Page 28 of The Wrong Husband

My penis didn't do that this time. In fact, it deflated like a balloon that met a sharp edge.

I gently set Bianca away from me.

"I'm not available to you and will never be, regardless of what happens between my wife and me."

I walked around her and went into the dining room. All eyes were on me. All eyes were accusatory. All eyes carried varied degrees of hurt.

Duncan had left. Son of a bitch had escaped.

Fucking hell! This was going to be a long dinner.

Chapter 7

Emilia

Idecided to go home after Liza left.

She fed me dinner. Fish tacos. They were excellent.

I hadn't heard a peep from Damian, so I didn't know where he was and if he was coming back and what he expected of me. I just knew I couldn't stay here anymore. I needed to go to my studio.

I didn't feel great and was about to call an Uber before my husband showed up.

I suspected that Damian would go into the whole the media needs to see us as a couple nonsense. The media didn't need to see us, period. I needed to get on with my life and get past this mistake. I'd probably never get the love of my family back…oh wait, I never had it to start with, that much was obvious when they devolved into physical abuse.

I was checking to make sure I had everything in my backpack at the dining table when the front door opened. Damn it! I couldn't catch a break.

"Emilia."

I looked up at the sound of my name. First, that wasn't Damian's voice and, second, that didn't sound friendly at all.

"Duncan," I swallowed.

He was the same height as Damian, six plus something. When you were five three, everyone around you was always taller. He was bigger than Damian. I'd heard he used to box professionally, which was why his nose was messed up—though it made him look rakish and dangerous. The operative word was dangerous. I was scared shitless of Duncan; had always been.

He was in a suit and honestly, not that anyone was asking me, it wasn't for him. He'd probably look better in jeans, boots, and a leather vest, like one of the guys from Sons of Anarchy.

"Sit." He gestured at one of the dining chairs.

I wanted to plop myself down, but the desire to go home and feel safe won out.

"Ah…Damian isn't home. And I have to go."

He narrowed his eyes. "And where the fuck do you think you're going?"

Okay, there was no need for him to take that tone and look all menacing.

"Home…my home."

"Sit," he repeated.

What was it with all these Archer men bossing me around? Okay, so I made a mistake by marrying the drunk son of a bitch, but no one put a gun to his head. This wasn't entirely my fault, but I was the one being called a home wrecker in the media. I was the one who had a concussion. I was the one who had to deal with Angry Duncan Archer, who was scary as hell when he was normal.

"No. I have to go."

He grabbed my arm and pushed me down onto a chair.

"Hey," I remonstrated.