Everything inside me freezes.
He looks at me like a drowning man finding oxygen. Like he is seconds from unraveling. Like I am the only thing keeping him upright.
The blonde is still talking.
But Gustav is no longer listening to her. He’s hearing something that isn’t there.
And I glance around, deeply concerned my husband is about to erupt in a room full of bosses.
Chapter 41
Peighton
The room around me blurs when Gustav’s eyes lock onto mine from across the ballroom.
It feels like he is speaking a private language only we understand, a silent plea threaded with fear and forgiveness all at once.
I move before I think.
My dress swishes around my legs as I weave through clusters of men shouting over drinks and women laughing.
Gustav stands so still that he almost looks carved from stone. The blonde is still beside him, still smiling, still brushing too close. But our gaze’s never leave each other.
I reach him. His large hand twitches at his side, painfully restrained. I slide my fingers into his palm and close gentlyaround him. He doesn’t resist. He holds onto me as if his life depends on it.
I give the girl a deadly glare and she steps back fast.
Smart, because I’d claw her eyes out if she didn’t.
I lean close to Gustav, pretending we are whispering something flirtatious like any newlyweds, murmuring, “Come with me, baby.”
He lets me pull him from the room, uncharacteristic, but necessary.
We descend a staircase. Down one level. Then another. Each floor grows quieter, lights dimmer, marble giving way to polished concrete. I open a double door at random, needing privacy more than direction.
The room swallows us.
An enormous indoor pool stretches across the space. Gold tiles line the walls and glimmer under low lights. The air smells faintly of chlorine and wealth. For a moment, I am stunned.
“Gustav, this is… beautiful, isn’t it?”
Silence.
I turn back.
And my breath catches painfully.
He is hunched forward. One hand braced against the wall. The other in his hair. Fist clenched. Pulling.
Hard.
“No,” I breathe, hurrying to him. “Babe, no.”
He doesn’t seem to hear me. He whispers to himself, low and frantic, cursing and arguing. His shoulders shake. A handful of hair comes free between his fingers. Panic claws up my throat. I reach for him and pry his hand away with all the strength I have, barely managing it.
His chest heaves like he can’t inhale enough air into his lungs. I cup his face. I kiss him again and again, frantic pecks along his cheekbones, jaw, temple.
“Gustav, look at me. Look at me, baby. Come back.”
