Page 23 of The Wrong Husband

I knew Duncan and Dean were friends with Bianca. Marcela was close friends with my mother. Tate played golf with my father.

Great!

"Your mom won't slap me around, will she?" I asked trying to lighten the mood, mostly for myself, though I wasn't sure if I was joking.

Marcela Archer was one of the fiercest art critics and acquirers in the world. If she deemed your art worthy, you soared, if she said it was shit, good luck placing your paintings at a low-end motel chain.

"No." His face remained serious. "Em, we're married."

I wiggled my fingers with the rings on them. "No kiddin'."

He sighed, not liking how I was trying to keep it light. "Let's give the media time to quieten down and then we can go back to the original plan."

"Which is to dissolve this sham of a marriage?" I offered.

"Yeah…in six months."

So, a small part of me. A very small part of me was thrilled as hell that I'd live with Damian for six whole months.

I wasn't stupid. I knew he wasn't going to be mine. Sure, we had sex once but like he said, it didn't go very well for him, and he probably wouldn't want a repeat performance.

"Now, I want you to go back to bed," he ordered. "Liza is here and she'll keep an eye on you. Doc will come by later on and check up on you as well."

"I need to go home, Damian."

He looked irritated now. "You can keep your damned place. But you live here now."

My damned place?

"I have a very nice loft," I said defensively. "It's not the Four Seasons but it's lovely. I have room to paint and—"

"I don't give a fuck, Emilia. Just pack up your shit and move in here. This will be your room."

He walked out after that.

I wanted to yell at him, tell him that he should treat me better. But why would he? I trapped him. I was an awful person.

I went out of the bedroom and found Liza in the open plan kitchen, dining, and family area. There was another large living room, which I assumed was for formal occasions.

I sat down at the kitchen island on a bar stool and looked around. All three walls were made of glass.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Liza spoke from behind me.

"Yeah. Liza, I had a backpack with me."

"Oh, yes. I put it in your closet. I also washed your clothes and pressed them—they're hanging in your closet as well."

I went back into the guest room, which was apparently going to be my room for the duration of this god-awful marriage.

I pulled out my phone and saw it was dead. I set it to charge on the bedside table. I pulled out my computer and turned it on.

I had to find a job. Easy enough for Damian Archer to not worry about pesky shit like money. But I needed to pay rent on my studio. I had a student loan to pay down. I had to save for my master's education.

I had received an email from Make Me Beautiful Inc. It was a notice of termination of my employment.

I sent emails to all my art contacts, asking them if they had any openings for me as an art restorer or anything else.

After that I made the mistake of getting on to the news sites and…it was a disaster. The headlines were brutal.