mistress before mrs. | f.f

selena's stale regret | c.1

Chapter One,

Vango Penthouse,

6:10 pm

"goodbye" seemed anything. Not complicated, really at all.
I walked over to my husband, the last moment with Miles, before he leaves.
He shrugged me off, muttering

"F-U.K. Off."

The final action of my husband, before he leaves for a month.
He's a director, for a swimsuit modeling company.
He'll be spending a couple weeks in Las Angeles, which I really wouldn't approve of, yet it's not my desiciton.
Suddenly like something wasn't I peek through the door way.
Curiosity filled my penthouse, it was quiet and I despised that.
He's now in las vegas for half of a month, and my supposed husband didn't have the decency to tell his wife goodbye?
Ongoing issues with this man,
I swear.

He doesn't kiss me anymore, and our intimacy has reduced significantly. That's all that runs though my mind.
The assets,

Hurriedly, I sit down, clasp my hands together, and narrow my face into my palms.
I felt my anxiety rise, and I felt pressure, surrounding around me like a twister of stress.

I started to realise.
The weeks,
we haven't even communicated correctly.
A few mishabs,
always turn into accusations,
and disagreements
I can't be mistreated.
Buy the ignoresome attitude.
My erotic depressed emotions all of a sudden, glory into worrisome.

It was the equation that I didn't know what I wanted anymore,
was it even him?
I love him,
so much.
He has never acted this way before.
Otherwise, I wouldn't be this fragile about the situation.

I allow myself to ponder, sit back into my deep thoughts. Not my ideal situation, must I say. I look around the room, then back to the window seeing him a seat himself.

Gazing out the glass I feel anxious, and way over spoilt for another sip of wine.
I gaze, as he carries hoists a cigarette out, casually ignoring me,
speedily driving down the road, in his cream aurora porsche.
One of our many cars.

I inhale dramatically.
I wobble over to the bedroom.
My knees were over weak, and compressed to my anxiety.
The last thing I wanna do is dread in my thought's sorrow.
That's never a good thing.

I slip back onto the silk satin,
letting my dark distressted leather gown curl around my thighs, and my knit founder down my body.
I'm stressed, and annoyed, bored, sad and uncomfortable.

I love him so much,
I-don't know anymore. I miss his sexy extinct touch. His everything.
All I can think about is our intimatecy was occuring, constantly.
Very strange.
I corner my eyes directly to the book shelf, focusing my eras, and I begin my head feels like a hot tornado, that's cursing flashbacks.

'Are we in love, Selena?'

'Of course.'

I never usually let my mind control what I determine, yet I'm hulicnating all of the sexual speeches, poems, our love. And it's trying to devote my love for him. One voice is chanting to stay, yet the other is persuasing to leave.
I feel like some physcopath,
inching off every second of a memory with this man.
This isn't as bad, is it?
Maybe it is, I-don't know.
My husband, me, the sight of the fucking house is driving me crazy.

I'm a strong woman, all the positions I was put in, I should know by now.
It's economiclly impossible for him to be upset with me, I don't deserve to be ignored, or treated this way.
It's not only the fact he ignored me this morning.
This occured,
Last night, last week, and a few times last month.
What the hell?
Oh why?
Arguments in my mind, shifting back and forth, back and forth, about how his bliss for his wife may be weakening.

-
I need to call him. I lift up my phone,
hesitantly,
I draw it to my ear,
and my stomach muscles clench eachother fitfully.
"Hello?"
The chew of his prophetic gum, and his masculine deep tone,
and a clack of a push pen repetivly in the background.
I can't possibly be hyponotized by his deep voice at this moment.
I roll my eyes.

"Fuck, Miles."

I say axially.
He pinpoints from my voice, being a little brief as he let out what sounded exhausted,

"What?"

He chirps.
I raise my eyebrows annoyingly, and squint my nose.

"You didn't even kiss me goodbye."

I exfole loudly.

"I'm sorry hunny."

He excalims, excused.
"Why is it so calm, and quiet?"
I grip the nightstand,
and sit up for better instalment of the hear.
It was almost as if the moment he heard my question, he sticked to exuces, and lies for the rest of all. My lips part, they stretch out.
My tears slip down my face,
sneering mascara and liquid black down my face.

"Selena."

"Sel- I'm in a meeting."

I inhale.
I hear silages of ruscling, and almost whispering, to his so called "boss". I become alarm.

"MILES, LISTEN-"

"Call me back, I'm trying to have conversation, I'M ON A PLANE."

He hangs up.
I grunt, throwing my iPhone six to the ground.
Sniffling up my sorrow, I think
'No crying' is a better option. Move on.
With life, its not that big, Selena.

I have no tollerance for him, or whatever the fuck he's doing. He can't affect me. He can't. I won't let him. I withdraw to my mind, it's the right thing.
I close my eyelids.
Deep inhale.
Deep exhale.
It's time.
Have a good night, party, and get wasted. I had it all planned out. I'll hit up taylor, and we'll shake our ass all night. Revenge. But I won't cheat. I'll misbehave. I smirk, violently.

I lift the gorgeous dark sheer and pin it agaisnt my chest examining myself, and solarising what I would look like in it in the mirror. Waterfall curls, usually not a common factor to my daily outfits. It was rare for me; but I felt inclusive, and frisky.
I tilt my head, then I turn around.
Eyes back,
A few twirls.
Pretty.
Time for heels, of course.
I feel delirious. Uptight? Maybe.
I open my personalized and organized just-shoes closet.
I had a strong rule anyone but
'Selena Gomez' was permitted from laying a finger on my shoes.
It made me feel special, very special.
My nails drum on the exceptionally large,
'NO TOUCHING' banner that sits on the latch of the crystal doorknob.
I push my ten-digit passcode in the foam-ish material ventricle security press pad.
The doors open.
I gasp excitingly.
My tears feel they are dry, I feel vain. I walk in, look around.
Till my foot hit the piercimg sharp heel.
I haul up nude silhouettes. Though nude is not regulary my,
"Cup of tea"
They seemed to match a dark cream lacey v-back dress, which was reasonable.

It was about, five-after 7.
My hair was evenly tamed.
I wore estimately three pounds of cosmetics.
My gown repudiated, fitting proacative attire squeezed my breasts, and I looked approachable.
Not my look, again.
I'm trying new things,
For a new bitch.