Page 48 of The Husband I Left

“You’re finished.”

“Let go of me!”

“Glady. Once you are on the elevator.”

I march her through the penthouse, past Mrs. Stewart, who has materialized in the hallway and is watching events unfold with a slight smile on her face. I press the elevator call button. The doors open and I put Victoria inside.

“This isn’t over,” she snarls. The stream of curses coming out of her is actually impressive. I’m being called some things I’ve never been called before, and I’ve been called a lot of things lately.

I watch her face contort with rage as the doors slide shut, and then she’s gone.

“Will that be all, Mr. Sinclair?” Mrs. Stewart asks.

“Yes, Mrs. Stewart. Thank you.”

Back in my office, I pick the glass up off the carpet and set it on the desk before sinking back into my chair. Out of pure habit, I check my phone and my heart nearly stops when I see two texts from Genny.

The first is a selfie of her and Evan on what looks like a beach. They’re both grinning widely, sunglasses perched on their noses, blue water stretching out behind them. The caption reads: “Not Greece exactly, but we managed to make it romantic.”

My stomach twists painfully at the implication. The second text appears beneath the photo: “I’ll be back in town Monday. I guess we should get together and talk.”

Monday. It’s Saturday. She wants to talk.

I have no idea if that’s the best news I’ve had all week or the worst.

I suppose in two days I will find out.

Chapter 15

Oliver

Genny refused to come to the penthouse. Instead, we make plans to meet up at a restaurant that I can’t help but note is only a short distance from Evan’s apartment. I arrive twenty minutes early, unable to wait at home any longer. My stomach is a knot of anxiety and hope as I sit in my car and wait, checking my watch every thirty seconds as if time might suddenly accelerate. When I finally can’t stand it any longer, I enter and give Genny’s name to the host.

“She’s already here,” he informs me, gesturing toward a corner table, and my heart nearly stops when I catch sight of her. It’s been just over a week since she walked out on me, but it feels like a lifetime, and now I’m frozen, drinking in the sight of her like a man dying of thirst.

She hasn’t noticed me yet. She’s sipping a cocktail, her red hair cascading down her back in loose curls that catch the light. But these aren’t the frizzy curls I’m used to seeing when her hair is down. These are sleek and glossy and look professionally styled. And my God, her face. Someone has done her makeup, giving her smoky eyes that make the green of her irises glow like emeralds and painting her full lips a deep, luscious red that makes my mouth go dry.

Then there’s the dress. It’s black, tight, and short enough to showcase legs that seem to go on forever. I’ve never seen her wear anything like it before.

I realize I’ve been standing in the same spot for too long when the host clears his throat. “Sir? Would you like me to show you to the table?”

I shake my head, somehow finding my voice. “No, thank you. I see her.”

I approach Genny’s table on legs that don’t exactly feel steady. She looks up as I near, and the smile that curves those red lips is almost predatory. It‘s as if she can read every thought racing through my head, see every inappropriate image flashing behind my eyes.

“Oliver,” her voice is a warm purr. “Right on time.”

I try to respond, but all that comes out is a strangled noise somewhere between a greeting and a groan. Smooth, Oliver. Very smooth. I drop into the chair across from her, unable to tear my eyes from her face, her body, the way the low light of the restaurant makes her skin glow.

“You look…” I trail off, unable to find words adequate to describe what I‘m seeing.

“Thank you,” she says, taking a sip of her cocktail. Some fruity concoction with a cherry speared on a plastic sword. Her lips leave a perfect red imprint on the glass, and I can’t take my eyes off it.

Genny studies me over the rim of her glass, and I realize I must look a mess compared to her. I’ve barely slept since she left. My usual meticulous standards have suffered, though I did make an effort today, shaving carefully and wearing a suit I know she’s always liked.

“You look like hell,” she observes.

“I feel like hell,” I admit. “I’ve missed you, Genny.”