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“Thank you, my sweet boy.” Tears stung my eyes and I swallowed hard to keep myself from crumbling right there on the kitchen floor. I wrapped Jackson into a tight embrace before he wriggled away. “I’ll call you for dinner,” I said as he ran out of the kitchen, giggling.
Alone in the quiet kitchen, I asked myself the same question my son had asked minutes ago. When was Henry coming home? I never knew when to expect him. Or if to expect him. He worked all hours of the day, all days of the week, and rarely took weekends or holidays off.
He was always up to something. And when he wasn’t working, he was off with one of his whores. His cheating ways had never been much of a secret. As a relatively young, attractive billionaire on the rise in the City of Angels, he’d been featured on more than a few gossip magazines.
The scandalous photos were always the same. He’d be in some candid shot taken in a flashy club, with his arm around some scantily clad woman who looked like she’d just slid off a pole and into his lap.
Then there was Talia. She’d been his mistress for the last eighteen months. He didn’t even bother trying to hide her. They attended charity events together and she’d gone with him on more than a few business trips to keep him entertained in between making deals and signing contracts.
In the beginning, his cheating had damn near destroyed me. But that was back when I was still under the illusion that we had a real marriage. That we were actually in love.
Now, years later, I was smarter and saw the truth a helluva lot more clearly. I was Henry’s wife in name only. We no longer had a relationship. I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d had sex.
He was too busy with his other women, and to be frank, I’d stopped caring a long time ago. At one point, I considered sending his posse of strippers, call girls, and gold diggers an assortment of fruit baskets or flowers as a way of thanking them for taking care of his…appetite…so that I didn’t have to anymore.
Talia was different, though. She hadn’t been some late night hook up or spur-of-the-moment fuck in the bathroom of some high-end club. No, he’d taken her out in public. People we knew—together—knew who she was, and while I was pretty sure he hadn’t openly called her his mistress—there was no doubt she was.
Yes, Talia had hurt me.
The sick part about it was…she looked almost like me. He had a loving, doting wife at home with his child, and he chose to fuck someone with dark hair and eyes like mine. Though her hair was longer, there was a resemblance.
Oh, yes, Talia was the final nail in the coffin that contained the remains of my heart—not to mention the promises I’d made to Henry on the beaches of Jamaica when we eloped.
Henry’s relationship with her was the last thing I couldn’t forgive. He’d fallen out of love with me and in love with her.
The sound of footsteps outside the kitchen stirred me from my stewing, and I jolted ramrod straight when Henry’s large form filled my peripheral vision. I whipped around to face him and plastered a smile on my face. “Hello, darling,” I gritted out between clenched teeth. “I wasn’t expecting you home for dinner.”
Henry’s cold eyes raked over me. “You look like shit, Melissa.”
Mmm. So loving.
“I’ll change before dinner,” I replied, not batting an eye. I’d learned a long time ago that the barbs he threw were meant to rattle me so that he could take out his aggression on me and walk away, assured that I’d provoked him. If I didn’t want to end up sprawled across the kitchen floor, it was better to take whatever he wanted to dish out and cry about it later.
If I could muster up the energy.
“See that you do. Where is our son?”
I set my jaw. “Jackson is in the living room watching a show while I get dinner ready.”
“I should have known,” Henry fired back, stalking across the kitchen. “Why parent your own fucking child when the TV can do it for you. Fuck, Melissa, you’re so damned lazy. What is it you do around here all day that you can’t take care of my son?”
My hands wrapped around the edge of the sink, squeezing so tightly to the smooth granite that my knuckles went white. “I’m sorry, Henry. It’s been a long day.”
He scoffed, apparently too disgusted to even retort my reply, and stormed from the kitchen into the adjoining family room through two large wooden doors.
In his absence, I sucked in a shaky breath and pried my hands from the counter. The only kernel of relief in the entire situation was that Henry had never once laid a hand on Jackson. He’d knocked me on my ass, but he’d never so much as raised his voice at our son.
