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  Behind Her Smile

  Copyright © 2015 by Olivia Luck

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978–1518719097

  ISBN-10: 1518719090

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Editing by Jenny Sims

  Interior Design and Formatting by Perfectly Publishable

  Cover design © by Hang Le

  Behind Her Smile

  Dedication

  Now

  Five Years Ago

  Now

  Five Years Ago

  Now

  Nearly Five Years Ago

  Now

  Four Years Ago

  Three and a Half Years Ago

  Three Years Ago

  Two Years Ago

  Two Years Ago

  One and a Half Years Ago

  One Year Ago

  Nine Months Ago

  Now

  Eight Months Ago

  Now

  One Week Ago

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Now

  Thirty-Six Hours Later

  Two Weeks Later

  The Next Day

  One Month Later

  Midnight

  Two Years Later

  About the Author

  Books by Olivia Luck

  Acknowledgments

  To Bianca and Christine. I wouldn’t have finished this book without you.

  Tutu. Baby’s Breath. Angelic Musings. Three very different names to describe the same thing—a delicate pink varnish that covers my fingernails. Every Monday, I have a standing manicure appointment at Breeze. The manicurist, Meryl, and I play the same game. Perched on a black stool, Meryl clucks over my cuticles and then asks, “How about red today? It goes well with your skin tone.” Pretending to ponder Meryl’s suggestion, I gently retract my hands to tug off my engagement ring and wedding band. “Red would match the gown I’m wearing to the gala next week. Maybe we’ll try it then.” But I never switch my request. Pale, newborn baby girl pink adorns my fingernails week in and week out.

  Just once, I’d like to try something brash like fire engine or tangerine. However, I’ve learned those colors are garish and considered inappropriate by the reigning queens of Miami high society. Heaven forbid I make waves.

  With a flick of his elegant wrist, David fills the cabin of the luxury sedan with the classical music he prefers. Not a single strand of his hair falls out of place. The crisp corners of his heavily starched white shirt peek out from the edge of a black tuxedo jacket sleeve. David’s French cuffs have his initials, DM, stitched on them, parallel to the cufflinks he purchased on a trip to the south of France. Every angle on David seems to be chiseled from the image of wealth and sophistication—classic bow-shaped mouth, straight, high-bridged nose, and thick lashes framing his ocean eyes. There are no visible imperfections in his appearance. But I know a secret. If it weren’t for the colorist who visits our home each month, flecks of gray would show at David’s temples.

  “That dress you’re wearing was quite the sensation.” The aristocratic timbre of his voice works well to seduce potential clients. David Morgan is the driving force behind Morgan Financial, a financial planning service that caters to Miami’s elite. In a way, the smoothness in David’s voice was one of the first things that drew me to him, too.

  David knows exactly how to charm his prey. Bestowing compliments on one of my original designs is my biggest weakness. Under his praise, my shoulders straighten. Despite everything, I still blossom under a compliment from David.

  All my life, I’ve wanted to create beautiful garments. I worked tirelessly in high school to get good grades and earn a scholarship to college, and then slung burgers at a fast food restaurant for extra money. Then I got my prize—a partial scholarship to study fashion at the Miami Design Institute. Finally, I went after my dream of becoming the next Coco Chanel.

  Life has a heartbreaking way of uprooting dreams, though.

  Instead of producing fashion for Bryant Park in New York City, I’ve been relegated to a studio in my home. It’s not so bad, designing for myself. There’s no pressure to please anyone other than my own critical eye. Although my designs aren’t known on the national level, I am able to showcase my wares at society events. This evening I’m wearing a gown that took me a month to create—after the initial conception. Silk. Deep plum twisted bodice and a slit in the A-line skirt to allow a large enough range of motion for dancing. It elongates my lean form, displaying my feminine curves without being overtly seductive.

  “Adriana Martinez would like to commission a gown for an inaugural ball,” I murmur. Like my husband, I’ve trained my voice to be gentle, never jarring.

  David’s carefully styled eyebrows lift a centimeter—the barest hint of surprise. Adriana is married to Hector Martinez, the king of a real estate empire stretching from Key West to West Palm Beach County. Along with his wife, Hector can be found at every charity gala, important political function, or other event deemed important by Miami society. Now that the former governor of Florida was elected president of the United States, the financially influential Martinez couple will make their move toward Washington, D.C. They were big donors to the president-elect’s political action committee. Seven figure donors. If Adriana wears one of my original designs to an inaugural event, it could be a huge coup for what David calls my little hobby.

  “Is that so,” David drawls.

  “Adriana will be photographed for magazines and blogs. The exposure could do well for Morgan Financial.” Bravely, I lift my gaze to David, who stares at me impassively. His emotions are getting harder and harder to read with age.

  “Hmm. Morgan Financial would be a secondary beneficiary. Your design would be the shining star.” David shifts smoothly in the cream leather seat, now one eyebrow cocked in my direction. My heart thuds in my chest. Is he angry because, for once, a sliver of the spotlight may shine on me? “No matter. Let’s see if you can get yourself invited over to the Martinez compound. You’ll present the idea of a couple’s dinner at our home.”

