AllFreeNovel
Share Us
An audible gasp leaves my lips, and I clamp my hand down over my mouth. I stand there for just one more second, hoping like hell he didn’t hear me. I hear him in the foyer, throwing his keys into a bowl we have on a table by the front door before his shoes hit the marble floor. I’m visibly shaking, unable to comprehend what I just overheard.
Pure instinct has me retreating down the hallway, my footsteps silent. My thoughts are haywire and uncertain. I reach our room and quickly turn off the bedroom light before pulling the covers back and slipping into bed. I slam my eyes shut as my mind spins. All I know is that I’ve never heard him so angry, so menacing.
What I heard scares me to my core.
?My heart pounds as I hear his footsteps on the marble floors of our three-story brownstone. I take a steadying breath and try to calm my racing heart. I can’t let him know I heard anything; I know down to the marrow of my bones he can’t?know?I’m?awake.?
The bedroom door opens and closes back ever so softly. You’d never know the man who entered is the same man who just spoke through gritted teeth while saying he wanted someone gone. I lie still, steadying my breaths so he thinks I’m sleeping.?
?“Hey, love,” he whispers, kissing me gently on the cheek. I fight the instant recoil I feel at his touch.
My mind races, but I lie as still as I can with a serene look on my face, waiting for him to walk to the shower. When he finally does, I hear his footsteps slowly fade away and the shower turn on. I let out my breath, wondering how the hell I’m going to get any sleep after that.
Chapter 2
Ihopeditwasall a dream, one that could easily be explained by Christopher. But as I sit up from our huge four-poster king sized bed, I have a sinking feeling in my gut that it can’t be easily explained away.
He has already left for work again, rising early to beat the traffic. His work ethic and dedication have always been something I admired. His career is always at the forefront of our decisions. It’s the driving force in our lives, even though I have a career that I love as well.
I love what I do, helping artists showcase their work and trying to launch careers. It’s invigorating and rewarding. Plus, it helps give me an outlet for my secret hobbyno oneknows about.
I love to paint.
It was a hobby my parents would have never encouraged; it would have been silly and unworthy of my time. They don’t particularly care for my real job either. According to them, I should have followed in my father's footsteps to become an attorney.
He has worked tirelessly in his career to achieve the success he has had as a high-profile criminal attorney. I’m proud of him, but that kind of power has never been my dream. Mine is art. I want to create. I’ve found a little slice of heaven for me at the art studio. The owner allows me to paint after business hours. I lose myself in the color images bursting from my mind, just begging to be put on canvas.
I decide I can’t lie in bed to figure it all out, not to mention I need to get into the office to set up for the show coming up in a few weeks. These are things I live for, being able to watch the artist’s dream come true. I wish with all I have that one day that will be me. That I can stand proudly by my work and not worry about what my family thinks.
I push back the plush duvet and drag myself to the bathroom for a shower. I can’t stop myself from wondering if the man from last night really is who I’m marrying. I put the water as hot as it will go, needing the scalding distraction to purge my mind. I hope it will help me wake up. Maybe then I can think more clearly.
There must be an explanation for what I heard, but I can’t shake how his brash and threatening words made me feel. I’ve never feared him, but maybe I should. This could be a side of him he has kept from me. Or is the stress of his high-powered position getting to him?
Determined to shake this vulnerable feeling lingering from last night, I enter our massive walk-in closet to grab my best power suit—a navy pinstripe number. I quickly curl my long, dirty blonde hair into soft waves and spend a little more time on my makeup than usual. Going heavier on my eyes and donning red lipstick.
I slide my feet into my favorite pair of six-inch red heels, complimenting my lipstick. I grin as I look in the mirror at the bombshell looking back at me. Grabbing my favorite Chanel bag, I head down to the car waiting out front for me. I’m as ready as I will ever be to face what today may bring.
I head outside to the curb, where the driver—that Christopher insists I have—waits for me every morning. “Your safety is now my concern, and I want to take care of you,” was his response when I asked him why he would get me a driver.
I don’t feel like it's necessary. For years, I’ve taken a cab or the trolley into work. It seems to be over the top, but everything with Christopher lately has been that way. Sliding into the creamy leather back seat, my mind wanders to how we met.
Christopher and I practically grew up together. We went to the same schools, same social events, and our families even got together for holidays. Sure, he’s a few years older, but our families have been intertwined since before we both were born. Our fathers were college roommates, our mothers in sorority together. Our lives together have made perfect sense right from the start—until recently. I haven’t been able to shake this feeling of unease.
We slow to a stop in front of the art studio. The air is already lighter, and the day seems brighter. My home away from home, so to speak. Walking in, I admire the wide range of new pieces being showcased.
Stephanie, the owner, wants to give lesser-known artists a chance to be successful, so we often pick no-name artists. Of course, that is part of what has put us on the map in the art world. We find the gems before anyone else does.
There is a large showroom right up front, where you can see into the studio from the street. Then we have several smaller rooms branching off for more intimate showings.We have a private showing in a couple of weeks that will be big though, so all hands are on deck to make this a success.
I get right to work, hoping the day passes quickly. I’m itching to work on my own paintings when the studio is closed for the day. My mind drifts to last night as I wonder if I should just ask him what it was about. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.
Right?
I’m jolted back to reality as a customer comes in. A tall, dark-haired man with even darker eyes stalks towards me. As he approaches, I take in his attire—a black designer suit and shiny black shoes, not a scuff in sight. I don’t know why, but something about him sends shivers down my spine.
“H-hi,” I stammer.
“Andrea Shaw?” his deep voice booms.
