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It feels so fucking good that I have to stiffen in my seat as I threaten to melt at the feel of her skin on mine. Her fingers curl tightly around mine, her nails pinching into the skin, all the way to the bone. Biting down on my tongue, I resist the urge to turn my hand up and thread our fingers together.
I have to keep reminding myself of Freddie’s question and her non-reply.
Silence is guilt.
No answer is admittance.
Eyes boring into the pale line that taints the smooth, tan skin of her finger, I snatch my hand away, my other pressing to my chest where the missing puzzle pieces to her finger are hanging.
“Christopher, I…aah…” Her defeated sigh drags out her loss for words.
Join the club.
Anything I say here on out will do nothing but hurt her, and as much as that dark, twisted feeling at my core claws at me to do it, I can’t.
My vows still stand. They still mean something—everything—and I swore to protect her. I vowed to care for her, to cherish and honour.
The journey is filled with taut silence and fraught with all our unspoken feelings. Coming to a stop in front of the Whitehall Banqueting House, I chance a look at Arabella. I’m full of so many conflicted feelings right now.
She’s sat with her hands clutching the small handbag in her lap so tight that they’re blanched a sallow grey. Her chest trembles with every one of her breaths, and all I can think of doing is reaching across and pulling her onto my lap. Comforting her. Doing all the things I wish she’d let me do. But she left.
Arabella walked away from me and straight to another man. And still, loving her feels like the most perfect thing to do. Stupidly, when it comes to her, it’s the only thing I know.
My door opens, the valet taking a step back before he peers in. There’s a line of cars waiting, and although I couldn’t give two flying fucks about them, I get out. For a moment I think that Arabella’s going to make this difficult, but with a demure shuffle towards me, she slips out.
Standing beside me with an impassive look on her face, she takes in a deep breath and lets it back out. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes tear rimmed. I don’t know if I can put us both through this. The air is congealing in my lungs, making it impossible for me to breathe.
This place. The building. The street. This was the beginning of the end. If I had known then what was waiting for us, I would’ve done everything differently. I would’ve saved us all this pain.
“Mr. Sinclair, Mrs. Sinclair…” Barely able to take his eyes off my wife, the valet walks us to the steps.
Wayne’s waiting at the top, his eyes glancing up and down the street. I don’t know what he’s doing here, but the way he isn’t letting us out of his sight is enough to tell me my father sent him.
Something is going on, and from the looks of it, it’s about to go down. Or at least they fear it is.
Without looking at me or saying a word, Arabella threads her arm through mine, curling it tight like a tourniquet. My blood pulses in my veins as we take the steps up together.
We don’t stop until we’re in the entrance hall. The vaulted ceiling is lit up orange by the floor-standing candelabra at the end of the deep corridor, and the bar radiates a purple glow.
“Eyes open,” Wayne murmurs beside me. His voice is gruff with the familiar edge it takes on when he’s in the zone. He slows his steps until I can feel him follow behind us.
The string music grows louder the farther we get into the building. Arabella holds on tighter. The place feels like the mouth of hell, and I’m the bastard that’s dragging us into it.
My selfish need to have her with me overrides the knowledge and shame that I am hurting her. It goes against the reverence I have for the promises I made her. But I need her.
Arabella is the only person in this world that feels the same pain and desperation, the same chokehold of our surroundings as I do. I can’t do this without her. She’s my paper clip, the thing I focus on when all eyes are on me and the weight is almost too much.
“Christopher! Arabella!” Walter, her grandfather, finds us the minute we step into the hall where the red, corded-off throne takes centre stage on the far wall. His eyes flit between the two of us with the faintest crease. He’s always been a traditionalist, and I can tell from the way his brow furrows with the set of his lips that he’s none too impressed with her choice of dress.
I’m in two minds myself. I want to cover her up so no one else gets to see what’s mine, but at the same time I’m doing everything I can not to jump her. She looks fucking incredible, and were we the same people we used to be, I would’ve fucked her by now and left her dripping in my cum.
“Is Nan here?” Her question is breathy with her long exhale.
It’s obvious she’s uncomfortable. The women milling around are all in black buttoned-up dresses. Their side glances are followed by a shake of their heads, and I want to tell every one of them to shove their prudish heads up their arseholes. To sniff their own shit before they pass judgement on what’s mine.
“She’s sitting at the table with your mother.” Walter gives her a thin smile that’s far too dismissive for my liking.
Fuck. What have I done? I should’ve made her change. I didn’t even think…
