Chapter 5

• Claudia
• I curse my luck for getting myself into this mess just by supporting the wretched culprit of my misfortune; I hate him. I should go back and tell the truth to everyone present so they can see what a horrible person he is. I stop in the middle of the hallway and turn on my heels, determined to end this crap when instinctively I look up and a large portrait on the wall in front of me catches my attention. It’s of a young, very beautiful woman with some similarities to me, but I suppose the color of my eyes is too common, and many women are thin with brown hair. She doesn’t have the highlights like mine, and she wears a ring on her hand that I assume is a wedding ring due to its placement, in the shape of an infinity symbol that joins in the center from the top, similar to the one I now wear.
• I approach the painting, intrigued to know who this woman is and why there is a portrait of her in this house. I wore her necklace, a great sentimental value. Damn narcissist.
• “Madam, the gentleman requests your presence,” Mrs. Clara’s voice startles me and makes me curse under my breath. I left a while ago; I couldn’t stand being surrounded by so many hypocritical people trying to engage in empty conversations with me.
• She looks at me disapprovingly.
• “It’s your fault, why the hell do you appear out of nowhere without warning?” I question. “Who is this woman? And why should I wear her rings and her necklace?” I say, assuming that the engagement ring also belongs to her. I feel like a replacement, as if I’m taking someone else’s place. The fool bought me because I resemble that woman.
• “Wait for your husband to explain, madam, now return to the party and don’t keep him waiting any longer,” she says, guiding me towards the stairs.
• I descend mechanically, feeling like my mind and body are not connected at this moment. It must be a family heirloom, and that woman could be my husband’s mother. It seems impossible, more like an ex. For some reason, I feel that knowing what this ring hides will make me wish I had never agreed to pretend to be the happy and loved wife that I am not really.
• “My dear, you’ve returned,” my husband’s voice wakes me up as he passes his hand over my back.
• He smiles insistently, indicating that I should do the same. I do, remembering the reason for the charade.
• “I’m sorry, I was thinking about something,” I apologize.
• “I was about to come up for you, my love,” he says hypocritically. “You know I hate being away from the woman who fills my days with happiness,” he adds, making me realize he’s kept me locked up in this damn place for two years.
• “You’re exaggerating, but I can advise you to use the same tactics you use when you go to work. Find your bimbos to fill the empty space, you bastard.”
• “What a beautiful couple you make!” the person in front of us praises. “The love is evident; I hope the children come soon,” she smiles, wiping away my smile.
• “They will come when they have to come; my wife is still very young and she would love to study a career first and start her own business,” my husband says to get out of the situation.
• “Exactly, we still have time to plan,” I support his comment; I have no intention of tying myself to him with a child.
• While engaging in pleasant conversation with the guests, I cling to my husband’s arm and make a point of annoying him as much as I can by showing different signs of love at every moment; his grunts in my ear make it clear how annoyed he is. If I’m not having a good time, neither will he; I won't allow it.
• It's Incredible the number of people, and even more incredible, it seems to me that all these people are here solely to receive a benefit. My husband is quite a solitary person apparently; perhaps that’s why he is so cold in his demeanor.
• The people present are only part of the company: partners, representatives, friends with a lot of money, but not a single one of his family members present. The hall is exquisitely decorated, beautiful floral arrangements, the tables spread out appropriately and served with elegance. People walk back and forth between lively and boring conversations; my husband doesn’t leave me alone for a single moment and drags me along with him wherever he goes. In reality, we don’t move much; people seem very interested in him paying attention to us. A while later, we are left alone, him and I, so I take the opportunity to unfreeze my smile and take a seat; I can’t feel my feet anymore.
• “By the way, dear, what is your name?” I don’t know why his question surprises me if he already knew that this son of a bitch didn’t even know my name. Probably, he held a vague hope that it wasn’t so.
• “You are so miserable that you didn’t even bother to learn your wife’s name, dear,” I say, pretending to smile as I see people watching us.
• “What do you want me to say? I really don’t bother with acquisitions; I only approve them after my assistant checks that everything is in order.” He takes my hand and kisses my knuckles while looking at me with murky eyes; I feel the shiver running through my body again. “Your name, wife,” he demands threateningly.
• “Claudia O’Brian,” I reply, lowering my gaze as I remember that my family has never loved me.
• “Claudia Mobasseri. Don’t forget it,” he says curtly. I feel my body trembling.
• His presence is chilling, like the omen of a disaster whose sole purpose is to destroy me with his fury day by day if I don’t do something to escape soon from this prison.
• “Is something wrong happening?” we hear a man asking, and he takes a seat next to me.
• The previously murky look of my husband now darkens and becomes threatening; for some reason he dislikes the man’s proximity to me, jealousy? Not in a heart of stone like his, incapable of feeling anything good or bad.
• “What makes you think something is wrong, Darwin?” he asks with a hardened expression.
• “She does. Look at her,” he says, pointing at me. “Her shoulders are tense, and it’s obvious from miles away that the smile she offers us is as fake as my lover’s breasts,” he says as he brushes my shoulders with his hands and then takes my chin.
• I feel disgusted by his touch in any way; a drop of sweat runs down my neck towards the valley of my breasts.
• “If you don’t want me to destroy you, it’s better that you never lay a finger on my wife again in your damn life,” he growls through clenched teeth.
• “It’s better that you leave; you’re not welcome at this event,” I intervene, scared by Mr. Mobasseri’s reaction.
• “We will meet again.” He says, looking directly into my eyes before shifting them to my husband, as he stands up and leaves.
• I don’t know who that last promise was for; I suppose it’s very likely that my husband has earned himself an enemy tonight.
• “I don’t want you near any other man unless I authorize it,” he retorts against me before standing up and leaving, shouting that the party is over.
• The servants begin to escort people to the exit while another group starts collecting the dishes. I am sitting in the same spot, speechless, not knowing how to react. Did I really bother him so much that another guy approached me? He doesn’t know me; he has never been by my side, and there is no love between us. Why the jealousy outburst?
• “Don’t worry, daughter, jealous men always react that way, but you must be sure that he will never harm you,” Mrs. Clara says, pulling me out of my shock. I nod, and after a hug that forces me to stand up, she asks me to go to my room.
• I don’t believe it’s jealousy at all; it seemed more like a blow to his manly ego, having another guy touch the woman that belongs to them always upsets them. It seems absurd to me that he forbids me from interacting with other men when first of all, I am locked in these four walls with no chance to go out, and secondly, he spends his time going from bed to bed with other women, and thirdly, I am not one of those women he usually frequents.
• I go up in complete silence, trying to scrutinize his reaction, although since I enter my room, everything about him seems strange and confusing to me. At first, he looked at me as if he wanted to devour me; then he behaved like a brute, and now he is a jealous man. Bipolar is the perfect definition for that man.