Page 83 of The Wrong Husband

"She's worse today than yesterday," she grimaced. "I think we need to ask Doc to send a therapist to talk to her."

"Duncan tried that and she threw paint on his face," I reminded her.

She sighed. "I feel like a complete bitch."

I smiled. "Well, to be fair, mom…."

She smirked. "I know. I just…I just thought she was wrong because she wasn't Bianca. She wasn't vivacious and bright, full of life and energy. But she's all that. When I watch her paint, it's…she's something else. How could I have been so blind?"

You and me both, I thought unhappily.

I missed my wife. I missed my life with her.

Emilia let me sleep with her every night and I was grateful for that. As I snuck into her bed after she was asleep, I waited for her to kick me out and when she didn't, when she let me hold her, I felt I had once again been given a reprieve.

She still wasn't ready to talk.

But I knew that once she finished the painting, she would be. Despair washed over me as I eyed the large canvas she had chosen—this could go on for a while.

My family didn't care how long it took, they were all in, feeling extremely bad about how they had treated Emilia. Except Duncan who always liked her and continued to do so. Dean had even asked if he should come back from Asia to step in, but we told him we were good.

Moana had taken a couple of shifts and not gotten much out of Emilia.

"This is the worst I've seen her," she admitted. "The other times she snapped back in a few days. You really fucked up, Damian."

I didn't need her or anyone else to tell me that.

If I was objective about it—I married her for all the wrong reasons, but I stayed with her for all the right ones. She could only focus on the former right now because she never thought she was worthy—because of how her family treated her. I hoped seeing how devoted the Archers were to her, she'd start to emerge from her cocoon, see how special she was.

I missed her. I missed fucking her.

Sleeping with her every night was torture. I wanted so badly to be inside her. I wanted her to acknowledge me in some way. I wish she'd yell at me as she had that first night when she was drinking. I wish she'd stop crying.

I talked to Doc, and he referred me to a therapist who told me that there was no quick fix.

"Looks like she's working through a nervous breakdown," he said. "I'm glad someone is with her all the time. When she's ready, I can talk to her. But until she's ready, let her heal the way she wants."

"How long will it take?"

"Can't say. You just have to be patient."

Doc had suggested antidepressants. When my father brought it up with Emilia, she snarled at him.

"It's like having a rabid animal around me," Duncan said, "I pet her the wrong way or even the right way but at the wrong time, she's likely to bite my hand off."

Bianca kept calling until I blocked her. Gideon had tried to run interference for her at work until I fired him as CFO of Archer Galleries. He'd threatened to sue and I'd threatened to not give him any severance. We made a deal. I couldn’t allow the man who treated the woman I love so badly to be around me because it was likely I'd hit him and end up in police custody.

Three weeks in, Emilia finally, finally, finally responded.

When I spooned her, with a hand on her stomach, she placed hers over mine.

It was a small, tiny gesture but it was a start. Hell, it was everything.

I stayed the next morning for breakfast, not leaving as I normally did while she was sleeping or pretending to do so.

The painting had evolved. Now, around the hourglass, there were twisted, gnarled trees with their branches reaching out like desperate hands, their roots embedded in the shifting sands, unable to escape. Perched on the branches were faceless figures draped in flowing, tattered fabrics, their forms distorted and elongated, symbols of displacement and invisibility.

It was provoking and every day as I saw the painting, I understood the depth of her pain.