Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Which I buy, to be honest. I see myself naming it that. Other options would be My Wedding and He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named as a Prop or I Got Married. He’s Only Here for the Pictures.
Eli holds the ring in midair, waiting for me to take it. Still not looking at me.
I jam the bottle of kombucha in the cupholder, my temper flaring as fast as the fizz that’s spilling over. “If you are actually my husband, then look at me when you give me my fucking wedding ring.”
He lifts his head, a flash of anger appearing in his stormy eyes. Under different circumstances, I’d probably run or cower.
Hell, under different circumstances, I’d never allow myself in a closed space with Eli. That’s just asking for trouble.
Right now, however, I don’t see a way out.
Instead of focusing on the confusion and the loss I feel without my memories, I direct that energy at him.
“Watch your mouth.” He speaks in a deep, firm tone.
He has a way of moderating his words to intimidate his adversary. And while I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t affected, I’m more pissed off than anything.
“Should’ve thought about that before you married me.”
“A decision I question every day.”
“As do I, for sure.”
“For sure,” he repeats with a hint of dark amusement. “Except for the small fact that you’ve been infatuated with me for years and then proceeded to beg me to marry you.”
I can feel my cheeks warming and probably turning bright pink, and for the first time, I’m not a fan of my favorite color.
“Me? Beg you? You must be out of your mind.”
“Out of my mind for tolerating your presence? Yes.”
“I did not beg you to marry me.”
“Does that mean you remember the proposal night?”
“Just because I don’t remember it doesn’t mean you can spout nonsense. Why on earth would I beg the person I hate the most to marry me? I’m neither desperate nor suicidal.”
A hint of something unfathomable passes in his eyes as quick as lightning, and then they’re back to their status quo—aka an unreadable gray cloud. “And yet you ended up marrying the person you hate the most. The irony.”
“The horror.”
“The reality, Mrs. King.”
“Stop calling me that.”
“But you are. We have the wedding certificate and the ceremony to prove it.” He grabs my hand and slides the ring on my finger roughly, with no patience or softness whatsoever.
But then again, there isn’t a gentle bone in the devil’s body.
I stare at the ring, and for some reason, it seems familiar. Comforting.
What kind of disturbed thought is that?
Choosing to steer clear of that territory, I cross my arms. “Well, there’s something that can undo it. It’s called a divorce, and I want one.”
A burst of laughter rips from his cruel lips and fills the car with a dreadful undertone before it comes to a sharp halt. “There will be no divorce, Mrs. King.”
“Well, I demand it.”
“Demand declined.”
“I have every right to decide the status of my marriage, and I want it to end. As soon as possible.”
“Our marriage.”
“What?”
“You said the status of your marriage, but it’s our marriage, Mrs. King.”
“Well, our marriage is obviously an anomaly, considering we can’t stand each other. No idea what went on in my head when I agreed to this ridiculous wedding, but I’m no longer possessed and would like to do the right thing. Please and thank you.”
“Possessed…” he repeats the word slowly as if he’s letting it sit on his tongue to taste it, dissect it, probably slash it open like the countless hearts he’s broken to pieces, often unknowingly and without regrets. “Do you believe you were possessed when you said ‘I do’?”
“There’s no other explanation for that daft decision.”
“Interesting.” He focuses back on his phone, completely and effectively erasing me.
This prick has a PhD in raising my blood pressure. If I were still hooked to those hospital machines, they’d be beeping all the way to the sky.
“I’m talking to you,” I grind out.
“I’m not.”
I snatch the phone from his hand and contemplate throwing it out of the window. But that would make me look both dramatic and impulsive—two descriptions Eli loves shoving down my throat.
So I regulate my breathing and let the phone drop to my lap. “I said I want a divorce.”
“And I said you won’t be getting one.”
“I’ll take you to court.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Wanna bet?”
“If you’re in the mood to lose your money and time aside from your feeble thought process, sure thing. I suggest you stop being impulsive for once in your life and think about this logically.”
“This is the most logical solution. There’s no love lost between us, Eli. Why the hell did you even marry me?”
“As I said, you begged.”
“Let’s say I did, which is by no means true, by the way. You just said yes?”
“I’ve always had a soft spot for begging.” His eyes shine with a gleam of lethal intensity and I swallow, feeling suddenly parched.