I married into one of New York’s oldest families with a terrible command of their native tongue: French. So, naturally, on our honeymoon in the South of France, I had to show off on Instagram. [Photo: A sun-drenched selfie, me beaming, my handsome husband Leo in the background on his phone, a turquoise sea behind him.] Caption: The way my husband speaks French should be illegal! So incredibly hot! The thing is, I’d accidentally posted it as a Live Photo. In the three-second clip, you could see Leo turn to the camera, a slow, devastating smile spreading across his lips. You could also hear every word of his phone call. The comments started rolling in almost immediately. The first was from a French friend from college. 【Hot? Hannah, are you kidding me?】 Then another. 【OMG, he’s literally flirting with someone else on the phone while you’re grinning like an idiot!】 1 I stared at the comments, my heart giving a painful lurch. Live Photo. I’d completely forgotten. Another friend, ever so “helpful,” posted a translation in the comments: 【He’s telling her not to call during the honeymoon. He also said the takeout she ordered doesn't hold a candle to your cooking, but since you’re from the Midwest, you don't know how to make a proper bouillabaisse. He said if her skills are any good, maybe he’ll stop by her place for a taste when they get back.】 A cold knot formed in my stomach. I looked over at Leo. He did always rave about my cooking. He hung up the phone, that same smile from the video still playing on his lips—seductive, intoxicating. He took my hand, raising it to his mouth to press a soft kiss against my knuckles. "What's wrong?" His tone was completely normal. I hesitated for a beat, then asked, "Who was that?" "Just a friend," he said, the words light as air. He offered no further explanation. I didn’t feel like I had the right to press him. But as I looked back down at my phone, at the stream of likes and comments pouring in from friends, family, and Leo’s entire social circle, my face burned with a humiliating heat. My hands trembling, I deleted the post. 2 My mind was still racing. Leo was already on his feet, sliding his hands into the pockets of his linen trousers. "You handle the check-out. I'll wait for you in the lobby." I mumbled an agreement. He must have sensed my distraction. He paused. "Still thinking about that call?" he asked, his voice laced with a gentle, weary amusement. "It was really just a friend. A guy friend. I'll introduce you when we get back." A real smile finally broke through my anxiety. "I wasn't worried." But it felt like a ten-ton weight had been lifted from my chest. Leo just shook his head, a fond smile on his face, and headed downstairs. After I finished packing, I wrestled our two enormous suitcases out of the room. Down at the front desk, I switched effortlessly into French to settle the bill. "Madame, your French is excellent," the concierge noted, impressed. "Thank you," I said with a small, proud smile. I’d minored in French in college; languages always came easily to me. Everything except the specific, old-world dialect Leo’s family spoke amongst themselves. It was my one great failure, the one area where I couldn't seem to keep up. Leo had insisted I not even try. He’d once whispered against my earlobe, his voice a low murmur, "You’re my wife, Hannah. I’m the one who should adapt to you. Besides, I'm opening a new branch in Chicago this year. You should be teaching me proper American idioms. For instance, how do you say, 'I want you again, baby'?" ... The memory of his words sent a flush of heat creeping up my neck. But when I finally dragged the suitcases into the lobby, sweating and flustered, the memory evaporated. I found him laughing with a stunning woman—a willowy brunette with sharp, model-esque features. "Leo?" I called out. He and the woman turned in unison. Her face was bright and beautiful, but her eyes, when they landed on me for interrupting, were sharp with annoyance. I froze, asking, "Who's this?" Leo leaned back against the concierge desk, crossing his arms with an air of relaxed amusement. "She was hitting on me. Aren't you going to assert your claim?" I felt a surge of awkward panic. I had never been in a situation like this in my life. I looked at him, utterly lost. "What am I supposed to do?" And then— One of Leo's hands cupped the back of my neck, pulling me in for a deep, possessive kiss. With his other hand, he theatrically covered the brunette's eyes, which were practically shooting flames. His voice was a playful, seductive purr. "Isn't this enough?" I melted into the kiss, my head spinning. Through the