Page 73 of The Wrong Husband

We drove in silence for a while, the city lights flickering past us. I could feel the weight of what tonight represented—our first public appearance as a married couple. My mother and father were against it. Mom actually suggested I sit with Bianca at their table. I told her I'd rather fuck a duck on stage.

As we approached the Archer estate where the gala was taking place, I glanced at Emilia. She was lost in thought. I squeezed her hand again, bringing her back to me.

“Whatever happens tonight,” I said softly, “we face it together.”

She turned to me, her eyes filled with an emotion I couldn’t quite decipher. “Yeah?”

Her insecurity was palpable and did something to my heart. I wanted her to feel confident, certain—know that she could walk with her head high, that she fucking deserved it.

We arrived at the venue, and I helped her out of the car after handing the keys of the Maserati to the valet.

Flashes of cameras greeted us, and I could feel her tense beside me. I kept hold of her hand, grounding her—and myself—in the moment.

The paparazzi was in full force.

"Damian, how are things with the new missus?"

"How are things with Bianca? You have a comment on the video from Le Saveur?"

"Emilia, who are you wearing?

"Give us a kiss, guys."

"Do you have a comment on the lunch you had with Bianca recently at Restaurant Bastille?"

Emilia froze at that. Fuck! I should've told her about that lunch. It hadn't been planned. I'd been there with a client and friend, Kaden Hart. He'd asked Bianca to join our table when he saw her and found out that her lunch appointment had cancelled at the last minute. It had been completely innocuous, and there was nothing I could have done about it without sounding immature and rude.

I usually didn't respond to reporters screaming questions. I didn't care to. This was the first time, however, I had to curb my overwhelming need to speak up because I wanted to defend my wife and my marriage.

But the Archer media manual was clear on this. Shut up. Don't talk to the media. Smile. Show no emotion.

Instead, I drew Emilia close and kissed her cheek. "You look so beautiful. I need you to smile, Em."

She did. It was a plastic smile but the assholes snapping pictures didn't know the difference.

"I didn't invite her for lunch. She was there and she joined my client and me. That's all." I spoke in a low voice, and she nodded as I did.

As we stepped into the ballroom, all eyes turned to us.

I turned her chin and kissed her lips; gave them a fucking show.

"You okay?"

She smiled and this time it did reach her eyes. She went on tiptoe and kissed me. It was a deep, made-for-the-movies kiss. I even dipped her to the applause of our audience.

"I have so much fun with you," I exclaimed. "Usually, these galas bore me, but I have a feeling, with you, I'm going to be entertained."

She winked at me. "No doubt you'll return the favor."

I cupped her ass and squeezed. Let the photographers outside put that on the gossip sites and comment on my lustful behavior because my wife's ass was fucking luscious.

"You weren't joking, you really aren’t wearing any panties."

"I never joke about underwear," she murmured, and I laughed out loud because God, my wife made me so fucking happy.

Chapter 24

Emilia