Sixteen

                                    

                                          
Elena Patel
I've tried for five days now. I've tried my hardest to purge the image of Vincent Moretti, my husband, washing off his blood soaked hands at the kitchen sink. He came home that night with a crimson stained shirt, and blood covering his hands and knuckles. I watched silently from the corner of the staircase. I knew he wasn't hurt, I knew this blood belonged to someone else. Someone who probably didn't deserve to die that way. I hate to admit that I was worried about him, that seeing him covered in blood like that made me want to cry and the thought of him getting hurt was messing with my head. I went back to my room that night, trying to wake myself up thinking it was all a bad dream. But it wasn't. My husband is a murderer.
I haven't spoken to him about it, or told him I saw anything. I'm avoiding him. I've been busy coordinating and planning this stupid event at our house. I used people from Vincent's office, his assistants helped me send out invitations and there was even a section in the business tech page of the newspaper that this event was taking place. It's apparently supposed to be very high profile, and I guess it would be nice to have one night free of the routine.
As I made my way into the kitchen, I glance outside and see Vincent in the outdoor gym room. This building has a guest one, but his is private and secluded, with views of the skyline. Right now, I'm staring shamefully at my murdering yet ridiculously beautiful husband, as sweat glistens on his skin and he's currently benching 250 pounds. The cords in his hands and the tattoos all over his skin flex with his every move. He's pure muscle, strength and raw power. His body is chiseled, sculpted as if he were a God. It's like he's cut from marble. He's always stuffed into a suit, but I still took notice of how his shirts stretch across his taut chest, the bulge of his large arms. It's no doubt he is the epitome of a man, yet it's unfair that he's set such a high standard. That face and body, he's just pure devastation. I feel my body tense, heat rushing places it doesn't belong- and the sound of the whistling kettle knocks me out of the trance.
After steeping my tea, I hear the intercom buzz. "who is it?" I ask, and a beat of silence follows. "regent design ma'am, we're here with decor." a man says, and I smile. "sure, come on up." I press the button I know unlocks the elevator, and an image of the man with his entire crew pops up from somewhere.
Vincent steps inside, a towel draped around his neck. I try my level best not to stare at his chest. His perfectly sculpted chest. "who was that?" he asks, the rough burn of his voice immediately makes me remember he's just pretty, he's still a bad guy. "the decorators for tonight," I say, and he sighs. I blow on my teacup, and look away from him. "a security team will be here soon. Try and stay vigilant, some of these people aren't friends." he rasps, and narrows his eyes on me. The way the brown flecks glisten in the light makes my heart trip, and I don't like it. "what's wrong with you, are you sick?" he asks, not a hint of care in his tone. "what are you talking about? Are you already going senile?" I ask, bringing my mug to my lips. "your face is red, you're flushed. If you die at the event tonight I'll look really bad," he says, making his way around me. I look at my reflection in the glass refrigerator. I'm blushing. I was staring at him, now I'm blushing. "I'm fine, you idiot. And if I died it would be a blessing, that way I'd never have to see you again." I say, and hear his low chuckle. "Hm, a blessing indeed." he disappears before I could say anything. Did I really blush for that creature? 
The decorating crew makes their way into the penthouse, and they work their magic. Opening the stackable doors and hanging lights everywhere, moving around furniture and putting on fancy table cloths, in about three hours, this place looks absolutely incredible. Everything looks formal, sophisticated and beautiful. It's like a soiree. 
The sky darkens slightly, but the humidity is awful and uncomfortable, so we change to finger foods instead of heavy meals. There's coolers with drinks everywhere, and even a DJ found his way around. Once everything was set, I headed up to my room to get dressed. It's been a crazy morning and I look terrible, but this event would have many photographers and important people for Vincent's business, so I have to polish up, and that is one thing I never have a problem with.