haze, I heard the brunette let out a short, sharp gasp. 3 It wasn't until we were in the taxi heading to the airport that the wrongness of it all started to crystallize. His movements… it was like he was performing for both of us. Seducing two women at once. I was about to say something when my mother's call came through. She wanted to know why I hadn't posted any honeymoon pictures today. I stammered something about being busy with travel. Her voice immediately hardened. "You need to post, Hannah. You're a Davenport now. Your social media presence is part of the package. This isn't your old life; you can't afford to be so thoughtless." I looked down at my hands, my voice barely a whisper. "Okay." After I hung up, I re-uploaded the photo, making sure this time that the Live Photo feature was off. A moment later, a sixty-second voice memo from my mother buzzed through. 【...What is going on with your hair! Those bangs are all stringy, couldn't you have brushed them before taking a picture? And those denim shorts are far too short, you don't look like a lady at all! You look so… unpolished! How do you expect the Davenports to ever respect you if you present yourself like this!…】 A profound sense of powerlessness washed over me, extinguishing any desire to fight back. It was like being the stepsister trying to cram her foot into Cinderella's slipper. If a part didn't fit, you just had to slice it off. Eventually, it’s easier to just curl your toes, to surrender to the shape of the unyielding glass. I sighed and typed back: 【I know, Mom. I’ll be more careful next time.】 After that, I lost the heart to question Leo about anything. 4 "Why the long face?" Leo squeezed my cheek gently. "How about I take you skydiving for our next stop?" "Skydiving?" My eyes widened, a spark of excitement cutting through the gloom. Our honeymoon had only been twenty days, but in that time, I’d done more than in all my twenty-two years. Rock climbing sheer cliffs. Surfing in Biarritz. Getting deliciously drunk in a smoky jazz club in Paris. I even learned to play Texas Hold'em. And won a few thousand dollars. It wasn't a lot of money, but the thrill of it kept me awake all night. I looked at everything with wide-eyed wonder, and Leo seemed to look at me with even more. "Hannah," he’d say, laughing, "you're something else." At first, I’d been resistant. Extreme sports, bars, casinos—they were all on the long list of things my mother had strictly forbidden. When I told Leo this, he threw his back his head and laughed. "Hannah, how old are you? You still listen to your mother?" I just looked at him, feeling lost. He pulled me onto his lap, his smile wicked. "Well, you're married now. Doesn't that mean you should listen to your husband? And your husband wants you to have fun with him. Trust me, it's incredible. Besides, your mom isn't here. You don't have to tell her everything." Hesitantly, I tried. And it was more than fun. It was freedom. For the first time in my life, I tasted what it was like to be truly free. Leo was so, so good to me. And I loved him so, so much. He never forced me to do anything. When we got back to New York after the honeymoon, he even deleted the Rosetta Stone app for French from my laptop. "Why work so hard? It hurts me to see you stress over it. All our staff speaks English, and most of my business is stateside anyway. You just stay home, relax, and enjoy yourself." I was so moved at the time, I nearly cried. But it was the one thing I didn't listen to him about. I kept studying in secret. I was a language major, after all. I knew that a person's deepest thoughts and feelings are intrinsically tied to their mother tongue. Even though Leo's English was perfect, we still had moments of being lost in translation. I was learning because I wanted to understand him. All of him. 5 Thankfully, I was a fast learner. Within a few months, I could understand most of what people were saying. My own speech was still clumsy, but I was getting there. I wanted to wait until I was fluent to surprise Leo. He, however, surprised me first. One evening, his closest friends came over to our penthouse for drinks. "To Leo Davenport, married off at twenty-six! We had to come celebrate the end of an era," one of them toasted. "Seriously, man, why get married so young? Did you finally decide to settle down, or did something… stop working?" Another one shot a suggestive look at Leo's tailored trousers. Their crass, frat-boy energy made my cheeks burn. Leo just smiled, ruffling my hair. "Don't be nervous. They're my best friends." He introduced them. They were all tall and impossibly handsome, like a