Page 71 of This Woman Forever

Shame on me, I take her up on her offer, forwarding the email from the dealership. She doesn’t ask any questions, just goes right ahead and sends the hundred grand in a few short, very easy minutes. “Done.” She smiles mildly. “You also have a meeting with Niles on Monday.”

“What for?”

“The new stock is being delivered.”

“Right.” New stock. New stock for my sex club. “Thanks.”

Hope seems to pour into her eyes as she looks up at me, and it makes my wariness double. “I could apologize to Ava,” she says.

“What?”

“For how I’ve been. What I’ve done. I could?—”

“What have you done?” I ask softly.

Sarah’s eyes drop to her lap, and a few beats of silence fills the room before she breaks it. “I texted her from John’s phone to get her to come to The Manor,” she says quietly. “So she could see me.” A swallow. “With you.” Intimate. Not sex, but it’s the next best thing for Sarah. Her whip goes hand in hand with sex. “I told her ex-boyfriend you’re an alcoholic and that Ava mentioned him often.”

“You told my wife’s ex that she talked about him often?” She fed him?

Sarah nods. “I know I can never have you, but I didn’t want to lose you either.”

I close my eyes and breathe calmly. “You could have destroyed something amazing for me.” Even though, in the end, it could be my actions that do the most damage.

“I know, and I’m so sorry. It’s only because of how much I care for you.”

I’m sorry too. I fucking hate what Sarah’s version of caring for me has done to my life. And yet here I am, amid my own turmoil and fears, making sure she’s okay. Because, God damn me, I care.

Five days ago, Ava said she loved me. Married me, for fuck’s sake. Said she wanted me as hers forever. Now? She hasn’t called me. I’ve given her space. I’m sorry I’ve done that. The last time I sent her away, when I was drunk and repulsively emotionally abusive, she came back. She wanted to know I was okay.

She cared.

Now? She’s not reaching out to me, not worried for me. I could be lost in vodka for all she knows. Doesn’t she care about that? I wince at the sharp pain in my heart. My wife doesn’t care anymore. So where does that leave me?

A key sliding into the lock on the front door pulls both of our attention there, and John walks in, looking tense and worried, obviously by what he might find. I didn’t call him. He looks between us. “I have to go,” I say, standing, feeling anger rising. Not because of Sarah, but because of Ava’s silence. She doesn’t care.

I walk to the door, and John moves out of my way, letting me pass. I stop on the threshold, looking back at Sarah. “Don’t ever do anything like that again, do you hear me?” It’s a low blow, but I know she’ll listen because now she knows I actually care. I just hope she doesn’t push me for more than my concern.

I leave and drop into the seat of my car, staring at the steering wheel, my fists balling, sending a shooting pain up the arm of my damaged fist. I look down at the fading blemishes and bruises. The fist that I damaged breaking free of a headboard to get to my wife because I thought she was choking. Because I care.

Taking my anger out on my Aston, I pull away fast.

My wife doesn’t care anymore.

She doesn’t care.

What the hell am I supposed to do with that?

13

Friday is a slow torture. I follow my usual routine: run, shower, dress, drive to Kate’s, follow Ava to work, sit in the café, wait.

But today I’m restraining anger too, trying and failing to push back the hurt. I got home last night and stewed. Walked circles around our empty penthouse, revisiting every moment that’s led me to now. I scrolled through the endless photos of Ava trying to convince myself I’ve got it wrong. She has to care.

But she obviously doesn’t.

Because if she did, I wouldn’t be without her right now.

Ava leaves the office at one o’clock and walks to the nearest Starbucks, getting a coffee—cappuccino, no chocolate, no sugar. She drinks it on her way back. She leaves work at six, and I follow her to Kate’s and sit outside, contemplating knocking the door. Confronting her. She’s hiding, and I’m enabling her to. She can’t expect this space for much longer.