The 400-Day Wife

Ainsley's POV The sound hit first, a raw, ragged sound tore from my own throat, loud as f**k across Federation Square. Five thousand wedding guests seemed to freeze mid-breath as the big screen meant to broadcast our everlasting love instead showed Declan’s pale, pumping ass driving savagely into Sienna’s spread legs. My cathedral-length veil, which I had purchased specifically for the wedding, was still pinned in my sister’s hair. I was already outside the cathedral doors. The Italian lace shoe that cost a divorce settlement was long gone, thrown into a street bin without a second thought. Blood was dripping from my palms where the thorns of the bouquet had scratched very deeply. My mum grabbed my wrist with a firm grip, tight enough to crack the bones. Chin-ups, dear,” Her whisper was a blade. “Sienna’s is now changing into your gown. We are not cancelling this business opportunity.” I stared at her, the mask of the obedient, devoted daughter faded off in a hot, blinding flash, "You know about this.” “Business darling, just business. Now smile.” She pushed me back inside, desperate to hide the crying and blood-streaked bride from the cameras. The vestry smells of burnt incense and Sienna’s extremely costly Chanel. Dad was already angry. Without looking up, he slid a new marriage certificate across the table to me with Declan’s signature and Sienna’s signature. Date: today. I tore it once, then twice, the pieces littering the floor like the confetti of my destroyed future. He was not moved. Outside, the organ played again. My sister was tying the knot in my place. I grabbed the open bottle of Magnum of Veuve Clicquot and fled. I ran outside with my dress hugging my thighs so tight in cold rain, the heavy bottle in my hand. Cars blasted past me on Flinders Street, their lights hazy. A man in a battered car yelled, Nice t**s. I rained curses on him, adrenaline surging through the remains of my heart. The private lift at Crown Towers was gold-painted and quiet. I hit the penthouse button ninety times, needing speed. The mirrored doors closed, entrapping my reflection: mascara smears ruined my makeup, lipstick stains all over, and the delicate lace of the bodice shredded to the waist. The Sky Villa reflected shadows and expectation. Rose petals littered the paid-for honeymoon bed, looking very cute. I drank the champagne directly from the bottle, the sharp bubbles burning my nose and clearing my head long enough to locate another bottle. I smashed the empty magnum against the marble wall. Glass exploded everywhere. The lock turned behind me. I turned, still clutching the second bottle, ready to throw it as a weapon against the frame. He stepped inside, looking tall and imposing, his black suit soaked from the rain. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and his eyes were flat, looking pale. I knew that face. Not from memory, but from a gut-deep recognition that scared me more than the cameras. My voice is coarse and fragile against the storm outside. “Get the f**k out.” He entered and shut the door, clicking the lock loudly. He didn’t speak, just stood there, looking at me, absorbing the silence and the wreckage I made. It was raining outside, battering the floor-to-ceiling windows, the only noise besides my heavy breathing. I laughed, sounding insane. “What, have you paid for the room? Do you want a turn also?” He crossed the expensive marble floor in three long steps. He stopped close enough for me to smell wet wool and something sharp and wild underneath. He lifts his hand slowly, using his thumb to wipe a streak of blood off my collarbone and licks it. I lost it in sudden, terrifying arousal. “Tell me to leave,” he commanded, his voice in a low murmur vibrating through the air. I couldn't tell him to leave. I grabbed the silk knot of his tie and dragged him down so hard. Our teeth clashed, a painful, desperate contact. He tasted like both rain and copper with the city's blood mixed with mine. Before I could breathe, his hands grabbed my dress and tore it apart. My expensive lace was ripped down to the bodice, allowing cold air to hit my body. I pulled his jacket off his shoulders with force, and buttons flew across the marble floor like dropped coins. He lifted me, suddenly slamming my back against the cold glass of the window; thirty floors of Melbourne's elegant and luxurious was sitting beneath us. I coiled my legs very tight around his waist, feeling the heavy, rigid hardness pressed against my core. “Condom?" I whispered into his mouth. “No.” I bit his lip, tasting his blood this time. “Then pull out.” He gave a rough, humourless laugh, “We’ll see about that.” He pulled the tattered silk dress higher, his hands finding me bare and ready, his fingers inserted into me, testing the depth. I'm so wet. He groaned so deeply, giving a hoarse sound of pure need. Then his mouth was on my neck, teeth scraping the faded, burn scar I’ve had since I was five. I froze, recognition shocking me. He noticed my stillness. He bit harder, demanding my response. He put his two fingers inside me, then three, stretching and possessing me I scratched his back with my nails, tearing his fragile fabric apart. He turned me over, bending me roughly over the velvet couch, my useless dress ruffle at my waist. I heard the sudden sharp sound of the zip, belt unbuckling. He drove into me with a hard impact, and my breath was knocked out of me, pinning me against the leather cushion. I screamed; my muffled noise was quickly absorbed by the furniture. He didn’t stop. Grabbing my hair with one hand, he pulled my head back to expose my throat, the other one grasping my hip hard enough to cause a bruise. Every thrust was hard, pounding me forward, my n*****s scraping the velvet couch; it was painful like the revenge I craved so much, and I wanted more. I reached back blindly, digging my nails into the tight muscle of his thigh. I whispered, “Harder.” He gave it to me strongly, skin slapping each other in a furious, rhythmic pattern. I came, it was sudden and shocking, a violent release that clamped every muscle. He pulled out moments later, a hot, messy release splashed across my lower back. We stayed glued together, both of us panting and breathless, that moment it felt like less s*x but more like a shared act of destruction. He tidied first, tucking himself away with great efficiency. I turned, but my legs were shaky. I watched him retrieve the five-hundred-dollar notes I had left on the bedside table earlier as a joke. He pocketed it silently. I laughed, giving a painful, cracked sound, “So that’s your price.” He finally looked at me with his pale, flat eyes, assessing me thoroughly. “You left something important behind,” he said. He pulled out his phone. I saw myself passed out naked on the rose petals on the bed with his hand positioned intimately between my legs. "I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. Blood drained from my face. “Princes Bridge,” he said, his voice devoid of emotion. “Three a.m. sharp. Come alone.” “Or?” “Or every billboard from here to St Kilda gets your picture plastered before sunrise.” He walked to the door unbothered. I grabbed an empty bottle. “Who the f**k are you?” Do I know you from somewhere? He paused, putting his hand on the door handle with the city lights reflecting his cold eyes. “Someone you saved once.” The door shut with a big bang. I slipped onto the couch until I hit the marble floor with my cheek. The city lights were blinking outside without a care in the world. My phone was ringing on the carpet. Harry: Ains. Talk to me. My fingers were quivering as I started to type. I just f****d a stranger not long ago, and now he’s blackmailing me. It's a Saturday night. I deleted it. I stared out at the black, oily water of the Yarra River below with the Bridge's wavering light teasing me. Three a.m. was four hours away. I picked up my torn, bloody lace from the floor. Let him try to destroy me. I'm already finished.