Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 86741 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86741 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
This time, both his eyes opened and he blinked several times at me before picking his head up. “What? What’s wrong?”
“I think . . . we should get a divorce.”
Roland stared at me for a long, long time, then he sat up completely and reached over to turn the nightstand lamp on. “What?”
I didn’t want to repeat it. I had no idea if I was making a mistake by saying those words out loud. I would lose so much—not financially, but emotionally, mentally, and physically. But in my heart, I knew it was the best thing for us to do. For his sake, at least.
“Why do you want a divorce?” he asked, confused. “What did I do wrong?”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” I countered quickly.
“So then why do you want a divorce? Look—I know I wasn’t the best person to be around when I got injured. I—I bottled things up and I took it out on you and I’m sorry, Mel,” he pleaded. “I was just upset about the wreck and my injury and—”
“It’s not that, Roland.” Tears fell down my cheeks as I reached for his hands. “I just . . . there are things about me that aren’t good. And if I don’t take action now, I never will and it will only make you miserable later.”
He narrowed his eyes. “I don’t understand.”
“I cheated on you, Roland.”
I didn’t think it was possible for a man his size to flinch as if I’d slapped him, but he did. “You what?”
“I-it was a mistake!” I cried but he snatched his hands away and climbed off the bed. “I didn’t even care about it, Roland! I swear! I don’t even know why I did it!”
He paced the area at the bottom of the bed, fists clenched, shoulders hunched.
“I’m sorry,” I whimpered. I climbed off the bed, cautiously making my way to him. Roland kept pacing, and I hated the pacing, so I grabbed his arm and turned him toward me. “Roland, say something,” I pleaded. But he wouldn’t look at me and I hated when people didn’t look at me, so I grabbed his face next, tried to force his gaze on mine.
And he looked, but his hand shot up also. He clutched my face between his fingers, gripping hard, his upper lip curling back and his nostrils flaring.
“You have the audacity to try and divorce me, only to take my money and run off with someone else, after you fucking cheated on me?”
I struggled to pull myself out of his grip, but he only held on tighter, and it was hurting. “Roland,” I struggled to say, clawing at his hand.
He backed me up until the back of my legs hit the edge of the bed, then he shoved me down. “I could kill you, Mel. Right here. Right now. I could fucking kill you, I swear to God.”
Tears blinded me and he wasted no time grabbing my face again, forcing me to look at him. “I don’t care about your tears or your fucking sob story. You cheated on me when I was good to you. I gave you everything, and you let someone else take what belonged to me. And now you think you can just walk away, like it’s that simple—like I’m just going to accept it? Fuck that and fuck you,” he snarled. “You walk away, and you won’t have shit, Mel, and I mean it. If you ever try to leave me after what you just did to me—to us—I promise you, I will make your life a living hell.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
I closed and dropped the journal, my heart rapidly thumping in my chest. I stared around the relaxation room, feeling anything but relaxed. Then I collected the journal and hurried out of the room, shuddering breaths, hands shaking, legs feeling like jelly.
I went downstairs to the mudroom, stepping into my boots and coat, but before I could open the door, someone behind me cleared their throat.
I froze when the person asked, “This again, Samira?”
It was Roland.
I worked hard to swallow and slowly turned to face my husband. He walked toward me, shoulders broader than I’d remembered, and his jaw set. “Why do you keep sneaking out?” He stood only a few steps away from me, slashes of moonlight on one half of his face. The other half was dark, unreadable.
“I—I’m not sneaking out,” I said. My coat was still open and I started to slide the journal into it to tuck it under my arm, but he saw and his eyes narrowed.
“What is that?” He took a step forward.
“It’s nothing—just a book.”
Another step forward. “Are you lying to me?”
My heart beat harder, my stomach twisting into knots. “I’m not lying.”
“So let me see it.”
“No—Roland, you wouldn’t care for it. It’s just a silly romance novel.” I tried to lighten the situation, but he wasn’t having it.