“So I should just be happy and move on?” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “When you werestanding in my bedroom, telling me about your father the day you proposed, I thought you were vulnerable, opening up to me. I thought we were bonding. And you were just spitting lies.”
“The reason for my proposal was fabricated, but the story wasn’t. My feelings that day were real. As real as they are today.”
“You know what I learned over the past few weeks? The revelation about Ethan and my dad? That nothing is what it seems.”
“Don’t you fucking compare me to them.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “I almost started believing you were more than an entitled rich boy… but I guess, sometimes, thingsarewhat they look like.”
He steps closer, his chest heaving. “I made a mistake. I wanted to tell you many times.”
I snort. “And I should believe that?” I turn to leave finally. This is such an unproductive conversation.
He grips my arm, forcing me to look at him. “Remember in the car after we went shopping? And when you came home and found me reading with Pavel. Or when I sought you out in the pool yesterday, then last night, and today… Today, we got interrupted by Lottie.”
I jerk my arm away. “So you tried a few times… that makes me feel so much better. You failed to try for the gazillion other minutes we were together.”
Xander’s nostrils flare. We’re riding on a wave of emotions that forces snarls from us we may regret. I guess that’s better than keeping it bottled up.
On the edge of my mind, something screams at me to stop. I’m arguing with him, while I desperately want us to put the argument behind us.
I can’t live without him.
The thought invades me with staggering clarity, at the same time as I’m blinded with a flash.
“Fuck,” Xander utters under his nose, grabbing my hand.
I’m stomping behind him, my heels tearing the dress even more as the paps follow. Xander ignores them, barreling through, rushing us to the car.
“I’m not leaving with you,” I say through my teeth, not wanting anyone to record the words.
I also don’t attempt to wiggle out of his vise-like grasp. Cameras click, and words are shouted. I don’t hear any of it, my focus on the touch of his hand around mine. On the fact that he’s dragging me to safety.
I stumble again, the hem of my skirt now stamped with the sharp spike of my heel. Someone pushes us. I keep my head down, more feeling than seeing the phones of onlookers angled at us.
Xander in New York is fairly anonymous, but clearly on his home turf it’s a differentstory.
One of the suited guards from the estate appears from somewhere, and with his help we reach the waiting car, engine running.
Before the car barely moves, Xander pulls out his phone and yells at his lawyer. My pulse is slowly finding a regular rhythm. The adrenaline spikes in the past hour can’t be good for my health.
“No, let’s not wait and see…” Xander growls into the phone. “If there are any fucking pictures of my distraught wife anywhere, you’re fired.”
He ends the call and turns to me. “Are you okay?”
I sigh, closing my eyes. “That is kind of a loaded question at the moment.”
“At the moment.” He tastes the words and squeezes my hand. “That gives me hope.”
I want to pull away. He doesn’t get off this easily.
But however many objections I have, I know I will forgive him. This man who never says sorry, but threatens to fire his lawyer because my pictures may appear in the media.
This man who made up a lie, but married me because he really wanted to. As fucked up as it is. Maybe not out of love, but because he wanted to help me. Or be with me?
“Don’t get ahead of yourself.” I turn to the window, but I keep my hand in his.
Not holding—just letting the touch slowly rebuild the shaken walls of our union.
