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“Please come this way.”
Not wanting to make more of a scene, I followed the men to the reception desk. “I’m with the Davenports,” I whispered, sliding my driver’s license out of my clutch. “I have a key.”
“Wait here, please.” He took my license, so I couldn’t leave.
I awkwardly waited by the counter as the men whispered.
More people flooded from the elevators, trafficking through the lobby. Terrified one of the many passers-by might be a wedding guest, I hid behind the messy curtain of my hair. The longer I waited the hotter my face singed with a scorching burn.
“I just want to go to my room. I’ve been staying here, on and off, for three months. I don’t understand why you can’t just let me pass.”
The man at the counter lifted the phone. “Just a quick call to Mr. Davenport to verify you are who you say you are.”
“No. No Mr. Davenport.” I gripped the counter, my voice a mere hiss as I aggressively tried to compel him not to make this worse than it already was. “Hang up the phone. Just leave him out?—”
“Hello, Mr. Davenport,” the man said into the phone, his dispassionate eyes never fully leaving me. “I apologize for disturbing you, but there is a woman here claiming to be your—Yes. Yes, of course. No, sir, we didn’t. I—” He gently hung up the phone. “He’ll be right down.”
My jaw locked. There was no need to involve Hale. I had my key. They just needed to let me go.
As my humiliation multiplied like a wet Mogwai I fought the urge to cry. I closed my eyes, pretending I was invisible, while they detained me and stole the last of my dignity.
The steadfast cadence of Hale’s leather-soled footsteps approached the reception desk. I kept my head down and flinched, inwardly cringing at how bad this was when he caught my arm.
“Mr. Davenport,” the man at the reception desk greeted. “Thank yo?—”
“Let me make this perfectly clear,” Hale cut him off, his icy tone leaving no room for argument. “If you ever detain or prevent my wife from entering this hotel again, it will be the last time you see a Davenport here and the absolute last time you work in the state of New York. Do you understand me?”
“Y—yes, sir,” both men stammered.
“Apologize to her.”
“We’re sorry, ma’am.”
“Our apologies.”
Hale snatched my license off the counter, retaining a firm hold of my arm. “Let’s go.”
Directing me toward the elevators, steering me by the arm like a parent might hold an unruly child, he kept his gaze forward and made no attempt to speak to me.
The elevator ride took three hundred years. My gaze never left the floor.
The penthouse was silent when we entered. “I imagine you’ll want to shower.” He tossed the room key onto the polished table.
“Hale…”
He stilled at the end of the foyer, his shoulders bunching with tension as he presented me with his back, refusing to turn.
“I’m sorry?—”
“So am I. Go shower, Rayne.” With that he walked away.
The amount of dirt that washed off my body was alarming, as were the cuts on my feet. My brain continuously retraced my steps from last night, but there were major gaps in the space-time continuum. The rehearsal dinner was a distant memory and, beyond the ache in my legs and back, an incredible pain in my heart had taken up residence.
Combing back my damp hair, I dressed in a robe and went to the sitting room to find Hale. The knot in my hollow, sour stomach tightened as he watched me approach. His expression held no warmth and I truly feared this level of damage was unfixable.
I lowered to the edge of the settee, folding my hands and lowering my gaze. “I’m sorr?—”
“Did you sleep with him?”
