Page 81 of The Wrong Husband

Emilia

"What are you doing here?" I asked Duncan who was working on his laptop at the dining table. "And how did you get in?"

"I'm working and keeping an eye on you. I got in with a key," he replied patiently. "You look like shit."

"Thanks." I walked up to the coffee machine and started it. I was a 'a cup of coffee before you talk to me in the morning' kinda girl.

I sat on a dining chair and stared at Duncan, hoping to make him uncomfortable. Fat chance. He was eating a croissant and looking blissfully unaware of my perusal of him.

"Duncan, get out of my house."

"Sorry, can't do." He didn't even look up from his computer. "Apparently, when you're upset you exhaust yourself so we're taking shifts keeping an eye on you."

"Who is this we?"

"All of us, well, except Dean. He was ready to get on a plane but we told him we'd be fine. He's chasing down a sculpture from 300 BC India or some shit in Pakistan."

I drank some coffee. "When was Damian's shift?"

"Midnight to six AM. I'm six AM to noon."

"He hurt me," I simply told him.

Now, Duncan did look up, his eyes soft. "I know, sweetheart. He has a temper, and he gets creative when he's angry."

"I'm so tired of being the lesser sister, the wrong wife, the ugly daughter…I don't deserve that."

Duncan nodded patiently. "Your parents are crap, and your sister is a piece of work. You're the better sister, the good one. Damian is the wrong fucking husband…who should've been honest with you. You're beautiful."

Tears filled my eyes. "I can't believe you."

"I know. Give it time."

"I don't want you here," I said again. "And if you stay, I'll leave."

"That's fine. I'll just follow you around, until noon."

"What happens at noon?"

"I think it's my dad's shift."

I frowned. "Why are you doing this? I know you Archers think I'm unsuitable to be one of you."

"I sleep with escorts, Emilia," he quipped. "I don't give a shit about suitability. I never have. That's Damian and our parents. They're very focused on what it means to be an Archer."

"And what does it mean?" I put down my coffee cup and went to my easel to look at what I'd done so far and what needed more work before I continued. Painting was all trial and error for me. I kept refining until I was truly satisfied. My art teacher at university warned me that I would cripple myself by pursuing perfection in art. I didn't care. With all my flaws, this was one place where I didn't have to compromise. I wanted to produce the best I could—better than even that by pushing myself hard.

"To my mom and Damian, it means keeping the family name scandal-free."

I chuckled as I picked up a brush. "That ship sailed when we got married in Las Vegas."

"He wasn't thinking and by the time he was, the media had caught up."

I mixed paint to work more on the hourglass that stood at the center of the canvas. I wanted the sand to take my pain—I wanted it to stand witness to my hurt.

"He married me to hurt my sister. I get it. He stayed married to avoid a PR nightmare. But why the rest? Why be nice to me? Why live here with me? Why any of that? And why not divorce me or annul the marriage or whatever? What did he get out of carrying on like this?" I could now see the sand in the hourglass. It was as if a weeping woman filled and refilled each side, unable to escape her agony.

"Because he fell in love with you."