an entire sixty minutes. It was only until she had left that I was able to speak with Andreas without her floating around us like some menacing hawk.

But occasionally, Andreas may prove just as aggravating as her.

Such as in moments like these where I'm fuming before him. "Two days before an almighty party that we apparently must attend to, and you only now decide to tell me that I need to wear something mouth-watering and delectable? You explicitly stated that it was a small gathering, and now I'm told it's called 'The Revel'―and is going to be hosted for anyone in the area to join in on."

I point the end of a steel hanger to his chest, fisting the cashmere coat in my opposite hand and glaring at him with the might of my frustration even as he speaks with that intolerable mouth.

"So violent, baby. Put the gun down." When I refuse to retract the hanger and return it to its rack, he brings his hand over my own and lowers it until the fruitless threat is by my side. "I'm going to eat you soon. Truth be told, you moisten my tastebuds in just about any scenario."

"What are you talking about?!"

"It's not a dire requirement that you show yourself off." He glances down at the opening of my blouse. "You're rather scrumptious-looking in just plain attire."

"And you're a dirty wretch." I leave him and recommence my duties, aware from the peripheral of my vision that he's observing as I speedily secure the coat in place between the rest of its variety, and arrange them by color―beige, cobalt blue, dark ruby.

I labour within the entirety of my Andreas-free minute before he decides to appear beside me. My phone, which I had him carry in his pocket, is enclosed in his tense hand, and from the unfriendly nature of his expression paired with the reminder that Leo has been texting me non-stop regarding tomorrow's date, I think he may have been enlightened on my future plans.

I end my work with the coats and slowly regain possession of my phone.

"He's requesting details on the party," he says flatly. "The one that I am taking you to."

A weight the size of a pebble lifts off me. He's oblivious to my upcoming plans on where and who I'll be meeting up with tomorrow.

"I invited him."

"Uninvite him."

"No."

He's trying to act calm. Suppressing his emotions, forcing himself to remain static, making short-worded demands. But his composure doesn't necessarily imply that he's mild within. Not when his jaw is set like stone and eyes are wholly positioned on me, no longer monitoring his store, and burning with a crossness.