Page 34 of Seasons of Sin

“Yeah, he cheated,” she muttered, rolling her eyes.

“I am not referring to his infidelity. That’s just one piece of a much bigger picture. He doesn’t love you. He might love something about you, but it is a selfish love.”

“How do you know?” She demanded. “You don’t know him.”

“But I know you,” he spun around and crouched before her. “I know you.” He put his hands on her hips and stared into her eyes. She felt like he was peeling back the layers of her soul oneby one. She was vulnerable and scared. “I know that you deserve a man who puts you ahead of everyone and everything else, including himself.”

“That’s not realistic. I don’t think a man like that exists.”

“How would you know?” He murmured. “You’ve been with this guy since you were a child. Lots of men would be a better husband to you in this way.”

“Oh, like you, I suppose?” She snapped, moving to stand up. But he held her where she was. His eyes were wary.

“I never promised you more than this week,” he said finally, and Saphire was surprised to learn, even then, that she wasn’t yet done hurting. Her heart pinged painfully as his words shook through her.

“No,” she agreed slowly. “That’s true.”

“But you deserve better than this guy.”

“Maybe.” She angled her head to look out to the ocean. “But I married him. I can’t just wave a magic wand and put an end to that.”

“But you can call a lawyer and begin divorce proceedings.”

She let the sentence sink in, and she stowed the words somewhere in the recesses of her brain. Then she shook her head. “You make it sound as easy as ordering pizza.”

“Yes, I do. Because there is no alternative. You cannot stay with him, Saphire. He will continue to treat you like a doormat, and you will continue to be hurt by him. And one day, you will wake up with your life half gone, and wonder why you didn’t have the courage to walk away at the first sign of his character.”

“He’s my husband,” she said quietly, squeezing her eyes shut against the feeling of nausea that battered her sides.

“And yet you beg me not to call you Mrs Arana,” he said softly.

It was misery; there was no escape.

“Come to bed, Mrs Arana.”

CHAPTER 8

The words she’d been thinking for days breathed from her lips finally. “What’s in Paris?”

His fingers were tracing patterns down her back, teasing goosebumps over her pale skin.

Paris.

The city had taken on a new significance for him, one he had swiftly come to hate. For the next morning they would leave the island as a pair, and part at the airport as what they really were — two strangers going on separate journeys.

“MK?”

He startled. “A meeting.”

“I gathered. What’s it about?”

Would her husband make love to her when she returned? Would Saphire let him? What was their sex life like? Was she as wild with him? With Jordan? He frowned. She’d said that she’d never known it could be like this. That, at least, was something.

“A business I’m buying.”

“What business?”

He leaned forward and kissed her shoulder. “So many questions.”