"Perfection doesn't exist."

Andres Iniesta

IRIS

At a creeping pace, time passed, since our return from our 'honeymoon'. The two-week tryst was more of a purgatory than paradise. Those weeks had done nothing to make me warm up to him and the three months that followed yielded the same results. It was hard adapting to a new life when all you wanted was your old one back and it was even harder when you lived with the thief who'd stolen it.

It's a common assumption.

An assumption that being married to a man who claims to own more lands than the British Empire once did during the imperialistic era isn't so bad. It's believed being married to a man who like quicksilver can snap away from your troubles, must be bliss. It is thought that being married to a man who GQ accounts as the hottest man alive, is the dream of every young woman.

That is only an assumption.

An assumption held by many, from my mother to every onlooker looking in.

The truth was jarringly contrasting, it was horrid living with a man who was so narcissistic he could have buckets to spare. It was a nightmare being with a man who believed his money could grant him his every whim and desire. To be with a man who thought he was so irresistible that no woman could dare refuse his charms was just too much torture for anyone to bear.

"Ugh." I scoffed to myself, the fountain pen I held stalling on my notepad.

"My sentiments exactly. Can you believe I got my hair cut and he didn't even notice?" Amelie Walsh, a client of mine said in obvious annoyance.

Her words pried me from the train of thoughts I'd boarded and suddenly I'm back where I was before I got on. Not a subway station but in my office at midday listening to the moans of a girl I grew up with in the Hamptons.

Amelie was the perfect example of Dolly Parton's Jolene. Her hair, flaming locks of auburn, each strand a more exotic shade than the next. Her eyes, as green as green could get and her skin, pale porcelain. Void of any 'imperfection'.

But after doing this for a while you learn even perfect and pretty porcelain can break.

"It looks lovely, Amelie." I complimented with a practiced smile.

"Do you think he prefers it long?" She tugged her hair unconsciously, nibbling at her lower lip. "I think he prefers it long."

"What do you prefer?" I asked.

I can't help but sympathize with the girl as her eyes became dazed, the internalization of my question troubling her deep inside. The perfect smile of the girl slipping to show a crack in her porcelain.

"I-I don't know?"

..........

I hummed along to the radio, as I exit the last road out of the busy, bustling cityscape, and onto the tarred road that is driven by no other car but my own. With each mile I placed between myself and the city, the skyscrapers become towering trees, and like a ghost town, there is no life insight.

I murmured. "Is it really necessary for him to live this far out?"

So far away from society.

Was he isolating himself because he felt himself better than others? Or was he simply an introvert who liked his own company?

If the latter was true was I an inconvenience to him?

Because he was an inconvenience to me. Not only was he a bother but he was a stifling cage, one I desperately wanted to be free of. He and obligation held me, hostage, in this marriage and there was no ransom I could pay to escape.

His shiny ring didn't make up for it either. Yes, it was beautiful. A beautiful heavy shackle on my ring finger. Which is why I'd stash it in any compartment as soon as I was away from the public eye.

Whether it be purse or.....glove box.

The road slowly curved into one worn, and the thickets gradually lessened into well-manicured shrubs and soon the large intricately windy gates to purgatory stood before me. Buzzing myself in with the length password he insisted on having, I'd like to say the gates creaked open and I saw the pits but really they opened smoothly as if greased with butter, and there were no pits to behold only the looming Italian inspired estate.

Fate really had a thing for screwing me over, not only was the King of Narcissism my own personal hell simulation but his house was the playground for the Satan spawn. Empty as an abandoned cicada shell, it was devoid of the warmth of people and devoid of sounds of viability.

Gravel ground under my tire as I rolled to a stop in front of the stone fountain, spouting its crystal clear water. I rummaged around in my glove compartment for the ring and once I'd gotten hold of it and slipped it onto my finger, I instantly felt ten pounds heavier.

And it wasn't because the thing had a rock the size of my head.