  “Certainly,” I agree. David doesn’t have to convince me on this point. Adriana is one of the most tolerable people David strongly encourages me to engage with socially.

  David’s expression doesn’t betray any underlying irritation that Adriana may garner interest in my work. The tension in my chest abates and I sink further into my seat, good posture be damned. David reaches across the armrest dividing the backseat of the car and places a hand on my forearm. “Soon, you’ll be receiving requests from all over South Florida. My wife, the fashion designer.” His lips flicker upward as though the prospect amuses him. “I support it, so long as your career doesn’t eclipse the time we spend together.”

  “No, of course not.”

  The diamond tennis bracelet clasped around my wrist pinches my skin, drawing my attention to the glimmering jewelry. David slips two fingers between my skin and the stones, stroking the delicate skin there.

  “Do you
remember when I gave this to you?” he asks huskily.

  “How could I forget?” With my free hand, I finagle David’s hand to entwine our fingers together.

  “Remind me,” he teases.

  “It was right before we were married. You had the wedding planner deliver it to the bridal suite with a note.” Briefly, my eyes shut as I remember the emotions of our wedding day five years ago. Heady anticipation coursed through my veins that day. Never in my life had I known that type of excitement. I blink my eyes open and find David watching me raptly. A stoic mask conceals whatever he remembers of our wedding. Forcing myself to smile, I tug his hand to my chest where my heart rate has slowed to a gentle cadence.

  “At the time, this bracelet was the most magnificent gift I had ever received. You’ve managed to outdo yourself dozens of times over.” I allow my expression to soften. “No one spoils me like you do, David.”

  A cloud of Armani cologne wafts around me as David leans closer. He releases my hand, only to drag his fingertips along my cheek. David presses his warm lips against mine in a short kiss. “You’re the one who spoils me,” he croons.

  It happens when David shifts back into his corner of the car, so quickly I’m sure he doesn’t think I notice. But I see it. David’s eyes flicker to the driver, making sure that he’s watching the show. If I’ve learned anything in the five years I’ve been married to David Morgan, it’s that appearances are of the utmost importance.

  Carlo had been David’s driver long before I became his wife. William Morgan had hired the weathered Cuban refugee who was his most-trusted man for twenty years. Eventually, my husband inherited the employee who lives on our Coral Gables estate to be ready whenever David demands. With well-practiced ease, Carlo navigates the way home from Key Biscayne. The rest of the short drive is silent, giving my imagination the chance to run with Adriana’s gown specifications. I desperately want to start sketching tonight. When Carlo glides the sedan into the circular drive, my hand finds the lever to open the door.

  Then I remember.

  And pause.

  A lady does not open her own car door especially when hired help is present.

  As if I’ve been burned, my hand drops to my lap where a Swarovski crystal-encrusted clutch sits. I run my fingers over the ridges of the shimmering bag, waiting patiently. From the corner of my eye, I watch David’s lips press into a thin line. He hates when I forget my place.

  Carlo swiftly pulls the passenger door open, allowing a stifling blast of Miami humidity to swarm the interior of the car. Shooting David a sheepish smile, I carefully twist to slink one leg out of the vehicle. Carlo extends a hand to assist me. Using his hand as leverage, I plant one high-heeled sandal on the stone driveway, then the other, and maneuver my body to stand out of the car. Carlo and I exchange a fond glance, and I nod my head in a silent thanks. David insists a verbal acknowledgment is unnecessary. After all these years, I’m still not able to follow that rule.

  Sturdy fingers grasp my elbow, steering me through the lush foliage toward the front door. French Lavender, Santa Barbara daisies, and a sprinkling of planted pots line the front walk. Flickering in the moonlight, the gas lanterns illuminate the familiar wrought-iron doors. It’s customary for David to unlock the front door and, if it’s activated, disable the security system. On any day, various members of the house staff filter through the palatial Mediterranean-style home, making the alarm system a burden. Given the late hour, the house is empty and security should be armed.

  By now, Carlo has disappeared to his residence. He and his wife, Miranda, also our housekeeper and cook, live in a small two-bedroom home on the perimeter of the property. Their home is far away enough to provide privacy but close enough that they can arrive upon David’s immediate request.

  The cavernous house is empty except for David and me.

  The coldness of the silent home doesn’t escape me. If I were to categorize the interior, it would be museum chic. Exquisite artwork hangs on the walls, an original Chihuly sculpture sits in the dining room, and the furniture is so pristine, at times I’m afraid to sit on it. This home was built to impress. As we walk, the only sound is the click of my stilettos and tap of David’s shiny tuxedo shoes against the marble floor. Halfway up the grand staircase, I realize that David didn’t deactivate the alarm.

  “That’s odd,” I say. “Miranda must have forgotten to activate the alarm when she left this evening. The alarm didn’t sound when you opened the door.”

