6

The  doors clicked shut behind Chase, leaving a silence so intense in a way that was suffocating for Giselle. Richard didn't move immediately. He walked back to his study desk, and sat down. He leaned back, his eyes narrowing as he studied Giselle’s face.

"I have a very good memory for faces, Giselle," Richard said slowly. The vibration of his voice made her stomach flip. "But I’m struggling here. I feel like I’ve seen you before. I just can’t place where."

Giselle forced a dry cough, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "I highly doubt that, Sir. I’ve never been to London, and you’ve never been here; at least once since I married Chase. We are definitely meeting for the first time today."

Richard tilted his head, his gaze never wavering. "It’s awkward. I feel it strongly. The eyes, the way you carry yourself. It’s familiar. I remember a feeling, but the circumstance and the timing are... just something I can’t pinpoint presently."

"Well, you’re mistaken," Giselle said, her voice a pitch too high. She gripped her purse until she was sweating under her knuckles. "I’ve been staying at my friend Serayah’s place for the last few days. I’ve barely left her couch since Chase served me the divorce papers. I haven't been anywhere for you to see me or run into me by chance."

Richard sighed, rubbing his temple. "Perhaps. Pardon me for overlooking the obvious. It’s been a long flight, and I’ve stepped right into a disaster. I am truly sorry my son is being a total ass."

At the mention of Chase, the reality of her situation crashed back into her. The guilt of the one-night stand festered along with the pain of the divorce. She squeezed her eyes shut, and this time, the tears weren't entirely fake. She let out a jagged sob, burying her face in her hands.

"I just miss him so much," she wailed, the sound muffled by her palms. "I love him, Sir Richard. I gave him everything. I gave him my youth, my body, my heart. How can he just throw me away like trash?"

Richard stood up. He moved with a quiet grace across the room. He stopped in front of her chair and placed a firm, warm hand on her shoulder. "Don't do that to yourself, Giselle. You are far from trash."

"But he doesn't see me!" she cried, oversharing as the words spilled out like an open wound. "He told me I was suffocating him. He asked for an open marriage, Sir Richard. Can you believe that? He told me I wasn't enough for him. I spent three years trying to be the perfect wife. I cooked meals he barely touched, I waited up late nights, I kept the house exactly how he liked it. I even learned to like that horrible scotch he drinks just to have something to talk about with him."

Richard’s hand tightened slightly on her shoulder. "An open marriage? That’s what he proposed?"

"Yes! And when I said no, he handed me papers on Valentine's Day. He said he found someone who doesn't 'suffocate' him. Someone who isn't 'too emotional.' I feel like I failed at the one thing I was supposed to be good at."

The irony was a physical weight. As Richard rubbed her shoulder to comfort her, Giselle’s mind betrayed her. A flash of memory hit her from the crazy night: Richard’s hands on her waist in the hotel suite, those firm hands now comforting her had held her in place while he slammed in and out of her, those hands, squeezed rumple her soft breasts and choked her sweetly, those hands made love to her in the wake of an alcohol induced one night stand. The scent of his skin close to her made her vagina twist in a sweetened manner. The way he had looked at her with a hunger Chase had never shown. She felt a sick instantly, dizzying rush of guilty pleasure. She had slept with her father in law, an incident that would have been avoided if she had just stayed back in her hotel and cried her eyes out, she blamed herself.

"Listen to me," Richard said, his voice dropping an octave. "I am going to speak to him. This divorce is impulsive, and it’s sloppy. Beyond the personal insult to you, it’s a nightmare for the company’s reputation. We are in the middle of a merger. We cannot have a Hemingway scandal on the front page because my son can't keep his pants zipped."

"You would do that?" she asked, wiping her eyes and looking up at him. "You’d help us?"

"I’ll try to see if I can halt the proceedings for now," Richard promised. "I’ll make him see reason. He needs to remember his responsibilities, not just to you, but to this family aswell."

Giselle nodded, but her skin felt like it was on fire where he touched her. She felt nasty. She felt like a liar. But beneath that, she felt a dark, twisted thrill that she actually enjoyed the secret. The fact that the man standing over her had seen her at her most vulnerable—and her most uninhibited—was a high she couldn't come down from, all the same she was mildly grateful that he could not recall.

"I... I think I need some fresh air," she whispered, standing up abruptly. "I feel a bit lightheaded. Too much has happened today."

Richard stepped back, giving her space, but his eyes remained pensive. "Of course. Go. Take a walk in the gardens. I’ll settle things with Chase when he returns from wherever he went."

"Thank you, Sir Richard. Really."

She practically bolted from the room. She didn't stop until she was out on the terrace, breathing in gasps and gulps of cold air.

Inside the study, Richard Hemingway stood perfectly still. He watched the door she had just exited. He walked back to his drink, taking a slow sip. A part of him deeply held the notion that he knew her. He was certain of it. The way she had looked at him just now—there was a flicker of something in her eyes that wasn't just grief.

"Where have I seen you, Giselle?" he muttered to the empty room. "And why do I feel like I’ve touched you before?"