Gathering my items in hand, I closed the car door with my derrière, walking towards the slabs of wood sealing away his royal pompousness' residence. On the first impression as the doors rolled back to allow your entrance, you'd think you'd found yourself in the foyer of heaven with the abode's pure white walls and crisp marble floors. You'd think that with each step taken it was a blessed assurance but instead it was not.

The door thuds as it closed. The sound reverberating around the house. Like I said this place was an empty cicada shell, empty and echoey. Hollow like its owner.

The duo stairs lead to the second floor or my Garden of Eden as I don't actually call it which is where my own personal bedroom is. The only decent place in this house other than the kitchen. Crystals chandeliers that look like captured rain, lit your way so that you fell not on your romp when you climbed the top of the world's slipperiest staircase, that feels like it goes on for ages.

And luckily I made yet another safe journey up it. I walked down to the end of the hall, shoving it open with my body, my bedroom door that is before shutting it behind me the same way I opened it.

"Jesus."

My bedroom was a mess with shirts thrown here and skirts thrown there. If my mother were present she'd scold me until my ears fell off. Luckily she wasn't. Dropping the collected items I'd taken from my car, I kicked my heels off adding to the catastrophe of my room. My room was by far the smallest bedroom in the house if that was even possible. I choose it because it reminded me so much of the first apartment I'd ever bought with money I earned on my own.

A tiny little thing, cramped for space. Just one floor above the busy streets of the city. It was perfect for my favorite hobby, people watching. I lived there for a week before my parents caught wind and loaded me into the car. My father's reason for my sudden eviction notice was that flowers shouldn't live with weeds. The weeds being the people I loved to watch outside my window. So he got me a lease for a condo at the very top of the elusive Terrarium Apartments and Condominiums. He paid half of what I was supposed to and he would have paid it all if I hadn't begged him to let me do it. I appreciated my father, but sometimes he could be a pain.

A shower 15 minutes later and I was under the covers, cuddled up in my favorite pajamas. This was the part of the day I enjoyed the most, burrowing under the covers and watching flicks with the lights off. With nothing or no one to disturb you.

I spoke too soon.

A knock resounded at my door and I tapped the mousepad of my laptop, pausing my favorite Disney animated movie 'The Little Mermaid'. The covers I'd snuggled under were quickly and exasperatedly tossed away from over my head.

I didn't bother to ask who it was since I already knew it was him.

"I bought you roses. I believe husbands do that for their wives sometimes. I thought it would be a nice sentiment." He said as soon as I opened the door, and sure enough in his hands was a bouquet of red roses.

But I didn't like roses. I liked sunflowers.

"Thank you, you didn't have to," I replied whilst accepting the token. Offering to him what I hope seemed like a genuine smile. "They're beautiful."

They smell terrible. Do you want me to prick my finger and splatter blood all over your precious marble tiles?

He gave me a look with those cognac eyes, one that I couldn't decipher. And for a minute I feel as if he can see through me and my politeness.

But that was only paranoia because that ability is not humanly possible.

He furrowed his brows for a millisecond before returning to a slate of impassiveness. "You're welcome."

The Pompous King gave me a nod and turned to walk away before stalling in his steps.

"Would you like to go out to get dinner?" He inquired, looking at me over his shoulder.

No, I don't think I could eat whilst staring at your face, prick.

"No, thanks. I'm really kind of tired, I think I'll just make something to eat downstairs."

"I see. Well, I must insist I order takeout? There isn't much to eat in the kitchen."

Firstly, you have food in your kitchen to survive an apocalypse and second, what gives you the right to insist on anything?

I can't deny him again, I should just say—

"Any cuisine of your choice?"

It was an addition that should have made me want to take up his offer but it didn't do much for persuasion.

"You can choose. I really don't mind anything." I smiled.

"You have no preferences?" He cocked his brow.

"I'll go for anything really."

He looked irritated at my response. "Mediterranean it is then."

Mediterranean....great. I actually wanted Thai.

"Mediterranean is fine."

He stalked away without another response or even a question as to what I wanted from the Mediterranean place. His shoulders squared and his posture rigid, he resembled a soldier trained for the bitter brutalities of war.

