Page 144 of LA King

Alana

The fluffy towel feels luxurious when I wrap it around my body after stepping out of the bath, and I find myself soothed by the scent of jasmine coming off my skin from my bubble bath. It really does make this place feel a little more like home. Smiling to myself, I head into the bedroom to get dressed. I haven’t spoken to Alejandro since this morning, and he did say he’d be home for dinner. I hope he is, and not only because I want answers about Layton Cooper, but because I miss him. Absurd but true.

I’m lost in thoughts of him when the door to our bedroom bursts open, startling me. Alejandro storms inside, a murderous look on his face. I can feel the anger radiating off him from twenty paces away. He glares at me, his dark brown eyes full of fire.

Is this about Layton Cooper?

I swallow my anxiety and wrap the towel tighter around my body, as though the plush material might offer me a modicum of protection from the raging demon who’s advancing on me. I have no idea what the hell made him so angry, but I have no desire to be on the receiving end of his wrath.

He stops when he reaches me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body and smell the expensive cologne he uses. “Where were you yesterday afternoon? After your shopping trip?”

Despite my fear, his growl pulses through me. What the hell is wrong with me? “I was doing my charity work,” I answer, defiant and certain I’ve done nothing to deserve this.

“And the day before?” he snarls.

“Exactly the same.”

He inches closer, his proximity terrifying yet somehow exciting. “With Hugo?”

I blink, even more confused than before. What on earth is this about? “Yes, of course with Hugo. You won’t let me leave the house without him.”

The intensity of his gaze scorches my skin. “So you and he leave this house every day, and you spend hours doing your charity work?” He spits the last two words as though they’re wrong or dirty.

How dare he treat me this way. I match his fierce glare with my own. “Yes, doing my charity work. What the hell is your problem?”

His lip curls in a sneer. “My problem, Mrs. Montoya, is that you have made me look like a fucking idiota.” He advances on me, and I instinctively step back until I have nowhere else to go and I’m pressed flat to the wall. The cool plaster makes me shiver.

My ferocious husband places his hands on either side of my head, caging me in. My body trembles, but I’m not entirely sure it’s from fear. Yes, he’s scaring me, but I feel something else too. Anticipation. Excitement.

“Did you think I wouldn’t find out that you’ve been lying to me, puta? Have you been fucking him? Is that where you two really go every afternoon?”

A shuddering breath fills my lungs. I couldn’t be more shocked if he slapped me across the face. But more than shocked, I’m indignant. “I haven’t been fucking anyone,” I snap. And I don’t know much Spanish, but I know what puta means. “And don’t call me a whore!” I’ve been called that word before, mostly by drunk guys in bars. It’s never a pleasant experience, but to be called that by my own husband is shocking and hurtful, especially when I’ve done nothing wrong.

“Then where do you go? Because I had a very interesting conversation with Mrs. Grant, who tells me that you attended one charity lunch three weeks ago, and they haven’t seen you since.” He closes the gap between us to barely an inch. “So, tell me, puta, where the fuck have you been?”

God, he’s infuriating. I have half a mind to kick him straight in the balls. He certainly deserves it. “Mrs. Grant!” I yell instead. “She and her bunch of smiling sycophants might call what they do charity work, but it’s just an excuse for them to get drunk almost every afternoon and throw a party once a year for whatever charity happens to be fashionable. Do you know what this year’s event is for? A new wing of that fancy private school that already brings in hundreds of millions of dollars a year. Of course I never went back there. I have nothing in common with those women. I said charity work, Alejandro. That means helping people who are actually struggling.”

Confusion flickers over his face as he studies me, probably trying to decide whether he believes me. “So where the fuck have you been going?”

“To a women’s shelter downtown. If you bothered to pay any attention to me and my life, then you would know that,” I rage as I shove him in the chest.

He doesn’t budge an inch. An immovable wall of muscle and wrath. He still thinks I’m lying to him.

Asshole!

“Go and look through my purse if you don’t believe me. I have paperwork from the center in there. I’ve been fundraising for weeks. Or check my phone. Every single day, I’ve spent hours on the phone to potential donors.” My anger gives way to a sadness so acute and unexpected that I don’t have time to stop it. A single fat tear rolls down my cheek.

And now it’s too late. A river of tears runs down my cheeks and I just let them.

All the pent-up tension, anger, and frustration of the past few weeks wants to tumble out of me, and I have no choice but to let it. Stupidly, I thought the two of us were getting somewhere. I thought we were finding a way to survive this complete sham of a marriage without making each other totally miserable. And now he’s calling me a whore and accusing me of cheating on him. I can’t do this anymore.

He continues to stare at me, his jaw working as he considers what to say next. I don’t expect an apology from him. I doubt he’s ever apologized for anything in his life. “I assumed that you and he …” he says, his voice low yet still dripping with menace.

“I know exactly what you thought. You’ve already made it very clear. How could you accuse me of sleeping with Hugo? Of sleeping with anyone! Of all the things you could think, your first thought was that I must be having sex with someone else.”

His brow furrows, his hands still planted beside my head on the wall. “You and I don’t have sex. It’s not outside the realm of possibility to assume you’re getting it elsewhere.”

Oh my god, I really want to kick him in the balls now. “You mean like you do?”