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)
“Hypothetically, I’ll claim you on his corpse so you recall who the fuck you belong to.”
Her lips part, but before she can say anything, Bonneville reappears, all freshened up and with a fake smile plastered on her face.
“You found her. Great! Do you want to join me for breakfast?”
“No.” I grab my wife’s hand and drag her out of the house.
She follows, but it’s abnormal. My wife feels too pliant, a bit lethargic, and lacks the usual spark that shines brighter than the northern lights.
The deterioration of her state that I was afraid of didn’t happen, but something else did.
What, I don’t know.
Henderson releases a small breath upon seeing us.
Ava shields her eyes from the rare English sun before she gets in.
As soon as we’re in the back seat, I turn toward her as she stares at the streets, too absentminded. “Was the party worth missing your medication and worrying Sam shitless?”
“I took my meds and Sam is allergic to concern.”
“When you speak to me, you look at me.”
She reluctantly turns around and crosses her arms, her defiant streak barely visible beneath the sheen of mysterious meekness.
Something’s off. Logically, she’d be giving me attitude for disappearing on her for a week by now.
But she’s not.
In fact, she looks a bit guilty.
“What happened?” I ask with practiced calm.
A delicate swallow works her soft throat. “Nothing. I just wanted to catch up with friends.”
“Those people are not your friends. I know it, your brain knows it, and even your heart would know it too if you opened it wide enough.”
“Last time I opened it, you cracked it to pieces.”
I grind my molars. “If this is your attempt at changing the subject, I’d like to inform you that it’s an epic failure.”
“It’s my attempt to remind myself that I shouldn’t be feeling this way. You have no morals, why should I?”
“Feeling this way about what?”
“Forget it.” She throws a hand in the air. “I’m surprised you showed up, after all. Were you scared I would’ve moved out?”
There she is.
I raise a brow. “Would you have?”
“No.” She stares out the window again. “But I would’ve moved all of your stuff to the garden and left it to soak in the rain.”
20
AVA
My attempts to avoid Eli fall apart three days later when I shove the door to his home office open.
I stand there in the entrance, keeping my distance.
During my hiding episodes whenever Eli is in the house, I realized that the main reason for my tormented thoughts and foolish moral code is because I believed the lie that is our marriage.
When, in reality, this is a charade that was agreed upon merely for convenience reasons.
We’re not in a relationship and, therefore, I shouldn’t feel guilty about my supposed cheating episode that I barely recall.
I went around asking the possible suspects at Gemma’s party, but I came up with nothing. Of course, the devil himself interrupted me before I could pop the routine question to V.
Gemma said she had no idea, so I wondered out loud if it could have been Ollie, because I clearly remember his interest from my last year at uni. Gemma mentioned that was impossible since he left for some tropical island a long time ago.
Which struck me as weird, because he gets red as a tomato in the sun and I never thought of him as the type who would indefinitely cut himself off from our gang in the UK.
But anyway, after my husband interrupted my conversation with V, I could’ve texted him. The real reason I haven’t is because a part of me doesn’t want to find out.
That part also believes that despite our lack of feelings for each other, our marriage is based on commitment. My husband is many things, but I’ve never witnessed him giving any other woman his attention. Even when they do everything possible to vie for it.
And that’s part of the reason for my crushing guilt.
Upon my intrusion, Eli looks up from the screen in front of him and I’m struck by how sinfully beautiful the man is.
Control oozes from his set lips and neutral expression down to the rolled cuffs of his shirt stretching around his muscular, veiny forearms.
Something is distinctively out of order, though—his eyes.
They take me in from top to bottom in a blur of heat and a whisper of danger. He observes my pink silk camisole, matching shorts, and fluffy slippers with undivided interest.
The man is a national security hazard trapped in taut muscles and lurking behind a gentleman’s façade.
Sometimes, I feel like I’m the only one who sees him unfiltered like this. Other times, I recall that I hold no importance in his life and quietly put myself back in my place.
His gaze slides back up to my face. I grow hot under his attention, but I refuse to appear bothered, so I stare back, unblinking.