casting call for a luxury watch ad. Even the ones who weren't conventionally attractive were polished to a high shine by expensive suits and ridiculously opulent watches. But the way they looked at me was anything but polished. It was critical, appraising. One of them made a soft tsk sound. "Couldn't really tell under all that wedding makeup, but she's actually pretty average. Her legs aren't as long as Chantal's, and her skin's not as pale as Cherry's. And that body is…" Rage, hot and sharp, flared in my chest. Did he have any idea what he was saying? Leo stepped in front of me, planting a light kick on the guy's shin. "Say one more word," he said, his voice low and angry. "..." The friend took a half-step back, a flicker of surprise on his face. 6 The mood in the room turned heavy. I used making tea as an excuse to escape to the kitchen. As I left, I heard Leo sit down, the corner of his mouth ticking up into a smirk. "It was just a joke, man. Don't be so serious." By the time I returned with the tea tray, the boisterous atmosphere had returned. His best friend, a guy named Grant, asked, "So your wife doesn't speak French?" I blinked, saying nothing. Leo looked over at me, a smile playing in his eyes. "Nope," he confirmed. Grant raised an eyebrow. "Then why'd you marry her? As a decoration? I thought your father had a whole lineup of eligible French heiresses for you." Leo leaned back into the plush sofa, looking impossibly relaxed. "Because she's sweet." He paused, a memory seeming to cross his mind, and a slow grin spread across his face. "So damn sweet." My face felt like it was on fire. I knew instantly what he was thinking of. Our wedding night. I had been so nervous. His hands had moved over my body like a slow burn, his voice full of genuine wonder. "You're twenty-two and you've never even had a boyfriend?" I trembled under his touch, mortified, and shot back, "Who says I haven't?" He just laughed, his arms tightening around my waist as his whole body shook with amusement. "Liar." "You're pure as the driven snow. Don't pretend to be experienced, sweet girl." I swatted at his chest in frustration. His only response was the arch of his back, crashing into me in waves, and the broken, breathless words he gasped out between thrusts: "So… damn… sweet." ... "You have to cleanse the palate after too much spicy food, right?" someone joked. Leo kicked out at him again, but this time he was laughing. "You asshole! That's my wife you're talking about. You can't compare her to the girls on the outside." Their crude talk made me frown. I tugged on Leo's sleeve, but he didn't seem to notice, just squeezed my hand and kept going. "For a wife, of course you choose the sweetest, most innocent one." I didn't feel complimented. A sick feeling was growing in my gut. I decided I'd wait until his friends left to tell him how I felt. But then Grant spoke again. "So, no more nights out for you? Chantal lives in the same building as that girl I'm seeing. She's asked me a bunch of times why you don't come around anymore. I heard she's been taking cooking classes, learning all the French classics." I couldn't believe what I was hearing. Leo didn't deny it. He just gave a lazy, tired shrug. "We'll see." Then, his gaze fell on me, soft and possessive. He tucked a loose strand of my hair behind my ear, his voice a gentle murmur. "I'm very happy with my wife now." My heart stuttered. If I couldn't understand what came next, I would have drowned in the warmth of his eyes. But his words, spoken in that fluid, aristocratic French, were like daggers, stabbing me over and over. "She's sweet, she's a great cook, and she takes such good care of me." "The fact that she doesn't speak French is a bonus, you know?" "She can't read the gossip rags writing about my flings." "She can't send me angry texts in French demanding I come home." "And even if she wants to start a fight, I can just pretend I don't understand." The room erupted in raucous laughter. "You're a bastard, Davenport! Playing your own wife for a fool?" Leo laughed along with them, loud and unrestrained. Only I remained silent, my face ashen, my body starting to tremble as if struck by lightning. "Leo," I said, my voice clear and steady. He turned to look at me, his eyes widening slightly in surprise. Because I had said his name in perfect, unaccented French. I held his stunned gaze, and continued, enunciating every single syllable. "Je comprends tout." (I understand everything.) Every grating laugh screeched to a halt. And the wicked, self-satisfied smile on Leo's face instantly vanished.
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