Mitchell's POV
The atmosphere in the dining room after Mike's departure was thick with unspoken questions and simmering jealousy. I changed my SIM card into the sleek new phone with sense of quiet ceremony then unwrapped the meal from La Ciel. The aroma alone was world away from the heavy, spiced dishes in the table.
"I'm so damn hungry," I muttered, more to myself than anyone and began to eat. The food was exquisite.
Clara was the first to crack, her voice dripping with false sweetness.
"Mitchell dear, which family does that charming man serve? He seemed very competent."
I didn't look up. "He's an assistant." I knew her game. She had seen the power behind the gesture and wanted to identify the bigger fish to hook.
"Why would you hook up with an old man?" Mrs. Turnerstone spat, unable to contain her venom. "Accepting such expensive gifts it's disgraceful."
I finally set my fork down and met her gaze squarely. "It's interesting," I said, my voice very calm. "How your mind always go straight to 'old men' when I receive kindness. It says more about your own past experiences than it does my present, mother."
The colour drained from her face then flooded back in a mortified blush. Something flickered in her eyes, she opened her mouth but no sound came out.
Even Clara looked pale and guilty like the words belonged to her. Then she jumped in with a forced laugh. "Let's not spoil such a nice dinner with silly talks. This wine is really exceptional. Don't you think so, Donald?"
The conversation limped along, but my attention was elsewhere. I saw Clara's breath hitched subtly, her fork hovering mid-air. No one else seemed to notice. She wasn't looking at her phone. But she seemed kind of spaced out.
A good suspicion crept over me. Under the cover of the tablecloth, I casually dropped my napkin and bent to retrieve it. The sight that met my eyes were both shocking and yet, in the grotesque circus my had become, grimly possible.
Under the table, Mr. Williams hand was buried under Clara's skirt, his fingers working deliberately against the thin fabric of her underwear. Her thighs were slightly parted to give him access. Her soon to be father in-law.
A wave of nausea rose in my throat followed by a chilling understanding. This was the real reason he had so readily agreed to the bride swap, media scandal be damned. He doesn't care what the netizens would say about the swap again. He was not just gaining a daughter-in-law, he was securing a mistress.
I straightened up, my face a careful mask of indifference. The rest of the meal passed in a blur of their hollow conversation and my silent revelation.
Later, in the cold solitude of my attic room, I explored the new phone.
Alistair had pre-loaded his contact and Mike's. A simple, powerful gesture.
I sent them both a message. "This is Mitchell. Thank you again for today. Good night."
Sleep was fitful. woke around 2am parched. The house was silent like a tomb. Padding form to the kitchen, I grabbed a glass of water. Then I hear it –a low, rhythmic grunting and the soft, slick sound of skin on skin, coming from the living room.
The lights were dimmed but not off. Peering around the doorway, the scene was illuminated in stark, horrible clarity. On the large Persian rug, naked and entwined, were Mr. Williams and Clara. He was on top of her, his older body moving with with a fervent, possessive urgency. Her legs were wrapped around his waist, her head thrown back, a look of ecstatic conquest on her face even in the shadows.
I drew back, my stomach churning. The video of Donald and Clara was a betrayal. But this was something darker, more depraved. A nest of vipers, all of them.
Clara's POV
I was furious. The handsome assistant treating Mitchell with such deference. Giving her that phone. The attention, the oblivious power behind it —it should have been mine. I'm the one who should command looks, inspire men to give gifts. Where did that pathetic countryside duck find a sponsor.
I watched Donald during the dinner. He was trying to play the devoted fiancée but his eyes kept flicking to Mitchell. When that assistant patted her head, I saw a glimpse of pure jealousy in his eyes. It made me want to scream. He was mine. Everything should be mine.
During dinner, a familiar heat began to spread through me as Mr. Williams hand found it's way to my thigh under the table. I shifted giving him easier access. No one could see. His fingers slipped beneath the silk of my panties, delving into my wetness, circling and stroking with practice precision. A shudder of pleasure ran through me and I opened my legs wider for me.
This was the real reason he had agreed to the swap so easily. Our little secret. He fucked me with desperate hunger his wife clearly didn't satisfy, and I let him because it felt like power. It started a year ago, in one of my first visit to the Williams estate. I wore a micro skirt with nothing underneath. I made sure to bend over right in front of him when "accidentally" dropping a handkerchief. I heard his sharp intake of breath.
That day, with Mrs. Williams upstairs and Donald sent on a fool's errand, he came up behind me. I felt the hard press of him against me through his trousers. He took me right there, bent over the couch. Later on, I was riding him, moaning into his shoulders, when we heard his wife's bedroom door clicked open. We disengaged in a panic. I ran to the kitchen after hastily tidying myself, pretending to look for snacks. My heart pounding with the thrill of the risk.
Now here in the Turnerstone living room in the dead of the night, with his son sleeping obliviously upstairs, he was taking me on the floor. His hands gripped my hips, his breath hot and ragged in my ears.