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“Get rid of them,” I said, still staring at him.
He didn’t break our gaze as he snapped his fingers, making both of them descend the stairs silently.
We got into his office, and he closed the door halfway, obviously not trusting me not to throttle him with my bare hands.
I understood him perfectly. Even I had difficulty predicting how I’d react, depending on the outcome of this visit.
He leaned against his desk while I took a seat on the couch in front of him, spreading my arms over the headrest and making myself comfortable. I knew two things with certainty:
Today was the day my love for my wife was going to be tested.
I was going to pass with flying fucking colors.
FRANCESCA
Like a moth to a flame, my feet dragged me out of my room and to the hallway the minute I heard my husband’s gruff tenor. His voice was a poem, and I drank every word as if my life depended on it.
I caught his back, his broad shoulders and tailored suit as he glided through the corridor, ushered by my father into his study.
I counted one, two, three, five, eight…ten seconds before I tiptoed my way to the study. Weeks of watching how Ms. Sterling eavesdropped had taught me some invaluable tricks.
My barefooted figure was pressed against the wall, and I took shallow, measured breaths.
My father lit a cigar. The aroma of burnt leaves and tobacco hit my nostrils, and nausea washed over my gut.
God, I felt sick every time someone breathed in my direction.
I peeked into the room, fighting the bile bubbling in my throat. My father leaned against his desk, my husband on the red velvet settee in front of him, looking relaxed and nonchalant as ever.
My husband, metal and steel.
Formidable and untouchable.
With a stone-carved heart I’d do anything to soften.
“I suppose you think that you can walk into her room and claim her back. Hang White and Bishop over my head again as leverage,” my father said, puffing on his cigar, his legs crossed at the ankles.
He had yet to acknowledge my existence since I’d moved back into the house, but he didn’t let that deter him from blackmailing my husband.
With every fiber of my body, I wanted to burst through the door and set the record straight. But I was too humiliated and hurt to risk another rejection.
Wolfe might’ve come here to let me go, and I was done begging.
“How is she doing?” Wolfe ignored his question.
“She doesn’t want to see you,” my father replied curtly, sending another waft of smoke into the air and ignoring the question at hand.
“Have you taken her to the doctor?”
“She hasn’t left the house.”
“What the hell are you waiting for?” Wolfe spat.
“As far as I can remember, Francesca was old enough to get pregnant. She is therefore old enough to book an appointment with an OB-GYN. Not to mention, if anyone should help her, it should be the man responsible for her dire situation.”
Dire situation?
My nostrils flared, hot air coming down from them like fire.
