Jealous? 2

IMOGEN'S POV

Deborah chuckled dismissively, her eyes glinting with what felt like malice.

"Oh, darling, I was invited," she replied casually before pushing past me and striding into the kitchen.

I felt insidious rage fueled with frustration bubble within me before threatening to tip over.

I was not going to have this. I followed her into the room.

Without hesitation, I reached out and grabbed her shoulder, spinning her around to face me.

"You can do whatever you want with my husband," I spat, my voice trembling with suppressed rage, " I frankly do not care. However, I will not tolerate your constant disrespect. You cannot keep inserting yourself into spaces where you are not wanted."

Deborah's expression remained infuriatingly calm as she met my gaze, her lips curling into a smug smile. "Oh, Imogen," she cooed condescendingly, "you know I'll always be a part of his life, whether you like it or not."

I wanted to punch her. I wanted to gouge out her eyes and slice through her skin. It wouldn't even be revenge. It would be righteous justice. But I would never stoop this low. Not for a woman like her nor a man like Elijah.

It took me a minute. But I was starting to see things crystal clear. This was payback. Elijah felt so bitter and emasculated by the thought of another man in my life that he decided his mistress inside to spite me.

"But why are you here? In my kitchen?" I asked, approaching the fridge and taking out a sealed pack of beef. "I expected you to be up in his room, ready for another sex session. That seems to be all you are good for."

My eyes followed her across the room where she went for a knife. Panic gripped me for a second, thinking this crazed woman was actually going to start coming at me with a knife. But I was wrong.

She simply traced a finger across the sharp edge to test how sharp the knife in her hand was. I watched a drop of crimson leak from the tiny cut caused as a result.

"I was actually invited to cook for him. Given your class status, I'm certain your culinary skills are below expectations. What can one expect from the lower middle class?"

Deborah's taunting words cut through me like a blade, her smug demeanor only fueling the fire of my anger. I clenched my fists tightly at my sides, fighting to maintain control over my emotions. I put the beef aside to thaw and proceeded to fill a small pot with water.

Since his mistress was going to be cooking for him, there was no point humiliating myself any further.

"I may not be a culinary expert," I retorted finally, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "but at least I have the decency not to sleep with another woman's husband. Very middle class of me, isn't it? Fill me in, though. Are you an elite?"

A flicker of irritation flashed across Deborah's features, but she quickly masked it with a calm facade. "Oh, please," she scoffed, waving a dismissive hand in the air, "like you've never strayed from your marriage bed. Because I know for a fact that the pretty necklace on your neck did not come from your husband?"

I would grit. But I was starting to enjoy this. Egging her on and seeing how far I could take it.

"I'm glad you noticed," I chuckled softly, masking the bitterness that lingered beneath my words. "You seem to know Elijah quite well. If you can discern that my husband is either too cheap or harbors a deeper hatred towards me than I care to acknowledge to bother getting me some jewelry, then why are you so hell-bent on stealing him away from me? Do you think you will turn out any differently in my shoes?"

"Steal?" The girl scoffed, picking up a pot of her own from the rack. "It isn't stealing if it didn't belong to you. Elijah loves me. He was simply forced to marry you. You are not special."

"I know I am not special. I don't want to be special. More than anything, I want a divorce. But my husband won't give me one. If he loves you so much, why would he do that?" I inquired as I began cutting carrots and onions.

"Because of his father. The old fart despises me. Apparently, I am not part of the grand scheme he has for his son." Deborah replied, cutting carrots herself.

"Did you not mention that you came from old money?"

Deborah's eyes quirked up as she began rinsing lentils. "What about it?"

"It just tells me that class isn't what is keeping you back. So why didn't Elijah fight for you too? The status quo is the rich marry the rich. I'm sure Mr. Rossi would have seen reason in your union. Was one word from his father enough to keep Elijah from making you his?"

There was a chuckle from her end. But it was the most empty thing I had heard. It had no soul. "Are you trying to get into my head?" she asked. "Cause I assure you, it will not work. The reason why Elijah couldn't fight his father is because he stood to lose the Rossi empire to his half-brother. He couldn't let that happen."

"I heard," I mused as I cracked some garlic, the rhythmic thud of the knife against the cutting board punctuating our tense exchange. "It's quite the sibling rivalry. Elijah despises his brother so intensely that he can't bear the thought of his 'illegitimate' brother laying claim to what he sees as his birthright."

"If you already know his reasons, why bother with such pointless questions?" Deborah retorted sharply.

I paused, meeting her gaze squarely, feeling a pang of empathy for the woman standing before me. She, too, was entangled in the tangled web of cruel love.

"I ask what may seem like foolish questions because I can't help but feel sorry for you," I responded genuinely.

"I don't need your pity," Deborah shot back, her defiance masking a vulnerability I couldn't ignore.

"You may not realize it now, but you're walking a precarious path," I continued. "If the truth were to surface about your affair with Elijah, you'd bear the brunt of the consequences. Despite his role in this, he'll likely emerge unscathed while you'll face the harsh judgment of society alone."

Deborah's features tightened, her mask slipping momentarily to reveal a flicker of uncertainty.

"I have no ties here. My world doesn't revolve around this place. If it came down to it, I could always leave," she countered, attempting to assert her independence.

"What about Elijah?" I pressed, my tone unwavering. "Would he be willing to uproot his life for you? Or are you the only one making sacrifices in this arrangement?"

Deborah's gaze faltered for a moment. I saw a fleeting shadow of doubt crossing her features before she regained her composure.

"That's none of your concern," she replied tersely.

I sighed inwardly, knowing that my words were likely falling on deaf ears. Deborah was entrenched in her own reality, unwilling or unable to see the truth.

"If you won't tell yourself the truth, I will," I told her. "Elijah married me despite how repulsed he is by my presence and existence just to keep his brother from getting a hold on his inheritance. That means he is capable of sacrifice, just not for you. You will stay by his side in hopes that one day his father will kick the bucket and he can finally divorce me. But what makes you sure my father-in-law would not want to see his grandchild before he passes?"

I paused, letting the words sink in. She didn't have a response. Of course, she didn't have a response. The truth was bitter, and the best she could do was try to keep her composure.

"Believe me, I understand the allure of love, the desire to hold onto something that makes you feel alive," I admitted. "But sometimes, we have to confront the harsh truths staring us in the face, even if they're painful. I don't believe Elijah loves you. I don't think he loves either of us. He's using you, for his pleasure and to inflict pain on me. It's evident even now. He invited you to spite me. Did he not? You must see it. You can't be that willfully blind."

I expected some retort if she wasn't going to accept the truth. But there was nothing. Deborah's gaze left me as she adjusted the red dress she was in and continued to wash her lentils.

I knew when to concede. So I stopped trying to reach for her. I focused all that energy instead on making dinner.