My husband, Gideon Ward, calmly patted the leg Arabella Duvall, his Fatal Obsession, had pressed against his thigh and said, “Arabella, you know Marianne isn’t like you. She takes your nonsense seriously.”
Only when she pulled her leg back did the air in the room loosen.
Then, one of his closest friends quickly tried to smooth things over. “Yeah, come on. Our Marianne isn’t like us. She can’t take jokes like that. You’d better apologize, or Gideon won’t let this slide.”
Smirking, Arabella grabbed his glass and drained it. “Why should I?”
The room froze again.
But Gideon squeezed my hand gently. “It’s a holiday. Let’s not waste it on her. Next time, I’ll make it right for you.”
Next time. Always next time.
Last Valentine’s Day, the car full of blue roses he sent me was hijacked by her and switched with lilies. I almost died from the allergy and spent three days in the ICU because of it.
He said he’d deal with her, but when I was discharged, I saw her posting photos online, bathing in petals from those very roses.
It didn't end there.
On World Children’s Day, Gideon rented out an amusement park just for me. But she cut the power, and we were stuck on the Ferris wheel for five hours.