THE VOWS (II)

Gabe pressed a button, and the tinted partition lowered slowly, revealing the driver. 

“How long until we get there?” 

“We’re pulling through the gates now, Mr. Clifford.” 

Gabe raised the partition again and slipped his phone into his pocket. 

“Gabe, I want you to know I like Jorel, but I’m glad I married you.” 

He pretended not to hear me, but I knew he’d caught every word. 

The car stopped, and the driver opened the door. Gabe got out first and strode toward the house. I took the driver’s kind hand as he helped me out and gazed at the Clifford mansion—the place where I’d first met Jorel in person, where my eyes had locked with my husband’s for the first time. I was glad Gabe chose this place for us to live; I at least knew it a little. It could’ve been worse—he could’ve dragged me to another city or country. 

As I stepped inside, alone since Gabe had practically sprinted ahead to avoid me, I saw my suitcases by the door. 

My hands were trembling. I hadn’t eaten in hours and needed something in my stomach. 

Gabe came down a staircase, now in different clothes, and glanced at me. 

“Pick one of the 39 bedrooms and dump your junk there. No staff will help you.” 

“And us?” 

“Us? Didn’t I already say that word doesn’t exist for us?” 

I laughed. 

“‘Us’… you said ‘us’ doesn’t exist for ‘us,’ so… you said ‘us’ when you shouldn’t have, since you claim ‘us’ isn’t a thing.” 

Gabe checked his watch, frowning. His blue eyes avoided mine. His dark hair was slightly messy, and I’d bet it was from stress. My husband wouldn’t let a single strand fall out of place in his normal state. But marrying me? Yeah, that was anything but normal, and it was clearly getting to him. 

God, he was gorgeous—pale skin contrasting with dark hair, clean-shaven in a way that made him even sexier. That tailored suit, probably custom-made from one of the world’s priciest brands, fit him like a glove, oozing charm. And his cologne? I couldn’t recall smelling anything so masculine and intense in years. He smelled even better than Jorel. 

“We’re not sleeping in the same room, husband?” 

He burst out laughing. 

“You really think I’d sleep with you?” 

“I’ve got new lingerie!” I grinned, my voice teasing and singsong. 

“Wear it for someone who wants you.” He stormed up the stairs, leaving me alone. 

I sighed, looking around. No one was there. Where was the housekeeper who’d greeted us when I came to meet Jorel? No buttons or bells to summon help. 

I wandered slowly through the massive living room, then the dining room. A narrow hallway led me to my destination: the kitchen. 

I flung open the fridge—nearly empty. Did Gabe not eat? Did no one cook in this house? 

I grabbed a yogurt, the only thing in there, and nothing diabetic-friendly. Then I ate some cheese slices and finished with an apple. The fridge was now completely bare. I’d need to go grocery shopping or starve in this place. At least my insulin was in there, as I’d insisted when someone picked up my bags that morning. 

After eating, I returned to the living room. Gabe was there, in yet another outfit, heading for the door. 

“Where are you going?” I asked. 

“Out. You didn’t think I’d live under the same roof as you, did you? Get it through your head, Stick-Figure: we’re not, and never will be, husband and wife.” 

“Thanks for the ‘Stick-Figure’…” I tried to find a silver lining in his words. 

“Olívia, marrying me will be your worst nightmare. You’ll regret the day you were born, Stick-Figure!” 

With that, he slammed the door, making me jump. 

“I regret being born every day…” I muttered to myself, alone in the vast house. “But I can’t change that. I breathe, therefore I am.” 

I took a deep breath, grabbed two of my suitcases, and hauled them up the stairs. Naturally, I picked the ones with my most important stuff. Since I’d have to carry everything to my room myself, I’d take it one day at a time. If there was one thing I wasn’t, it was rushed. Patience and taking things slow were my greatest virtues.