Fake it, woman

ELIJAH'S POV

The bastard was finally coming clean. After years of pretending like the sight of us made him sick, Isaac was finally confessing that he desired my throne.

I stood tall, glaring at him with all the contempt I could muster. "Report the piece as fake and issue an apology to me and my wife," I demanded. "Or we will sue your sorry excuse for a company for slander."

Isaac chuckled, his smug grin infuriatingly becoming a bad habit that grated on my nerves. "Slander is a lie, brother," he retorted, his tone still dripping with mockery. "But what my paper published is no lie."

My fists clenched at my sides, every muscle in my body coiled with rage. How dare he speak to me like this? How dare he mock me with such impunity?

Before I could come up with a retort befitting of his lowly status, Isaac continued. "Instead of barking needlessly like a dog in my office, why don't you find your way to the hotel and keep your wife's mouth shut? I have heard too many times that there is nothing more dangerous than a woman scorned."

My blood boiled, every instinct screaming at me to strike him down where he stood. But I knew better than to succumb to his taunts. I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me lose control.

With a final, venomous glare, I spat out a vow. "You will pay for this," I seethed, the promise ringing with the weight of a thousand curses.

And with that, I turned on my heel and stormed out of his office. All eyes were on me as I stepped out of the company and back to my car.

Once I was inside, I let out all that pent-up rage on my wheel, hitting it more than I would like to count. The baring horns that blasted as a result of me hitting the wheel seared into my brain at every honk.

It was an undying reminder of the mess I found myself in, thanks to Isaac's meddling.

My fist collided with the wheel for the last time and I swear I heard a bone crack from the impact as it reverberated through the car like a thunderclap.

Anger surged within me, fueled not by remorse, but by frustration at being caught. How could I have been so careless as to let Isaac's paper expose my infidelity? The reason for the farce of a marriage was to find favour in the eyes of my father after all.

TMy old man probably already knew about this and was waiting and watching with bated breath, wondering how I was going to fix my mess before e was forced to step in.

Cursing Isaac and his damned newspaper was not going to do me any good.

Another bitter truth gnawed at the edges of my consciousness. Imogen.

The woman who at the moment must be thinking she deserved better than this. She deserved a husband who would cherish her, who would protect her from harm, not one who would betray her trust so callously.

The taste of bile rose in my throat as I grappled with the implications of what a dangerous thought like that could do to me should she decide to pay a visit to the reporters who were most likely already circling her hotel like vultures, waiting for a scoop that would keep them in the mouths of people.

How could I have allowed myself to be so reckless, so careless with Imogen's fragile heart? How could I have jeopardized everything I had worked for? I could have played the role of dutiful husband for a few years. As soon as my father trusted me enough and handed me the company, I could just request a divorce.

But I just thought it too cruel to take away everything that would make her virtuous for the man she belonged to. This was what being a gentleman got me into.

But self-pity would accomplish nothing. I needed to salvage the situation, to minimize the damage to my reputation and my marriage. I would find a way to shield myself from the fallout of my indiscretions, to be spared the humiliation of betraying the sanctity of marriage.

With grim determination, I started the engine and pulled away from the curb, driving into the road.

My mind raced with thoughts of damage control, of how to spin the narrative in my favour, to salvage what remained of my dignity and my marriage.

I had to get there before what was left of Imogen's mental fortitude crumbled.

***

IMOGEN'S POV

My phone would not stop ringing. It was most likely my mother. So I had set the receiver on my bed so I could just get some silence.

I was going mad as I paced around the room, wondering what I could do next. How was I going to face society after this?

I was buried in my thoughts and nothing was forthcoming when I heard a knock on the door. Before I went ahead to open it, I took a peek at the skyline windows I had previously shielded with curtains. They were tiny from where I stood. But it didn't make them less real. Photographers and reporters were flocking outside as if waiting for me to come down to them and say something.

If they were outside, a few would have found their way inside too, disguising as clients of the hotel themselves while they tried to buy information about my room.

This was scary.

Hesitant at first, I eventually made my way to the door and tried to find out who it was through the peephole.

It was a man I did not know. He was dressed in the hotel's uniform. Which was just a plain white shirt, a red tie and black pants. But I couldn't be too sure.

Reporters were crazy and if I somehow made headlines, it meant I was no longer the forgettable Imogen Stone anymore. The Rossi name might have come with a few perks. But limelight whether you wanted it on you or not was not a benefit I was going to look back at with fond memories.

"Who are you and what do you want?" I asked, making sure to be polite.

"Mrs Imogen Rossi, I apologize for disturbing you in your difficult state but we just got a call from your mother-in-law. She says she wants to speak with you." The man then waved a paper in my face. "The number is on this sheet."

I trusted him. So I opened the door wide enough for him to hand me the sheet of paper.

Relief washed over me as I accepted the paper, grateful for the lifeline it offered amidst the complete chaos in my head.

"Thank you," I appreciated the man before closing the door and retreating into the safety of my room.

Dialling the number provided, I waited anxiously as the phone rang, each tone echoing in the silent room like a harbinger of impending doom.

Finally, the call connected, and I found myself hearing my mother-in-law's stern voice on the other end of the line.

"Imogen, dear, what on earth is going on?" Her tone was sharp, cutting through the air with a blend of concern and disapproval.

Taking a deep breath, I launched into an explanation, recounting the events of the past few hours with a mixture of shame and desperation. I told her about Elijah's betrayal, his infidelity, and his abandonment on our wedding night. I laid bare the raw truth, hoping against hope that she would understand, that as a woman, she would empathize with my plight.

But her response shattered my illusions of sympathy.

"Men will be men, dear," she chided, her words like daggers to my wounded heart. "His father put a ring on me too, and two years into our marriage, while I was heavily pregnant with Elijah, he cheated on me with some struggling musician. They had a child too because the woman in question refused to get an abortion. Yet, here I am, still standing by my husband, years after that betrayal."

"You mustn't hold it against Elijah. He probably got the jitters from realizing he's now a married man," she continued, her tone dismissive.

I didn't know what to say. I had always respected this woman, but now, her words left me feeling numb. Instead of condemnation for her son's actions, I was met with a cold indifference, a dismissal of my pain and humiliation.

"Moreover, you are a Rossi now, and you have a duty to protect the family name. Your family name," she concluded.

I listened in stunned silence, the weight of her words bearing down on me like a sinking anchor.

At that moment, I realized that I was truly alone, that even within the confines of this new family, I was an outsider, a pawn to be sacrificed for the sake of appearances.