However, the Hardings have a hard time losing and accepting defeat. And, if I were naive, I’d think it was because they truly cared about me.
But they don’t.
It’s just their image and Bobby they’re concerned about, not me. I’m just an object to push things forward for Bobby’s future.
Divorce would’ve been inevitable eventually and I would be left with nothing but a broken heart, years of my life gone, and Catherine taking the mother role of whatever kids we had.
She’d shut me out, use her money to do so and raise my children without me.
It all makes more sense now that I have some of the missing puzzle pieces I didn’t have before.
“Bronte,” I hear Catherine say soberly. “Meirna isn’t your wife, darling. She was Bobby’s. We need to make this right.”
Bronte finally breaks his focus off me, appearing infuriated that he has to, when it lands on his birth mother. “And what would you have me do?”
“Divorce her,” Bobby sneers, stealing an inch closer to me and that has Bronte’s eyes examining the distance between our bodies. “She doesn’t belong to you. I built this future with us. You don’t get to come in here and start taking things from me.”
“I can’t take what was already mine, Bobby.”
My ex-fiancé moves forward, so quickly that a sliceof anxiety courses through me because I think he’s going to do something stupid. Like he’s going to swing at Bronte and cause a scene that my seniors wouldloveto see but we have some on medication for anxiety and sensatory issues.
A fight would be full of mixed emotions and rile them up all day.
“Bobby,” I scold underneath my breath, lining up at his side because I have to stop this. “You can’t do this here.”
I’ve never seen Bobby get into a fight before, not sure if he’s able, but I’m not going to risk it today.
“We need to discuss this elsewhere,” Catherine proclaims. “This is a family matter and too public.”
You didn’t care about that five minutes ago.
Bronte’s eyes slice over to me then, and I can read the message clearly in his head;get the hell away from Bobby, or I’m going to hit him myself to make it happen.
Doing so, I see Bronte’s shoulders relax before he lifts his chin slightly. “It’s been an eye-opening pleasure, Bob,” he says. “But my wife and I have plans for the day.”
I don’t correct him because I didn’t know of any, but I don’t care.
I’d gladly leave with him.
“She’s not going anywhere,” Bobby provokes, snatching my wrist and yanking me toward him.
My chest bumps into his bicep from the force and I wring my arm to get him to release me. “Let go.”
Bronte doesn’t make a move for me.
And, in a sense, I’m glad.
I don’t know what he’s fully capable of and, again, I don’t want to see it here.
Bobby doesn’t listen to me, still boring daggers up at his older brother and prompting him to do something about it.
“Daydream,” Bronte drones, unseemly cool and collected. “Relax.”
My body stops resisting Bobby’s touch by ceasing my pulling, but I feel it through my skin, and it makes me still tense and feel disgusted by it.
“Now, Bobby,” Bronte continues, all business and no play. “I know you don’t know this, but I’m not a patient man. You’re touching my wife. And, the only reason why I haven’t fucked you up yet is because she loves this place. The last thing I’d want to do is make her a storyline with the residents. But I’m going to make you one in two seconds, if you don’t take your fucking handsoffmy fuckingwife.”
He hasn’t raised his voice once, but every syllable stresses bloody violence.
