His Other Wife (Beautiful Lies Book 1) Read online

  His Other Wife

  M. L. Ray

  His Other Wife

  Beautiful Lies Series Book One

  Copyright 2019 M. L. Ray

  License Note:

  Thank you for purchasing this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be reproduced, copied and distributed for commercial or non-commercial purposes without permission from the author.

  If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to purchase their own copy online where they can also discover many other works by this author.

  Thank you for your support.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One - December

  Chapter Two—January

  Chapter Three—September

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Sample Story

  Thank You

  Chapter One - December

  The Dubois Gallery, Chelsea, London

  Anouk Simon smiled politely at the critics who gathered around for the opening speech of the exhibit. She tried to ignore the twisting in her gut, the nerves which threatened to overwhelm her. She cast a look at Jennifer, her boss, who gave her a reassuring nod, and at Ophelia, the artist who was being exhibited. Ophelia looked as nauseated as Anouk felt. Compared to Ophelia, Anouk realized she had nothing to worry about. It wasn’t her art on the walls.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the DuBois Gallery, and to this first collection by Ophelia Harris, one of London’s most exciting new artists.”

  Once she began, the words came flowing out of her—well, she had practiced over and over at home, until Shawn had begged her to stop.

  He’d grinned as she swatted at him. “Sorry, lover, but if I hear about how this girl captures the chiaroscuro, one more time …”

  Anouk grinned to herself, as she stepped away from the microphone and gave the floor to Ophelia.

  Ophelia Harris shot her a grateful smile and began her short speech. Anouk stayed to lend her support, as the artist spoke in a hesitant voice. Afterward, as Ophelia was surrounded by critics and journalists, Anouk took the chance to slip back to the office and grab some water. She snagged her purse, rummaging around for the inhaler, and took a puff. Her chest eased instantly, and she blew out her cheeks. She’d been so stressed lately that her asthma had been worse than usual, even for this cold weather, and the fear that she would have an attack during her speech hadn’t helped. But she’d made it through, and Ophelia was being feted. This was going to be a good night.

  She checked her watch. A little after eight o’clock, Jennifer pulled Anouk aside. “You did great, Nook, really great. I told you this was a cake walk.”

  “Ha,” Anouk grinned at her boss, her mentor, “tell that to me when Ophelia sells out.”

  “Not far off. There are only two pieces without reservations on them.”

  Anouk’s eyes bulged. “Two? Just two?”

  Jennifer laughed. At fifty-two, Jennifer could sometimes be hard-nosed and cynical about the art business. She could afford to be with her reputation. When Anouk had first started working for her, she’d been a little afraid of the forthright Jennifer Kline. Jennifer—never Jenny—didn’t suffer fools gladly, but behind the scenes, she was determined to see her female counterparts do well in this male dominated world. Her gallery was known for only exhibiting female artists, and she batted any criticism of ‘sexism’ away with a scornful look and a sharp comment.

  Anouk held Jennifer up as the model of who she wanted to be in this world. Independent, fierce, strong. Jennifer, in turn, had mentored the young woman through the first fraught years after art college, when Anouk had first come to London to work at her gallery. Five years later, almost to the day, and Anouk was on the cusp of becoming a partner.

  She could hardly believe it, but Jennifer had called her into the office six months ago and introduced her to Ophelia. “Make her a star, Nook, and I’ll make you a partner.” Anouk had been floored, but that night she’d bought home three bottles of champagne, and she and Shawn had celebrated all night.

  It had helped that Ophelia had quickly become a good friend. Her best friend, actually, since coming here. Working long hours and already being married, Anouk had very little time outside of work and Shawn to meet new people, and Shawn, always quiet and shy, never wanted to share her with other people. “We spend so few moments alone, I just… I’m selfish. I want you to myself.”

  And Anouk hadn’t minded at all. She had Jennifer at work, and some of the other interns, and now Ophelia. And she had Shawn.

  They had met at college, or rather at the most popular bar for the students. Shawn had been the owner of the Last Resort, an Irish pub inspired by Shawn’s own Irish emigre parents. Anouk had been the quietest among her group of friends, but Shawn had made her feel like a princess, never taking his eyes off of her the whole first night. He’d waited, though, until she came in for the second time, before asking her out. He was older by five years, and much more wise to the world than her, but they’d found a connection. Both enjoyed a silly sense of humor and they found, as they got to know each other, that they had more in common. Neither had living parents or siblings; neither was in the place they called home. Shawn was from New York, and Anouk from Seattle. Anouk had lost her family in a car wreck when she was eight, and had gone through the foster care system; whereas Shawn’s parents had been much older, and had died from old age and a heart attack.

  Shawn had proposed on the day of Anouk’s graduation, and three weeks later, they eloped and came to London to live. Shawn had sold his bar and bought some property to develop, and Anouk had hustled her way into Jennifer’s gallery.

  Anouk went to thank the last stragglers at the exhibit just before midnight. She knew most of them would now find a bar somewhere, to either praise or pick apart Ophelia’s work over brandy or scotch. Let them, she thought, going to find the woman in question. Ophelia was in Jennifer’s office, pulling off her heels, groaning. Jennifer had a bottle of champagne open and was pouring it into flutes. She looked at Anouk. “Everyone gone?”

