The Don's purchase

"Aziza, you have to smile. Not too much though-you don't look beautiful when you show too much teeth."

Mother's words rang through my head as I forced myself to smile at the dozens of cameras flashing my way. You'd think with the way the paparazzi accosted us that I'd be used to them by now, but I wasn't, and I don't think I ever will be.

Wilbet held my waist in a punishing grip as I tried not to wince because just underneath my custom Versace dress throbbed a huge bruise a reminder of when he had pushed me down the stairs earlier that day.

Wilbet had a very short fuse

That's what his parents and my mother would tell you to make up for his excessiveness. But the truth is that Wilbet was a very abusive man.

I didn't know he was like this when we got married. Not like it would have stopped me from marrying him, but at least it would have given me time to prepare. My wedding was the only thing I had done right, according to my mother. You see, I wasn't even supposed to be born. My mother already had my sister and my brother, and she was content with her happy little family-until, well, me.

She never fails to remind me what bad luck I am because when she got pregnant with me, she was at the peak of her career. And let's be honest nobody wants a pregnant model. She took so much time bouncing back that it's safe to say her career never recovered after my birth. Hence, the hate.

I smiled a little for the cameras as Wilbet guided me inside the lavish restaurant where an exclusive dinner event was being held. I was tired of this life,waking up and getting dolled up to play pretend for the world as Wilbet Gregory's wife.

I know I might sound ungrateful because a lot of people would kill to be in my shoes,a rich husband, unlimited credit cards, a chance to frolic with the cream of the crop. A fairytale life to those behind the lens.

But not to me.

I remember meeting Wilbet sometime last year at a gala I attended with my mother. I had no other option. It was either that or endure her mouthing me off the next week, and seeing as I value my peace and quiet, I followed her. Draped in silk and pearls, I looked pretty enough to attract someone suitable, Mother had said after giving me a once-over. Though, I suspect she never guessed that he would be that interested in me. Hell, I didn't even expect it.

Turns out Mr. Gregory was very much interested in me, which came as a shock because anyone who spent a couple of minutes with me left I was an absolute bore. Something I had to do because I could not see myself marrying someone as stuffy or aristocratic as my mother's posé.

But Wilbet had stuck-annoyingly so and had refused to leave me. All my attempts to get him to leave me alone proved futile. And when he noticed I wasn't giving him any attention, he started to woo me with the most extravagant gifts from beautiful gold pieces to high-end emeralds and rubies-in a bid to get my attention.

He got someone's attention, that's for sure.

My mother's.

She began her usual pestering for me to accept his proposal. This was the very first man to show interest in me, and if I let him go, nobody might pay any attention to me. I wasn't pretty like darling, beloved Cassandra, nor was I smart and innovative like sweet Noah.

So, I did what any sensible person would do.

I accepted Wilbet's proposal because, one, I didn't have a choice-my mother would have made my life a living hell if I had denied him-and two, he seemed like a nice person. What harm could be done?

Boy, was I wrong.

The wedding was planned by my mother and Wilbet's parents and, like anyone guessed, was very grand. They wanted nothing short of the best for their only son. My mom only cared about the bragging rights this would bring her. I mean, two daughters marrying into wealth and a son who's one step closer to receiving the Nobel Prize? My mom was on the freaking moon.

On my wedding day, I stood in the bridal suite, makeup done. My elegant Vera Wang dress made me look stunning, but despite the beautiful exterior, I was a mess inside. Was I really about to do this? Tie the knot with someone I barely knew because of a few gifts?

If I called off this wedding now, sure, it would be embarrassing, but people would still talk about it, right? Giving my mother what she wants there's nothing like bad publicity, right?

I picked up my bouquet, sighing helplessly. I wished I had someone to talk to. My sister barely said a word to me-even while growing up. It seemed as though, to her, I didn't exist. And if my feelings were hurt, why would she care? She had everyone eating out of the palm of her hand.

It was even worse with Noah, who was closer to my age always buried in work. I doubt he even remembered he had a younger sister. He wasn't even here for my wedding.

