Chapter 3 So You Want to Be the Other Woman?
Armando stood beside Sherry, her hand looped through his arm.
He didn't move when Michael crowded Elizabeth, his gaze fixed on her with unreadable detachment.
Someone had once told her that if a man truly loved you, he'd be possessive.
Under the warm amber light, her chest tightened until it felt as though something was being torn apart inside.
Michael still thought Elizabeth was lying to him. His grin was sharp and mocking. "Mr. Johnson is with Miss Scott right now. Don't try to fool me, Ms. Penrose. Let's find somewhere private to talk... how about it?"
Elizabeth looked straight at Armando, her voice calm but edged with steel. "Mr. Johnson, Mr. Wilson wants to know... have you grown tired of me?"
She held his gaze, waiting.
Armando kept Sherry's hand in his and walked past without slowing.
In that instant, Elizabeth understood. The answer no longer mattered.
Sherry glanced back with a bright smile, her tone light but pointed.
"Mr. Wilson, Armando and Ms. Penrose are nothing more than colleagues. Don't say things like that... I'd be very upset."
Michael laughed and nodded. "Alright. I won't say another word."
The moment Armando and Sherry disappeared from sight, Michael shoved Elizabeth against the car and kissed her cheek.
"Michael, I swear I'll call the police!"
She shoved him away, disgust twisting in her gut. Her strength was no match for his.
He slid an arm around her waist, smirking. "You can scream if you want, Ms. Penrose. I'm not afraid. And calling the cops won't help. I'm only touching and kissing you... that's not assault."
Elizabeth's fury burned hot. He was shameless.
When he leaned in again, her eyes hardened. Her knee shot upward.
Michael doubled over with a strangled cry, clutching himself.
Hours later, long past midnight, Elizabeth stepped out of the police station with Tom Davis. Her expression was cold.
Tom, like her, worked as Armando's secretary.
"Mr. Davis, take me to the Windward Hotel. And... thank you for tonight."
He glanced at her, then back to the road. "Mr. Johnson asked me to pick you up."
Elizabeth's lips curved faintly, but there was no warmth in it. 'Where was he when Michael was forcing himself on me? Now I can't feel even a flicker of gratitude,' she thought.
Tom hesitated, then added quietly, "Ms. Penrose, Mr. Johnson meant to come himself."
Her brow lifted. "Then where is he?"
Tom said nothing.
Elizabeth lowered her gaze to her phone. Another message from Mindy—another forwarded post from Sherry's social feed.
And then she knew why Armando hadn't come to the station. He'd gone to the hospital... with Sherry.
A small, bitter laugh escaped her. She texted Mindy, asking her to arrange a meeting with Sherry for the next day.
When the car reached the Windward Hotel, Elizabeth told Tom not to walk her in.
She stepped out, exhaustion weighing on her, and crossed the quiet lobby.
At the elevator, a tall man stood inside, speaking into his phone. Timothy.
The doors slid open. He stepped in first.
Elizabeth followed, but her heel slipped. Instinctively, she grabbed Timothy's arm.
His hand closed around her to steady her—warm, firm.
"Sorry... I'm so sorry."
Her pulse was still racing. He wore a mask, and she could only see his eyes.
Something about them reminded her of the man she'd met in a car before.
His phone clattered to the floor as he steadied her. Coffee spilled from the cup in his other hand, staining his white shirt.
Worse yet, the strap of her dress had slipped from her shoulder. Heat rushed to her ears. She pulled it back into place with one hand.
"Sir, did you burn yourself?"
He glanced at her, bent to pick up his phone, murmured something to the person on the line, and hung up.
"I'm really sorry," she said, her voice earnest. "I'll pay for the damage."
His eyes swept over her once more, taking in the gown, the narrow waist. "No need."
His voice was low, edged with a lazy drawl.
He pressed the elevator button for his floor, then stepped back, widening the space between them.
She pressed the button for the tenth floor. He was headed to twelve.
Timothy's gaze dropped, thoughtful. Last night, when he'd seen her in the car, she'd seemed familiar.
She looked like the woman who had climbed into his bed two months ago and begged him to make love to her.
He thought for a moment, then said casually, "About that compensation... we should talk."
Elizabeth paused, one foot already out of the elevator.
In the twelfth-floor hallway, Timothy had unbuttoned his coffee-stained shirt. His abs were defined, his brow furrowed in discomfort. If she hadn't been there, he might have stripped it off entirely.
She kept her eyes away from the open line of his chest, meeting his gaze instead. "Sir, how much do you want? I can transfer it to you."
"No need."
He'd stopped her only to confirm that flicker of recognition.
Elizabeth watched him swipe his card and step inside his room, her thoughts tangled. The door closed. She turned away.
South Carolina Café was filled with soft music.
Sherry sat across from Elizabeth, a hat and mask hiding her face.
"Ms. Penrose, is there something you needed?" she asked with a smile.
Elizabeth nodded, her own lips curving faintly. "There is."
She carried herself with the poised air of a wife confronting a mistress.
"Miss Scott, I don't want you interfering in my life with Armando. You chose to leave him once—don't come back and seek him out again."
Everyone in their circle knew Armando and Sherry had once been in love. But Bronte hadn't liked Sherry, which was why she and Armando had never married.
Sherry had refused to give up her singing career, choosing instead to break things off and study music abroad.
"Miss Scott, if you've given up on your relationship with Armando, then give it up completely. Please."
Sherry's eyes widened in disbelief. "You and Armando... you..."
Elizabeth nodded. "We've been married for two years."
Sherry froze, eyes reddening. "You married Armando?"
Elizabeth felt like the villain who'd broken up a couple. Her voice was cool. "Yes. We're married."
At the next table, Armando heard the words and his expression darkened, lips pressed thin, eyes sharp.
The café's design offered privacy—each table separated by panels. He'd told Elizabeth from the start never to speak of their marriage in public.
She was reckless. It was only a contract marriage.
Sherry frowned. "Ms. Penrose, you're lying, aren't you?"
Elizabeth's tone was calm. "I'm not lying. I'll show you our marriage certificate."
She pulled the red booklet from her bag and opened it for Sherry.
Sherry removed her mask, revealing a delicate, innocent face.
Elizabeth's beauty was sharper, more sultry.
"Ms. Penrose, last night when we were together, Armando didn't tell me you were his wife. I can feel that he still loves me."
Her words were heavy with implication.
Elizabeth's smile didn't falter. "Men are all the same in bed. He tells me he loves me too... when we're making love."
From the next booth, Armando's anger burned cold. He wanted to strangle her.
Sherry's hand flew to her mouth, tears spilling over.
Elizabeth pressed on, relentless in her goal to provoke Armando into asking for a divorce. "Miss Scott, if you want to be the other woman, I won't stop you."
"Enough!"
Armando's voice cut through the air.
Elizabeth turned, meeting the icy fury in his eyes.
Her face tightened.