Claiming My Hidden Son. Maya Blake
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His lips twisted at my fierce tone. ‘What a fiery temper you have. I wonder what other surprises you’re hiding beneath those unfortunate layers of… What is that material?’
As much as I hated my wedding dress, his remark sparked irritation. ‘It’s called tulle. And you should know. You paid for it, after all.’
The barest hint of a sardonic smile lifted his sensual lips. ‘Writing a cheque for it doesn’t mean I pay attention to every single detail of a woman’s wardrobe. I have better things to do than concern myself with the name of the fabric that comprises a wedding gown.’
‘But this is your wedding too,’ I taunted, knowing my mockery would aggravate.
Something about this towering hunk of a man, who’d made it clear that this was the last place he wanted to be, riled me on a visceral level, firing up a need to dig beneath his formidable exterior.
‘Isn’t it supposed to be one of the momentous occasions of your life?’
Every trace of humour disappeared. Piercing grey eyes pinned me in place, and the tension vibrating from him was so thick I could almost touch it.
‘Momentous occasions are highly anticipated and satisfactorily celebrated. You’d have to be delusional or deliberately blind to imagine I’m in such a state, Calypso Petras.’
The way he said my name, with drawling, mocking intonation, fired my blood. Along with other sensations I couldn’t quite name.
‘It’s Calypso Xenakis now—or have you already forgotten?’ I fired back, taking secret pleasure in seeing the irritated flare of his nostrils.
‘I have not forgotten,’ he answered with taut iciness.
‘If this is such an ordeal for you, then why all this?’ I waved my hand at the obscenely lavish banquet displayed along one long wall, the champagne tower brimming with expensive golden bubbles, the caviar-laden trays being circulated, and the designer-clad guests, shamelessly indulging their appetites.
‘Because your father insisted,’ he replied, his voice colder than an arctic vortex. ‘As you well know.’
I opened my mouth to tell him for once and for all that none of this made sense to me because no one had bothered to consult me about my own wedding.
The sight of my mother’s face, staring at me from one table away, pain and misery etched beneath her smile, dried the words in my throat.
For whatever reason fate had tangled the Xenakises and the Petrases in an acrimonious weave and my mother and I were caught in the middle. I could no more extricate myself than I could turn my back on her.
A tiny, tortured sound whistled through the air and I realised it came from my own throat—a manifestation of that hysteria that just wouldn’t die down. I stood abruptly, knowing I had to get away before I did something regrettable.
Like climb on top of the lavishly decorated lonely high table, set apart from everyone else to showcase the newly married couple in all their glory, and scream at the top of my lungs.
That just wouldn’t do. Because while I might have acquired a new surname, it was dawning on me that until I learned the true nature of what I was embroiled in I would be wise to keep a firm hold of my feelings.
And an even firmer hold of my wits.
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