But Cassandra was.

I wished that maybe she'd just come inside and reassure me that it was pre-wedding jitters, that it would all pass. But she didn't. No one did.

No one came to the bridal suite.

And no one walked me down the aisle.

I was alone. Just as I had always been.

Even my husband didn't smile, grin, or cry when he saw me-left me wondering if this wasn't the same man who had wooed me endlessly.

I would later come to understand that Wilbet never really loved me.

He was almost in the same position as I was.

Unwanted.

While my reason for being undesirable was because I was a bore and practically chased all the men away from me, Wilbet's was much worse.

And like a fool I fell for him Hook, line, and bloody sinker.

Your wedding is supposed to be the happiest day of your life. The day you wear a pretty dress, look like a princess, and marry the love of your life.

Mine was anything but.

And the fact that I don't get to have a do-over crushes me to this day.

A painful squeeze by my side snaps me back to reality.

"You're zoning out too much. Where's your mind at?" Wilbet whispered in my ear as I flashed a tentative smile.

"Nowhere."

As soon as we got past the paparazzi, Wilbet immediately let go of my waist and glued his eyes to his phone. In the earlier months of our marriage, I would have been worried worried that maybe I did something wrong, something to piss him off, that made him withdraw his attention from me. But now, I honestly couldn't care less. Besides, if he held me any longer, I don't think the bruise underneath my dress would heal properly.

You see, this event is a charity gala they hold every single year, with rich patrons flying in for an evening of unlimited champagne and networking spending money to make more money. This was the environment where Wilbet thrived; after all, he had an empire to run. But me? I didn't do anything. I had attended once, right after we got married, and was bored out of my mind. The rich and elite are as bland as their food, and let's not even talk about what happens when the champagne starts flowing.

So, when Wilbet told me about this year's event, I declined, stating that I wouldn't be attending.

Huge mistake on my part. A man like Wilbet, whose ego was easily bruised, didn't take that well. And how lucky were we to be standing next to the stairs while we had this conversation?

After I declined again, Wilbet didn't say much. He was just quiet-but visibly angry. I had thought it went well, that maybe he'd just be pissed for a while and then come back home to blow off some steam. Boy, was I wrong. Before I could even register what was happening, I was crashing down a flight of stairs.

Everything hurt.

The housemaid, who had been cleaning nearby, rushed over in fright to help me.

"Leave her the fuck alone, or you're fired!" Wilbet screamed from the top of the stairs.

I could see the girl's hesitation. She wanted to help.

I flashed her a weak smile. "I'm okay," I managed.

She must be new here. The older staff knew better than to interrupt when Wilbet had one of his moods.

"You will attend this gala with me. How bold of you to assume you even had a choice in the first place. Raya will be here soon, so you better pick yourself up and get ready for her, whore!"

He stormed off.

I lay on the ground a little longer, wishing something-anything-would happen to me. But the pain had me sitting up almost immediately. I touched my head, feeling for a bump. Wilbet hated leaving behind evidence.

"Are you okay, miss?"

I turned to see the maid still standing beside me. She was very brave.

I forced a smile. "I'm okay, just a little bruised. If you want, you can help me to the couch."

She nodded and assisted me into the sitting room.

"Are you sure you're okay, miss?"

"Yes, I am. Just one of his bad moods. I promise, it's not always like this," I said, immediately regretting it. Because the truth was, Wilbet was always like this. Why was I defending this man again?

"Should I call someone? The police, maybe?"

"No! No police. I'm fine, I promise. I just need some Tylenol and a little rest. I'll be fine."

"This isn't fine, miss. This isn't normal. He hits you. You should speak to someone," she said, throwing a blanket over me.

"I promise, I'm fine-"

"Sarah."

"I'm okay, Sarah. I just need a little nap. Please wake me when Raya gets here."

I managed to get an hour or so of sleep before Raya, my personal stylist, arrived. She came in with an array of designer clothes and expensive makeup, ready to transform me into the picturesque image the public perceived me to be.

