Page 22 of The Wrong Husband

I did an assessment. "My heart hurts." I checked other parts of my body. "I'm really sore between my legs." As soon as the words were out, I clamped my mouth shut. Now, why didn't I filter that out?

"I'm sorry," Damian mumbled. "I'm going to get Liza to bring you some breakfast so you can take your pain medication. That should help with your head and…ah your…."

"Sore pussy?" I asked. Filter, come back. It was the drugs, I thought. They were making me woozy. Or maybe it was the brain injury.

I heard Damian chuckle.

A woman in her late forties who I assumed was Liza, brought me buttered toast with jam and a glass of orange juice.

"I need to use the restroom," I told her as I gingerly got out of bed.

Liza smiled at me. "You do that, hon. There are towels under the sink and a spare toothbrush."

I extended my hand to Liza. "I'm Emilia."

"Liza Davis. I'm Damian's housekeeper."

"Nice to meet you."

"You take your time. Your doctor has said you need to rest today."

I took a shower because I felt nasty. It was refreshing until I dried myself and that was all the energy I apparently had. I wrapped myself in a fluffy bathrobe and came into the bedroom. It looked like a guestroom, considering all the toiletries in the bathroom were brand new and untouched.

Damian was sitting on a chair, his back to a floor to ceiling window that had a view of the Bay Bridge. On a table next to him was my breakfast. He looked up from his phone.

"Eat." He waved a hand to a matching chair on the other side of the table. This was a small breakfast nook, I realized. It was cozy and incredibly cute.

The room was gorgeous. There was antique art everywhere but what stood out was a stunning 18th-century landscape painting by Claude Lorrain.

"That Lorrain is an original, isn't it?" I asked as I sat down.

Damian looked at the painting that hung on the wall across from the bed. "Yes."

There were other paintings and artwork, each piece adding a layer of timeless sophistication.

There was a small sitting area with a love seat and a coffee table, on which sat a fresh flower arrangement of vibrant orchids, adding a touch of natural beauty and fragrance.

I picked up the toast and applied jam to it. "I love orchids," I told Damian.

"I know."

I took a bit of the toast and with my mouth full asked, "How?"

"I asked Liza to find out. She may have called some people on your parents' staff."

Oh, so he hadn't done the work, Liza had. Well, he'd asked her to, so that was something.

I finished eating and he handed me two white pills. I washed them down with orange juice.

"We need to talk." Damian set his phone down on the table next to the carafe of orange juice.

I rested against the back of the chair and folded my legs so I could rest my chin on my knees. I made sure the fluffy robe wasn't exposing any of my bits to my soon-to-be ex-husband.

"I told my parents and brothers about us last night while you were sleeping," he informed me.

Marcela and Tate Archer were juggernauts in the art business. I'd met them several times since Daddy worked for Archer Galleries—and found both of them intimidating as hell. Even more scary was Damian's older brother, Duncan, who lived in Paris, managing the European side of Archer Galleries. The youngest brother was Dean, and I didn't know him at all. He lived and worked in Hong Kong.

The three Ds were smart, interesting, handsome, rich, and ruthless. Their parents had the same reputation. I doubted any of them thought that it was a good idea that Damian married me.