  “Perhaps,” David says, unconcerned by the change in protocol. A whispered worry slithers through me, but I shove it away.

  After that, neither of us speaks when we cross through the wide hallways on the second floor and head to the master bedroom. At one time, I stared at my surroundings in wonder. The expensive furnishings, the floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the Coral Gables waterway, and the yacht parked at the foot of the dock screaming wealth and privilege. For a girl from a small town in Central Florida, this life is more than I could have ever dreamed for myself.

  David walks into our closet with me trailing behind him. There are two rooms. You have to walk through David’s to get into mine, the Morgan version of a his-and-her closet. David’s suits hang by color code; the laundry is done daily so that he never has to go without an item of clothing due to wear. At David’s request, my side of the closet is organized by item type—skirts, blouses, gowns, etc.—and then color. A marble-topped island in the center of the room holds my undergarments, a safe for our jewelry, and any item of clothing that doesn’t require a hanger. For most women, the rows of exquisite shoes, bags, and exclusive designer labels is a fantasy come true. To me, all of these physical displays of wealth are just costumes to hide my unsavory upbringing. Underneath all the glitz and glamour, I’m still that little trailer park girl who forgot which fork to use at the mayor’s dinner.

  First, I sit on the cushioned bench next to the island and remove my midnight evening shoes. They go on the shoe shelves, next to the other Italian and French heels. It takes a few twists and turns to unzip the length of my purple gown. Carefully, I hang the dress in its appropriate spot. Next, I place the diamond bracelet and dangly earrings back into the safe. This dress wouldn’t allow for a bra. Instead, I had to paste cups to my skin to protect from a wardrobe malfunction. The adhesive stings when I peel the material off my breasts, leaving ugly red marks in its wake. Free of my fancy costume, I pull a silky black negligée over my head and shrug in to the matching robe.

  When I walk into the stark white bathroom to scrub away the cosmetics covering my face, David is washing his hands at his sink. If I had it my way, I’d wear as little makeup as possible. Blessed with few blemishes all my life, makeup seems like an unnecessary addition. But a plain face wouldn’t translate well to the photographers, so David insists I get a full face of makeup by a professional artist before every event.

  “There are some business matters that need my attention,” David says, wiping his hands on the white, 100-percent Egyptian cotton hand towel.

  “Okay. My brain’s running a mile a minute with design ideas for Adriana. I’ll be in my office for a bit, too,” I respond.

  “Don’t stay up too late, Karolina. You need your beauty rest.” From any other husband, the words could come off as affectionate. From David, I hear the underlying command.

  “Okay. No more than an hour,” I readily agree, not wanting an argument. David nods and glides out of the bedroom. Even when there’s no one to watch, he moves with well-practiced elegance.

  My studio is at the opposite end of the home’s second floor. The square room is larger than any bedroom I had while growing up, including my dorm in college. Like the way my closet is arranged, every garment, needle, thread, and piece of material has its own place. Built-in drawers occupy the wall and the closet hides two dress forms. No matter the pristine state, just being in this space, my space, lets my mind drift to contenment.

  The moment that my pencil hits the sketchpad, my fingers move
almost without thought. Time disappears as I envision what would suit Adriana’s tall, slender frame. Red silk would go exquisitely with Adriana’s blue-black hair. Not to mention, the dress would be patriotic for a presidential gala. Several minutes later, I settle back into my desk chair and critically study the first sketch. I chew on my bottom lip, another habit David detests, assessing the lines.

  Then the room goes black. Absolutely pitch black minus light from a smattering of stars and the full moon filtering through a large window. A quick look outside lets me know electricity is out for other homes across the waterway. There must be some sort of outage.

  Instantly, my heart rate picks up and my lip curls in disgust. An adult woman afraid of the dark. Pathetic.

  I jump to my feet and yank my robe closed as if to shield myself from the monsters lurking in the corners of the house. I creep out of my studio and into the hallway overlooking the great room below.

  “David?” I call with a trembling voice. Don’t be silly, I scold myself, you are fine. The lights will probably turn on in a minute. “David?” I try again when I get no response, my voice rising in fear. Try as I might, I can’t stifle the building anxiety.

  Evil roams free in the dark.

  At a near run, I dash toward our bedroom. Maybe David’s sleeping. I’ll join him in bed, and when I wake up in the morning, the electricity will be back on. There’s nothing for me to worry about.

  “David!” I whimper at the bedroom door. The heavy black drapes are drawn, and no moonlight streams into the room to offer light. He must be in bed. Quietly, I shut the door behind me, engulfing the room in darkness. David insists on complete black when he sleeps, saying any small sliver of light keeps him awake.

  My hand trembles where it keeps my robe closed at my chest. I can feel my heart racing underneath my skin; my breaths are speedy and uneven. Just a few more steps and you’ll be in bed. I inch closer to the king-size bed even as my body whimpers that something isn’t right here. Blindly, I reach forward to feel for the mattress when it happens.