While dressing me, if she noticed the huge purplish bruise on my side, she didn't say a word.

I badly wanted her to. I wanted her to acknowledge it, to ask, to talk-but she just kept quiet. She curled my hair, transformed my face, and put me into my custom dress and shoes. Then she left, the same way she came in.

I'm sure Wilbet had her sign an NDA because the number of times she had covered up bruises with makeup would make any ordinary makeup artist worry.

We finally entered the main area of the gala, and just as I had predicted, it looked boring and gloomy. Numerous men and women shook hands with Wilbet while I smiled and nodded, answering the occasional polite question thrown my way.

This was exactly what Wilbet wanted-a docile wife who did as she was told and didn't talk too much.

As we made our way to our assigned seats, a woman approached us. A very beautiful woman. Emile. The daughter of the French president and-more importantly-Wilbet's former lover.

Draped in enough diamonds to sink the Titanic again and wearing a very bold red dress, Emile was the embodiment of sex appeal and allure. She gave me a once-over before smiling at Wilbet, pulling him into a hug, and leaving a lipstick smudge on his cheek.

"Wilbet, long time no see."

"Well, you had suddenly disappeared for six months. If anyone's guilty here, it's you," Wilbet replied.

She laughed, flipping her gorgeous blonde hair. "Well, in that case, guilty as charged. I needed to find myself for a minute-I was lost, if you can say that. Imagine my surprise when I came home only to find out that you had gotten married to someone."

The way she said "someone" sounded so repulsive that I instantly wished I were anywhere but here.

"Life goes on, chérie. With or without you," Wilbet said, the tone of endearment piercing my heart.

"Well, congratulations. And I suppose you're the wife?" She gave me a thorough head-to-toe assessment. To anyone else, I must have looked stunning in my Versace outfit. But to Emile? I felt like a little girl playing pretend.

Trying to fit into shoes that weren't mine

"Yeah. Nice to meet you. I'm Aziza."

"Oh, honey, I most definitely know who you are. Interesting character, I must say." She then turned to Wilbet, flashed a smile, and said, "See you around," before walking off.

They were obviously flirting, weren't they?

I must have looked like a fool to anyone watching, standing still while my husband caught up with his ex.

I should have just stayed home.

Speaking of said husband, he simply guided me to a table in the corner and disappeared.

I noticed a waiter passing by with tall flutes of bubbly champagne. I called for his attention and took two glasses, downing the first one immediately.

I needed a little buzz if I was going to survive this evening.

I downed the second glass immediately, the bubbles burning down my throat, but I didn't mind. It was a welcome distraction from everything happening around me. My head was hot, my side throbbed badly, but here I was, playing pretend.

I exhaled heavily, scanning the crowd for my dear husband. As expected, he was nowhere to be found. I wasn't a fool-the moment he and Emile exchanged pleasantries, I knew he would be with her for the rest of the night. It wasn't a secret what they had together; their names had often graced the front of magazines and tabloids.

The waiter passed again, and I grabbed another glass, sipping it tentatively. Look at me, turning into an alcoholic.

I turned-and nearly collided with someone. A man.

"Careful," he said, steadying my arm before I spilled my drink.

I looked up. He was tall, dark-haired, with a presence that felt almost dangerous. His suit fit too well, and his eyes held something unreadable-amusement? Curiosity?

"Thanks," I muttered lowly, stepping back.

He didn't let go immediately.

"You look like you'd rather be anywhere but here," he observed.

I let out a humorless laugh. "I wonder what gave me away."

"Well, I for one would know," he said smoothly. Then, after a pause, "Walk with me."

I hesitated. I really shouldn't.

"Shouldn't?" he repeated, rolling the word over his tongue like a joke. "That doesn't mean you won't... Now, walk with me."

He said it like he wasn't giving me room to argue. And honestly, what was I doing here anyway?

