Mafia Billionaire’s Forlorn Wife
Chapter 14

After a long afternoon with Rhys’ mother— who, by the way, I hated spending every second with— Rhys and I left because clearly the woman had plans to stay in the Mikhailov mansion for the next few nights and I was in absolutely no mood to spend any more time with her.

Rhys seemed to share my opinion and so, as soon as we could, we left the place and are now heading towards my house in the city.

And throughout the ride, Rhys has been fuming in his place beside me but he has been silent, except to give the chauffeur directions for our destination.

“Why don’t you just leave if it is so difficult for you to spent time with me?” I snap at him, finally unable to hold my tongue for any longer just as our car moves along the driveway of my own manor in the countryside, “your disdain is more obvious than the f*****g moon in the sky!” He doesn’t seem to pay much heed to my words, simply staring out at the gardens just as our car comes to a stop.

He opens the door and practically dashes out like this is what he has been waiting to do for a good while now.

Fuming at his bratty behaviour, I stomp over to him the moment I get out and reach out to grab his bicep, “what the f**k is your problem?” I shriek at him, roughly turning him around to face me, and soon realising that we are once again repeating the same scene from the entrance of his mansion just hours ago; the only difference is that the roles are reversed right now.

He glares heatedly at me, the faint lights from the garden makes his face look even more handsome— if that is even possible, “I don’t have to explain myself to you, Arabella.”

My heart flutters at the sound of my name on his lips, the stupid organ always does that! Ugh!

“That’s rich.” I growl, “you don’t want to explain a thing to me and yet, you expect me to do that? Careful Rhys, your hypocrisy is showing.”

He glowers silently at me for a moment, searching my eyes for something but the anger on his face makes me stare back at him with nothing but resilience. He scoffs at me, shakes his head, and then walks into my house, like I don’t deserve to breathe the same air as him.

Clenching my fists, I storm after him, still not over the fact that this man just showed up in Paris, all the way from Seattle, just because he thought that I was with some other man. Especially when just yesterday, I saw an article talking about his lunch with his blasted ex-girlfriend and the bane of my existence, Amara Zolotova, who is also his childhood best friend.

“You don’t get to march in here like you own the place and are not accountable to me, Mr. Mikhailov, because unlike in Seattle, this actually is my house and if you want to stand under the same roof as me, you will answer me when I ask you a question.” I know that pulling rank is a jerk move on my part, but desperate moments call for desperate measures. Every fibre of my body is screaming at me, asking for retribution for the way he has been treating me.

And surprisingly, my words do stop him in his tracks as he turns around from where he was about to climb up the stairs to the first floor. Standing beside the white marble staircase that curls to the upper floor of the house, my brooding husband dressed in a black suit with his hair and stubble darker than the sky outside, looks to be in stark contrast with the otherwise light and gentle surroundings of my mansion.

His eyes do not give away a single shred of emotion as he stares at me with determination before the corner of his lips pull up in a sinister smirk which sends fear into my heart. He doesn’t know but every time he looks at me like I am a prey at his mercy, fear dances inside my mind along with memories that I would rather never face again.

“You should check again, Arabella. You should talk to your lawyers about the ownership of this place.” He says dismissively glancing at his surroundings.

My eyes widen at the challenge in his eyes, dreadfully, I shake my head, “you wouldn’t…” I mumble in a shaky voice as I practically feel my b***d turning cold.

No…he can’t be that powerful so as to transfer the deed of this house to his name right under my nose without me ever finding out. He can’t do this to me…can he?

He snickers in a devilish manner, “oh, but I did, sweetheart. Talk to your lawyers. They’ll tell you exactly who owns this house, and every other property that you have ever bought under your name. Your offices, even, are owned by me. And every other property that you will ever but under the name of Arabella Mikhailov…” he pauses, “or Mancini, whichever one you choose, will all be under my name by default.”

I feel like his words are a physical blow to me as I stumble back a step, barely catching myself by the round table in the middle of the foyer, unable to comprehend the words he has just spoken.

“You can’t do this, Rhys. This is unethical, and cruel.” I whisper, staring at the beautiful gold veined floors which I installed when I first started renovating this house. This house was the first off seas property that I bought and finding out that I do not own it anymore is the biggest blow to my self esteem.

“Oh, but I did. And I am unethical and cruel. And the sooner you realise that and correct your ways, the better it will be for you.”

And saying that, he walks away, leaving me standing in the foyer, trying to catch my breath as I wonder what to make of my life from this point on.