He was a fine man. It was no surprise why Forbes and GQ would put him on the cover of their publication. He was immaculate in both visual appearance and financial status. Two things society valued most. With his long, muscular legs that brought him to a decent height of 6'0 ft, he was well built. Neither bulging like a bodybuilder nor slender like a swimmer. As Goldilocks once said he was just right.

His hair was black like his soul and his face was the shape of an egg but with a defined jawline and high cheeks. He had long lashes that protected his cognac eyes from dust and a nose that you can tell has never been broken from a fight. His lips were lips, kissable, soft and pink. Most men didn't wear facial hair well but he wore it better than well, he in all sense of the way was a catch. A total package. The kind of man girls cut out of magazines and pin on their walls to fawn and gawk over.

So what was wrong with me?

Well, I was Belle, stuck with a beast, who saw me like nothing more than a filthy flea. I couldn't "fall" for such a man .....because, well, that would be Stockholm syndrome. Regardless if he was a kidnapper or not.

That was a half-assed excuse.

In all honesty, the man just didn't sit right with me. I couldn't place my finger on it but he was shrouded with a mist of mystery that didn't appeal to me in any way. In fact, it did quite the opposite it repelled me like flea powder. 'Bad boys' were not my type give me a man with glasses, suspenders and a love for something other than himself and dollar signs.

Perhaps I could feign illness as I once did as a child when my mother tried to drag me to church? It probably wouldn't work though as my mother had always said I was a terrible liar.

. . . . . .

Dinner was a salad. A quinoa salad.

Who the hell likes quinoa?

Regardless I smiled through the few bites I took, internally crying as I thought of the chicken shawarma I could be having.

He inquired as he cut into the juicy chicken on his plate. "How is it? "

"Um, well, it's okay, thank you for thinking of my health."

Was this a comment on my body weight? Did he order the salad because he thought I was fat?

"No problem, I didn't know if you'd like it. If you didn't like it I also got chicken shawarma but seems there was no need."

"Oh no, this is fine." I shook my head giving him one of my signature smiles.

I reach for my water glass, sipping the flavorless liquid and wishing I had a diet coke or a La Croix. I hadn't wanted the shawarma anyway, sure, the quinoa was not exactly to my taste but it was decent enough.

"Do you even have thoughts of your own?"

"Excuse me?" I coughed to expel the water which had entered my trachea from his statement.

"You know beliefs, ideas, opinions, theories do you have your own or are you simply a marionette?"

The nerve of this man.

I refrained from spitting venomous words at him. "Of course, I have my own thoughts."

"Often it doesn't seem like it."

Often I wonder if you can breathe with your head so far up your ass.

"Well, that would be your opinion."

"An opinion is a judgment not based on any form of evidence. My statement wasn't an opinion. It was a fact, bambola."

"And was its validity examined by you"

"What do you really think of the food?" He said, completely disregarding my question like scraps of meat.

I glanced down at the freshly shaven grass with I had been served to me versus the succulent lemon chicken on his own plate. "Delicious."

"You've eaten two bites."

"I'm full."

"Are you?"

"Yes."

He commented with nothing more, he only stared at me over the rim of his glass which he constantly had hovering near his plump lips for a sip.

"I hate liars." He finally said after minutes of silence. "And you Iris, are one of the biggest liars I've ever met and I work with businessmen. Don't you repulse yourself? Or do you like it playing the part of the perfect girl?"

What a prick.

I could just wrap my hands around his throat....no one would hear him scream so far out.

"Thank you for the meal," I replied, pushing the chair back. The scraping sound like nails on a chalkboard.

"Why don't you say what you really want to?" He downed the final contents of his glass in one toss of his head backward. " Why don't you tell me to go fuck myself? You know you want to, Iris." He was smirking, observing me with those unsettling cognac eyes of his. Taunting. Teasing.

"I was just going to say goodnight actually." You irritating bastard is what I would have liked to end that sentence with.

He hummed, his back towards me as I walked out of the kitchen.

"Goodnight, Iris."

. . . .