I stood, smoothing out my dress as I let him lead me past the sea of glittering gowns and tailored suits, slipping through the double doors that led to the terrace. The sound of stuffy laughter and the clinking of crystal glasses faded behind us.

The man leaned against the stone railing, looking at me with a gaze that felt too knowing.

"You don't belong here."

I let out a dry laugh, taking a sip of my nearly finished champagne. "Trust me, I know."

He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "Yet you still stay."

I turned, staring at the city. "You speak as if leaving is as simple as slipping through a door."

"Isn't it?"

I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. "You don't understand."

"Then help me understand."

I looked at him then really looked at him. There was something about the way he held himself. He was too confident, too self-assured. He wasn't just any regular guy attending a gala. No, he was something else entirely. Someone who knew things. Someone who had seen things too.

"Who are you?" I asked quietly.

He smiled a little. "Someone who can offer you a choice."

"A choice?"

He leaned in, his voice dropping to an intimate murmur.

"Walk back, sit at that table, and keep pretending to be a good little wife... or," he trailed off, watching me slowly.

"Or what?" I swallowed.

His smile deepened. "Or you come with me, and we make sure you never have to sit at that table again."

My breath caught.

Was this some kind of twisted, cruel joke? Or was this a test that Wilbet had put me through? And what would he do if I failed?

But Wilbet wasn't here.

And this man whoever he was wasn't smiling like someone who made empty promises.

I quickly took the last gulp of champagne, feeling the warmth in my veins, giving myself a distraction. I didn't have a reply yet.

"Tick tock, Aziza," he murmured.

I froze, my fingers tightening around the stem of my glass.

He knew my name.

Slowly, I turned to look at him, my heart hammering in my chest. He was watching me, a hint of amusement in his dark eyes, like he was waiting for my reaction.

"How do you know who I am?"

The corner of his mouth lifted slightly. "I make it my business to know interesting people."

Something about the way he said interesting made my stomach clench-like he had been watching. Waiting.

I quickly regained my composure, straightening my shoulders. "Well, I'm not interested."

His gaze flicked to my wrist, where a faded old bruise still lingered. His expression was unreadable.

"I disagree," he said simply.

A chill ran through me. I was suddenly reminded of how close we were, how public this was. Wilbet could be anywhere. For goodness' sake, what was I thinking?

"I should go."

"Go back to who? Him?" His voice was calm, almost taunting. "To a man who ignores you and disrespects you by blatantly flirting with another woman in your presence? That's who you want to go back to?"

I inhaled sharply, forcing myself to stay composed. "Wilbet is my husband. That is my place."

"Is it?"

Something about his tone made me feel like I had given the wrong answer. And I hated that he made me question it even for a second.

"I don't know what you think this is, but whatever you're implying, I'm not interested," I said, squaring my shoulders.

His smile widened. He stepped closer so close I could catch a whiff of his cologne, something dark and expensive.

"I haven't implied anything," he said smoothly. "Yet."

The air between us pulsed, and I swallowed, hating the way my pulse quickened. Hating that I wanted to look at him longer than I should.

I shook my head. This man spells trouble. And that was the last thing I needed right now.

Stepping away, I said quietly, "Have a lovely evening."

I didn't wait for a response. I walked back into the ballroom, ignoring the way my heart pounded in my ears.

Even inside, I could feel his gaze on me, urging me to look back at him. But I refused to give this stranger that satisfaction.

I craned my neck, searching for Wilbet, and just as I expected he was with Emile. They seemed to be having quite the conversation, her hand resting lightly on his chest.

Did she know how abusive he was? Did she know how ill-tempered he could be? Was he ever that way with her, or was it just me?

I smiled ruefully.

He probably wasn't that way with her. If he was, she wouldn't be holding him like that.

I turned back toward the terrace.

He was still there.

Leaning against the door this time, a thin cigarette between his lips. He exhaled, the smoke curling in the air. Then he smiled again and walked away.

Like he was never there.

I turned toward my table. Good. He was gone.

Men like that only caused trouble.

And yet, deep down, I knew-this wasn't the last time I would see him.