  “I’m just going to do a last round up, then shove the rest out. You okay?” She said this to Ophelia, who grinned at her.

  “Are you kidding? Best night of my life.”

  Anouk grinned and went back out to the gallery. Only three people were left. Two of them thanked her, and then left the gallery. The last, a young blonde woman, tired-looking and too thin, was staring at Anouk. Anouk smiled at her. “Are you okay? Did you enjoy the evening?”

  The woman didn’t answer immediately, her eyes, a cool blue, raking Anouk’s face. Then she gave a strange smile. “Yes. It’s been… enlightening.”

  There was something about the young woman that made the hairs on the back of Anouk’s neck prickle. She had the feeling she was being laughed at. “Well, we’re just clos
ing up, but if you need a few more moments…”

  “Hey, babe.” Anouk jumped slightly, as Shawn’s voice came from behind her, and as she turned to face him, she saw the woman disappear, out of the corner of her eye. Shawn gathered her into a hug. “Hey, beautiful. How did it go? I’m sorry I was too late for the party.”

  He kissed her, and she smiled, instantly relaxed. His warm brown eyes twinkled at her. “My girl did good?”

  “I hope so, for Ophelia’s sake, but I think so. We’re having champagne in Jennifer’s office.”

  Jennifer greeted Shawn with a smile, and Anouk introduced her husband to Ophelia, only realizing now that her new best friend had never met him. That was a little weird, wasn’t it? Anouk shrugged it off. Who cared right now? Tonight was about celebration.

  It was almost three a.m. before they got home to their small apartment in Finchley, but both Anouk and Shawn weren’t at all tired. Hopped up on alcohol and love, they went straight to bed, undressing each other quickly and tumbling onto their bed together. “You tired, beautiful?”

  Anouk grinned. “Nope.” She pushed him onto his back and straddled him, reaching down to stroke his cock. She ran her hands up and down it, pressing it against her belly until Shawn was rock-hard, then she slowly guided him into her and they made love, neither wanting tonight to end.

  As she fell asleep, dawn was breaking over the city. Shawn wrapped his arms around her. “Sleep, my beautiful little genius.”

  Anouk smiled, then, as she gave into unconsciousness, she thought she heard him ask her, in a whisper, to never leave him… please, never leave me, I’ll never let you go.

  But she was asleep before she could figure out why he had said it.

  Chapter Two—January

  Christmas had come and gone and now London was shivering in the gloom of snow-bound January. The lush white drifts had long since turned to piles of dirty slush and treacherous black ice, and as Anouk awoke, she shivered in the cold of the apartment.

  It was her day off. Shawn had already left for work, and Anouk got up, pulling her robe on. She went to the thermostat and turned it up. To warm herself up, she made a cup of hot tea and drew a long, hot bath. She sat back in the sudsy hot water and sighed with relief. Next week, she would officially be a partner at the DuBois Gallery, London. She could hardly believe it, and she chuckled to herself. Her. An orphan, a foster care kid, mixed-race and alone, and now she was a partner. A partner. “Holy shizzsticks,” she laughed to herself. Her voice echoed around the bathroom, and she amused herself by singing aloud, tunelessly; the acoustics of the bathroom making it sound even more comical.

  As she got out and wrapped a towel around herself, she caught sight of her reflection in the mirror. At twenty-eight, she could still pass for her early twenties, her caramel skin glowing, her hair long, dark and falling in soft waves around her shoulders. Her startling green eyes stood out against the duskiness of her skin, her full mouth wide and always ready with a smile. She knew people considered her beautiful and, sure, Shawn told her that every day, but it wasn’t something that she thought about. She liked clothes and make-up as much as the next woman, but her true passion was art, and challenging herself to educate herself constantly. Beauty was fleeting, but knowledge…

  She was still singing to herself as she began to dress, pulling on her favorite jeans and a lavender colored sweater. She left the door of the apartment open, as she skipped down one flight to grab the mail from the box, then had to hurry back as a breeze threatened to lock her out. “Doofus.”

  She dumped the letters on the table and went to make more tea. Days off were sacrosanct to her. If the weather was good, she’d go out, into the city and visit other galleries and museums, or just hang out at a bookstore. If the weather was like today, freezing cold, snowy and windy, she was more than happy to stay in and devour a few books. On a good day she’d get through two or three. Reading was her happy place away from work. She tugged on thick socks and curled up on the couch.

  It wasn’t until later that she realized she’d fallen asleep, and was awoken by her book falling to the floor, that she hadn’t checked her mail. She sorted through the many fast food menus to find only two letters. One was for Shawn, a utility bill. The other, an A4 manila envelope, was addressed to her. There was no return address.

  Anouk opened it carefully and shook out the contents. Two photographs fell out, along with a folded piece of paper. Anouk frowned. The photographs were scratched, but still clearly showed Shawn with his arms around two young children, all three of them smiling into the camera. The second photo made the breath in her lungs freeze. It was Shawn, his arms around a beautiful young woman, blonde, and very familiar.

