The Lovely Ones » Places

         

Marcus certainly was unable to say what was coming over him. He had never been this self-conscious or doubtful before in his entire life. There was certainly never a doubt in his mind that things would turn out well, that he was doing what was right and smart and correct. This entire conversation, however, had turned the world's leader into a stammering, spluttering mess within just minutes. Isobel's arms slowly looped around his neck, drawing her face closer to his as Marc slowly lowered his cigarette down by his side. The hand on her waist moved up and down slowly, brushing his calloused flesh against her smooth, gentle skin. This close proximity between their two bodies allowed him to sigh gently, as if that would help him overcome these unspoken feelings that he couldn't truly put to words. Isobel had paused, staying silent after his previous question for a few moments before finally speaking.

"Marcus, I cannot speak for Vivian, but... I've seen her with that 'son'..." she murmured. Again, Isobel paused to take a breath. Had Marcus been at the top of his game or, had he not been completely off set by these sudden emotions, maybe he would have detected the pause and questioned it. But, of course, he was buzzed, he was confused, he was worried. Therefore, the carefully constructed lies of his mistress simply flew right over top his head without him even thinking twice. "I didn't want to tell you, Marcus. But I can't stand by and watch her humiliate you. People around the mansion are already beginning to talk." Marcus's jaw clenched subtly and his eyes widened slightly at her words. No, God damn it, no. It couldn't be. Vivian wouldn't. She was his wife, she was expected to love him, to be there for him...to be faithful. His thoughts, extremely hypocritical, seemed only to be the truth to him. Granted, that was all his mother ever was to his father-- a figure to stand there and be gorgeous. But, then again, Vivian was far more than that. She was charming, stunning, charismatic, intelligent. Hell, she was quite a match for Marcus.

"T-that...that doesn't sound like Vivian at all," he murmured, dumbstruck. "But..." He trailed off as Isobel dropped one hand to stoke his cheeks, warm with the flushing he'd done. Marcus pressed his cheek against her hand softly, the contour of his cheek fitting into her hand as he closed his eyes briefly and then snapped them open again at her next words.

"I saw her with Philip, in your very own bedroom. In your bed." Who knew that just two statements, thirteen words, could bring a world crashing down? His stomach dropped, he could feel a bile rising, his face paled, his hand retracted from Isobel's waist. What was becoming of his world, his perfectly constructed little utopia that sat right in the center of his palm? It was crashing down around him, it was crumbling...and there was nothing he could do. The cigarette dropped from his hand, landing against the lovely tile of the balcony and rolling to a stop at his feet. Marcus's mouth opened, closed again, opened again, and closed once more. He was speechless, literally. What the hell could he say in response to this news?

And who knew what his wife was up to now without him there? She could be in his bedroom again with her son, doing unspeakable things. And now, the term "son" made his stomach churn and his fists clench. How could he have overlooked it? How could he have been so stupid, so unobservant. He knew he didn't like that boy when he first saw him and now...now, he knew why.

Marcus cleared his throat and, in a broken voice, whispered an apology and excused himself.

The walk inside was one of shame and disgrace. A few people hurried toward him, intent on speaking with him, but he simply shrugged them off and said he had important matters to attend to. It was a shocking sight, frightening to a few who knew Marcus only as the fearless, strong leader he usually was. On his to the stand, he grabbed a glass of champagne and downed it quickly in just a few sips. The empty glass was replaced on a tray and he picked up another one as the empty stand came into view.

"That bitch," he snapped, taking his original place with the champagne glass tightly gripped in his hand, though softly enough that it wouldn't shatter. In a painfully slow manner, he raised the glass to his lips and sipped it. Subconsciously, his entire frame shook slightly in a mixture of uneasiness and rage.

The High King himself was, more or less, a shadow of the man he was in the beginning of the evening. Any semblance of a sane man had been shattered minutes ago, out on the balcony with that innocent mistress of his.