Chapter 2

Her smile froze. “Wait, what? How did you—”

At that moment my empty stomach twisted violently. Nausea surged without warning. I bent forward, covering my mouth, retching dryly as tears pricked my eyes.

Arabella stiffened, her anger giving way to uncertainty. Her gaze flicked to my abdomen.

“You… what is that?”

I swallow hard, forcing the nausea down.

“I’m fine,” I manage. “I just get nauseous around things that are particularly fake.”

Her face goes red. “You bitch—”

"I'm not finished." My voice comes out steadier than I feel. "Miss Montclair. Whatever your theories about my relationship with the CEO, they're not your business, and they're not relevant to your work. I don't know what gives you the confidence and what you're hoping to reclaim, but if Mrs. Hawthorne ever learned you were sending suggestive photos to her husband's work email, I think that conversation would go very badly for you. Please be professional and have some self-respect."

I picked up my bag. "Also, you should exercise more. The photo really didn't do you any favors."

I walked out.

Behind me, something shatters against the bathroom mirror.

***

Sebastian’s car is waiting when I get outside.

The black sedan idles at the curb like a patient predator. The driver has the door open before I reach it, his eyes carefully avoiding mine.

Inside, my husband doesn't look up from his tablet. Of course not. I go through my ritual, hand sanitizer first, then the disinfectant wipes I now carry everywhere, before sliding onto the leather seat. He doesn't acknowledge the rustle of my efforts, the small price of marrying a man who once threw out a $4,000 handbag because a barista accidentally touched it.

The door closes. The car pulls into traffic.

“About today’s proposal,” his voice is all business. “The data support is fine, but the risk mitigation for potential public backlash is weak. Arabella’s framework is empty, but it leaves room for buffers.”

I stared out the window and said nothing. My stomach still ached. An hour ago I'd been sparring with another woman, unable to say a word about who I actually was — because of this foolish arrangement we called a marriage. And this man, apparently, had been collecting admirers without mentioning it.

He certainly won't explain how he caught the attention of the noble Miss Arabella.

“And dinner with my mother tonight.” He's still reading. “Six o’clock. Clayton will pick you up.”

I know exactly what tonight will be. Marisol Hawthorn with her asking if I’ve tried the new fertility specialist. Her not-so-gentle comments about three years of marriage and no baby. The careful way she'll look at my flat stomach, then at her son, then back at me, saying nothing and everything.

My stomach cramps harder. I keep my mouth shut.

The city slides past the window. High-rises. Trees. A woman pushing a stroller. Normal things. Normal lives.

"You've been staring at that same building for thirty seconds." His voice cuts through. "Either you're contemplating architecture or you're avoiding me. I'm hoping for architecture—at least that would be interesting."

I don't turn around. "I'm counting windows."

"Fourteenth floor, seventh window from the left. You started there." A pause. "Still there."

I hate that he's right.

"I'm not avoiding you."

"Then look at me."

I don't move.

His sigh is soft, almost amused. "Coward."

The word lands exactly where he meant it to—under my skin, sharp and hot. I turn, ready with something cutting, but the look on his face stops me.

"There you are," he says quietly.

And then his hand closes around my wrist and pulls.

I tumble across the seat before I can catch myself, landing across his lap with an undignified squeak, my palms flat against his chest. The wool of his suit is soft beneath my fingers. The muscle beneath it is not.

“What are you doing—”

“Sit still.” His arm curves around my waist and locks me in place. The suit does nothing to hide the way his body radiates heat through the thin fabric of my dress.

"If you wanted my attention," I manage, "you could have just asked like a normal person."

"Mrs Hawthorne." His breath brushes my ear, and I hate that my pulse trips over itself. "If I wanted your attention, you'd know. This is me wanting an answer."

"To what?"

“What you are sulking about?” His breath ghosts across my ear and I hate that my pulse kicks up in response.

“I’m not sulking.”

“You’re terrible at lying.” His thumb presses into the curve of my spine and I have to focus on not reacting.

I try to shift away but his grip tightens, keeping me exactly where he wants me.

“Just show up. You don’t have to play the perfect daughter-in-law for her.”

It takes me a moment to realize he means dinner with his mother. That he just said something almost human.

My back is flush against his chest now and I can feel every breath he takes, the steady thud of his heartbeat against my shoulder blade. All the anger and resentment from the meeting is still burning under my skin but it’s getting tangled up with something shapeless, compressed into this tight aching knot in my chest that I can’t swallow down or spit out.

Then the phone he had casually tossed onto the seat beside us lit up, the sudden glow cuts through the dim interior and my eyes catch on it automatically.

On the lock screen, a new message preview appeared.

I had seen the same message only hours ago on my computer screen. Pale skin, red-polished toes, a foot hooking the edge of a man’s shirt.

It had come again. This time straight to his private phone.

My heart skipped a beat. Of course, she definitely would.

Sebastian saw it too. He paused.

I watch him, frozen, waiting. Will he hide it? Swipe it away? Make some excuse?

Under my nearly rigid gaze, he reaches out with the hand that had been holding my waist, picks up the phone, swipes it open, and taps directly into the message.