LOVE BY CONTRACT

KAMARIA'S POV

It's ten o'clock in the night. I was going through my nightly routine when I heard his call to drive into the garage. Despite having listened to this sound for the past five years of our marriage, my heart still leaps whenever I hear it.

I didn't get up from my vanity chair but continued to brush my dark curls, waiting for him to come to me.

Even though I didn't go to him, that didn't stop every part of me from focusing on him. My heart was still beating very strongly in my chest, my ears more alert than usual to hear even the tiniest sound he made, like the sound of his shoes, whose familiarity I have gotten so used to that I will recognise his footsteps anywhere. My skin is already tingling in anticipation of him walking into the room. My nostrils were readying to perceive that masculine scent that always announces him whenever he enters the room.

His footsteps were the first thing I heard as they climbed the glassy spiral staircase of our house. It was unhurried, like he didn't want to reach where he was going but had no choice.

The thought sprang a spark of sadness in my chest, as it had for the last five years. I had heard the moments he had chosen to come home, and it looks like today is one of those moments.

The flight of stairs to our room is about a hundred, but the anticipation of waiting made it look like thousands. At last, I heard those heavy, confident footfalls before our door. He has always walked like someone who is not afraid of anything, always sure of himself. I have hated and admired that in him.

My heart, which was beating fast before, started roaring as I felt him close. My hand, leisurely running the comb through my silky waves, stopped and fell into my lap as I tried to curb my nerves.

I should have gotten used to him by now and stopped feeling like I was meeting him for the first time every time he walked into the room—after all, we had been married for five years. But that first-date syndrome is yet to wear off.

Instead of walking in straight like he usually does the nights he comes home, he hesitated at the door. That deviation from the norm made my heart flutter, but not in a good way. My husband is a creature of habit, and if he is not doing things as he usually does, it spells trouble.

I tried to control my anxiety and wait. Despite my longing for him, despite the joy infusing my pores like a drug, I didn't get up. I still sat with my spine straight, focusing on the round vanity mirror with pink edges, barely seeing my image reflecting on me.

He stood at that door for what felt like hours, but it was only a few seconds before the door handle turned.

Have you ever watched a horror movie in which an axe murderer enters the unaware victim's home? The slowness at which the door turns, the anticipation and fear the background ominous music creates. This was happening to me as I waited, with the grinding sound of the brass door handle ringing in my ears.

Finally, it opened, and he walked in.

As always, sandalwood and spice announced his presence.

A scent that causes a bittersweet feeling in my heart whenever I perceive it anywhere.

I was hungry to turn and see his handsome face, to run to him and embrace him, to kiss him all over and beg him to touch me.

It has been a long time since we made love. The last time was about a month ago, and that was because he was drunk. Sadly, this has always been the case whenever my husband decides to make love to me. His debridement has never stopped him from being the best lover I have ever had. It was fulfilling every bit of my desires.

"Welcome home," I said softly, still turning my back to him. I started combing my hair again, not because it needed brushing but because I needed something to keep my nerves at bay. They are shooting off like sparks of electricity with him in the same room as me.

He didn't acknowledge my greeting. Which is terrible, but I refused to get unnecessarily worked up.

"Have you had dinner?" I finally turned to face him. His tanned, handsome face looked a little weary, but that didn't stop him from being the most attractive man I had ever seen. Nor did it stop my heart from leaping off my chest or my skin from tingling like needle pricks.

"Yeah, I had dinner with Lily."

His voice was flat and emotionless as if he were discussing business ventures with his partners instead of his wife.

Hearing her name caused my heart to twist around itself in so much pain, so excruciating that it felt like a blunt knife to the chest.

Lily is my husband's mistress, his lover, the woman he loves, and the woman he refuses to give up even though he is married to me.

I nodded, not knowing what to say.

Damien made it clear that I have no say in what he does since our marriage isn't real.

It felt real to me, but to him, it will always be something he was forced to do.

"Oh," I mumbled underneath my voice. You could hear the pain in my voice with that one word. And the pity that flashed through his blue eyes before he masked it with a cold look drove the blunt knife deeper into my chest.

The thing worse than not being loved by your husband is being pitied by him.

This is usually where our interactions end unless he is drunk and wants to have drunken sex with his wife. No, that has its interaction. Whenever he comes home and is in the mood for sex, he will usually not say a word and just grabs me and throws me on the bed, kissing me like I am some common whore in the street. I do not care whether I am in the mood or enjoying his touch, but unfortunately, his touch never fails to excite me.

I got up from the small stool I was sitting on, tightened my robe around me and headed towards the bed.

I was about to lie on my side of the bed when his deep baritone voice spoke again.

"Kamaria, wait, I would like to talk to you about something."

When you are in a relationship, and the other partner usually doesn't talk much or decides to speak, that usually spells trouble.

The bad fluttering in my heart transferred to my stomach. I turned to him with nothing on my face. I didn't want him to see the fear his words caused.

"What do you want to talk about?" My voice was calm, and I must say I was proud of it.

"Let's get a divorce."