The Millionaire's Arranged Marriage Read Online Free

afternoon, I stayed hidden in my room , as I did most days, because I didn’t want to make the mistake of running into Dilvan. It didn’t matter that he wasn’t here...I was still afraid. He’d ran out earlier to get a facial and body scrub, something he did before every photo shoot. He also got regular waxes, preferring not to have one blade of hair on his body.
    Tyson went out to buy a few items he needed. I know that because he’d come upstairs and yelled through my bedroom door that he was heading out and wanted to know if I needed anything.
    Dilvan hadn’t returned home in time for dinner service at 6:30 p.m. So I sat at the table alone, and in peace, ready to eat my dinner. Beatrice had prepared crab cakes and garlic shrimp, along with a few breads, and a fresh garden salad.
    “Here you are , Mrs. Alexander,” she says, presenting me with my food on a gold-rimmed China plate that was fit for royalty.
    “Thank you, Beatrice.”
    I began eating while noticing her do something that she’s never done before – sit down at the table with me. Ms. Beatrice never took a moment to sit down. She was always working – finding something to dust, something that needed to be put away, something to cook, organize, fix – she loved staying busy. As a matter of fact, I think this is the first time I’ve ever seen her sit down, period.
    Every time I saw her she looked like she needed a drink of water. A short, stout woman with silver hair, dark skin and a big belly, she’d have beads of sweat on her forehead for which she kept a handkerchief handy. She smelled like bacon grease, Palmolive dish detergent and cough drops and wore those old-fashioned house dresses that looked more like night gowns. Every day, she’d wear an apron...never seen Ms. Beatrice without an apron. She looked like one of those earthy, motherly type women who’d raised a gaggle of kids and could tell you stories about the olden days.
    “Mrs. Alexander, may I ask you something, sugar?” she asks, whipping out a handkerchief and dabbing her forehead.
    “Yes, and pleas e don’t call me Mrs. Alexander. Anything but Mrs. Alexander.”
    “Okay, Mrs. Gabrielle,” Beatrice says instead. “Why you let the Mister treat you like a sack of dirt?”
    I frown . This conversation was a one-way ticket to my grave. What if Dilvan walked in? What if he had this place bugged? What if Beatrice was his cohort, trying to get me to say bad things about my husband so he could torture me?
    So I laugh it off and say, “What do you mean? Dilvan is the ideal husband. He’s a little stressed about work sometimes, but that’s all.”
    Beatrice waves her hand in front of her face. “You might as well stop telling Ms. Bea that tale...Mister made you eat your dinner off of that there flo, child,” she says, pointing towards the floor. “Is that what you call ideal ?”
    “No, but—”
    “Why you let him treat you like that?”
    I sigh. “Because my family needs the money Padma paid me. I can’t very well pay it back to her. It’s already been spent.”
    “ Mrs. Padma is a reasonable woman. I’m sure if you had a lil’ chit-chat wit’ her ‘bout what’s going on in this house, she would be understanding.”
    I shake my head and push the dinner plate away from me. My appetite is gone and I feel like getting up from this table and running away for good while Dilvan is out getting his chest waxed.
    “It’s okay, Beatrice. Everything is fine the way it is. I’m not going to worry about it.”
    “Well, I’m worried ‘bout it. You’re being abused, Mrs. Gabrielle.”
    “I know, but sometimes, God allows things to happen in life, you know, to test us.”
    Beatrice wipes her forehead and says, “God don’t want us to be no fools either, shug.”
    She’s right. I can only nod and say, “Well, I have six more months left, then Dilvan can divorce me. I can hang in there until then.”
    Beatrice blows a breath and shakes her head. “I don’t know where