  The girl from the gallery.

  Anouk swallowed back the lump in her throat. What the hell was this? She unfolded the piece of paper and read the single sentence.

  How well do you really know your ‘husband’?

  Anouk dropped the letter and the photos, and took a step back from the table. For a moment she thought she might be about to have a full-blown panic attack, and closed her eyes, drawing in deep lungfuls of oxygen. After a moment, she bent double, trying not to let the pain inside overwhelm her. What the fuck is this? A joke?

  Anouk steeled herself and picked the photographs up again. “Okay. Okay.” Think this through rationally. The girl in the gallery. This woman with her arms around Anouk’s beloved Shawn. Gazing up at him, as he, in turn, kissed her lips. Anouk traced the image of her husband’s face, then brought the photo closer to her eyes. A smudge? No, it was a bruise on Shawn’s forehead. He’d slipped on some ice a year ago, and smacked his head on the sidewalk. She’d made him go to the emergency room and get it checked out, scared it would lead to a brain bleed, the wound deep and raw. It had taken weeks to heal. They’d joked about it. Just last year. Twelve months. This photograph was only a year old.

  She looked back at the image of the children. Their dark auburn curls, their large, warm, brown eyes. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” Her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor, the sobs coming silently, but violent, nevertheless. There could be no doubt who those gorgeous children’s father was. They were the image of him.

  It was there that Shawn found her, hours later, still curled up on the floor, the evidence of his other wife next to her, and when she looked into his eyes, she didn’t even need him to say it, and to his credit, he couldn’t even begin to deny it. She knew it was all true.

  Her whole marriage had been a lie.

  Chapter Three—September

  Seattle, Washington

  Knox Zapata rolled out of bed and crumpled to the floor, his hangover banging mercilessly around his skull. “Fuck. Fuck.”

  “Nice talk.”

  His best friend, Jeremiah, was brushing his teeth, grinning at his friend. The hotel suite was a disaster area, but Jeremiah was already showered and dressed. He didn’t look like a man who’d matched Knox drink for drink last night. Even his dark blonde hair was impeccable.

  “How the hell do you look so good?” Knox rubbed his head, leaving his own dark hair sticking up in messy spikes. Jeremiah grinned.

  “Four pints of water and a Tylenol before I went to sleep last night, or rather, this morning. Plus, I’ve already sweated it out at the gym this morning, then had hash browns and eggs for breakfast.”

  Knox felt his stomach give a lurch. “God, don’t.”

  Jeremiah disappeared for a moment and came back with a mug of hot, milky coffee. “Here, drink this, douchebag,” he said, his German accent making the Americanism sound strange.

  Knox burnt his tongue, but he didn’t care. He drank the coffee way too fast and belched loudly.

  “Delightful.” Jeremiah sat on the end of Knox’s bed and studied his friend. “Dude… you’re thirty-nine. Maybe it’s time you stopped the binges.”

  “I had six. All night, I had six drinks. I’ve lost my superpower, Miah. I used to be able to down god knows how many
beers.”

  “It’s all age, numb nuts. Also, it was more like ten.”

  Knox squinted at Jeremiah. “You were drinking, too.”

  “I alternated.”

  “With what?”

  “Alcohol free beer.”

  “Huh.” Knox had the ghost on a smile on his face now. Jeremiah snorted.

  “What?”

  “Alcohol-free beer. I hadn’t realized you’d given up on life.”

  “Nah,” Jeremiah laughed, “Just on the hangovers. Did you hear that?” He leaned closer and raised his voice. “Just the hangovers.”

  Knox moaned. “Don’t.” He clambered gingerly to his feet. “I’m a walking cliché.”

  “Yes, you are. Also, you have a meeting in two hours.” Jeremiah was Knox’s manager, as well as his best friend. Knox stopped, his hazel eyes staring at nothing, while he tried to remember what his meeting was about. Jeremiah rolled his eyes.

  “The gallery? Tom Granger’s place? Come on, Knox, it’s taken me a month to even get you in to see him. You know how picky he is.”

  “The English guy?”

  Jeremiah sighed. “Yes. And the key to you finally breaking through. You’ve been on the periphery too long. Time to kick this thing into gear, my friend. You’ve been coasting for too long.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Knox shuffled into the bathroom. “Plus, there’s your ten percent.”

  “Fifteen, and yeah there is.”

  Knox grinned. “Loser. Look, I’m going to take a shower—”

  “—thank the Lord—”

  “—and you’ll be gone when I get out, okay?”

  Jeremiah grinned. “Isn’t that the line you usually say to your conquests?”

  Knox scowled at him. “Go away, now.”

  “Gone.”

  Knox sighed with relief as the hot water hit his body. He held his face up to the spray and cranked the handle so that cold water briefly splashed his face, then turned it back to hot for the rest of his body. As he cleansed himself, he ran through what he would say to the gallery boss. Jeremiah was right, and Knox knew it, but his stubborn nature, and refusal to grow the hell up, was catching up with him.