His, no, our house is huge and I pause midstride to admire, fully take in its beauty. My hand slides across the wooden bannister as I resume the journey to the dinning.
Lights filter in through the window, casting a soft glow on the chandelier hanging low from the white ceiling. The walls of the staircase are covered with paintings and portraits of unfamiliar faces. There’s not one single picture of Brandon, our wedding or anyone who closely resembles him.
The plush, red rug at the centre of the staircases stifles any sound my feet make and the first sound that floats into my ear at the contact of my feet with the marble floor is the click-clack of my stiletto heels.
I have no idea why I listened to the voice in my head that advised me to switch my flat sandals for heels. But I can only hope it’s worth it. What better way to get a man’s attention than by your appearance? Only that Brandon isn’t just any man. He’s more.
Standing at the foot of the stairs, my eyes dart left and then right, unsure which direction the dining is in. I haven’t been given a tour of this mini-mansion. I also don’t understand why we need a house this big if there are only two of us living in it.
The door on my left seems to beckon on me so I harken its call. I push the double doors open and stand at the entrance with my mouth open. Just how big is this house?
There are two small pillars on each side of the fireplace, on top of them are two carved figures with only a head and upper torso. From my position, it’s hard to tell their faces but I doubt I’ll be able to recognise any of them, I am not so familiar with history which Brandon seems so taken by.
Above the fireplace is a large portrait which makes no sense to me. It’s exactly what a child will come up with the first time she’s allowed access to watercolours or paints. As cute as the drawing is, it doesn’t deserve to be the centre of attraction. But it is.
One step in and I see another chandelier. The design isn’t as intricate as the one I saw earlier but it looks just as exquisite.
The curtains are drawn but light still seeps in through the little spaces in between them. I look up and see that the room also shares a high ceiling with the other parts of the house I have come across so far.
On further inspection, I realise this might be a ballroom or maybe a meeting hall of some sorts. My stomach grumbles and I take that as my cue to leave. I’m already walking out when there’s a sound from behind the curtains, I ignore the alarm bells in my head, make a U-turn in that direction.
The beige coloured curtains are thick and soft against my touch. Tiny, brown particles stick to my hands when I let go of them and I cast another look at the room. I can see it now, the sheen of dust that covers almost everything in the room, from the pillars to the sculptures to the chandelier.
Everything except the portrait is dust-free.
I push the curtain aside and see a door without handles. Pressing my ear against the door, I pick up a sound, it’s small, almost inaudible but I can still hear it. Someone is playing an opera inside. I knock but get no response and I begin to feel the sides of the door, searching for what I am not sure of.
Doors like this should have a control close by, a switch that will make the doors slide into the wall. I take one step back as my eyes sweep over the room, there’s nothing out of place. It doesn’t deter me from going curtain to curtain, hoping to see a similar door but I see more and more windows.
I bite my lips and my eyes widen.
Except. Except this is the backdoor of the room. The thought hits me hard, I pause. My stomach growls again but I ignore it, I’m too pumped at the new revelation to worry about food. I don’t know what I’ll find but I’m eager to see what’s inside.
Walking as fast as I can in my high heels, I dash out of the room, briefly pressing my ear to each door I come across before moving on to the next. I do that for three more doors when my stomach screams in protest. Then I take off my shoes and yawn.
This whole thing is pointless, I don’t even know what I am looking for or why. A yawn slips past my lips again and I head off in the direction I hope the dining is. I need a tour. My husband needs to give me a tour. He needs to give me a lot of things but he won’t.
At the mention of my husband, I wonder now if we will have a honeymoon. Pa took Ma to Paris, they spent close to a month there. I have never been to Paris but I will like to visit with Brandon. Maybe some of the love in that city will seep into his heart.
Opening and closing different doors, none of which end up being the dining, I am close to giving up when I hear a, “No.” The voice is small but I can identify Brandon’s thick accent wherever, plus, I have great ears.
I sigh in relief and follow the sound of his voice which leads me to the front of a big oaken door that is slightly ajar. He will get an earful from me about the number of rooms in here but that will be after lunch.
Eating is a great way to bond and I can start by apologising about the necklace. I should have taken a look at his file. I groan into my hand, I am such a sap but yes, I want us to work. We can work things out.
My hands go to the knob, hoping he will not mind the interruption when I hear a feminine voice say, “Fuck me, baby.”
I shake my head, it’s the hunger that’s messing with me, I’m hearing voices now. The voice is not real that is why I need to reach for the doorknob, push the door open and confirm for myself but I don’t. I don’t want to.
“Sophia.” I hear Brandon’s voice now, followed by moaning sounds from the female who comes into view, crawling on all fours in nothing but lace panties.
The jiggling of her breasts as she rises to her full height snaps me out of my trance and I push the door open. My shoes are the first things that fly off my hand in Brandon’s direction. The cheating bastard.
He cocks his head to one side and the shoes miss him by sheer luck. Then he grabs the she-devil who is trying to wrap her tiny hands around his waist and turn so I can have a perfect view of him. How dare him!
His first three buttons are undone, so is the fly of his trouser and I catch a glimpse of his underwear. Tears prick my eyes but I don’t let them fall. I am so done with him. He and the shirtless bimbo staring at me can have each other. Her big, plastic boobs perfectly match his rotten attitude.
Breaking our stare off, I turn on my heels and make for the door. I am done with this sham of a marriage. I am going back to my tiny apartment and my best friend, she might scold me but I am sure she will also console me. I never reach the doors because my vision becomes blurry, a spell of dizziness hits me and I slump to the ground.