Page 84 of The Wrong Husband

How could I tell her that while I may have chosen her to be my wife that night in Las Vegas to spite Bianca, that wasn’t why I chose to be her husband every day after that. I did it because I loved her desperately.

"What do you feel like for breakfast?" I asked.

"French toast," she said, and I curbed the instinct to dance like a fool. These were the first words she'd spoken to me in weeks.

I made her breakfast, and she ate.

It got better from there on.

She let me stay at the loft with her. Mom, Duncan, and Tate still came by during the day. In the evenings and nights, I was home, like I used to be. Moana came when she could and the three of us ate dinner together. Moana and I talked, Emilia stayed silent. Tech and Torture also joined us and we repeated and rinsed.

The painting morphed from bleak desert and an hourglass in the center, the face of a weeping woman inside the hourglass made out of sand—into something with a higher degree of pathos.

She finally talked to me the day after she painted a fragmented heart, half-buried in the sand, with tiny, delicate flowers blooming from its fissures. The heart was surrounded by broken mirrors reflecting distorted, haunting images of Emilia and me—love and pain.

She took a shower and changed into a dress, something she hadn't done in weeks. Every day she went from flannel shorts to flannel pants and from tank tops to more tank tops. Everything she wore was splattered with paint.

"You want to go for a walk with me?" she asked.

"Yes." I'll do anything for you and with you. Anything at all.

Chapter 30

Emilia

The evening fog had rolled in, shrouding the city in a cool, misty blanket.

Damian looked tense, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, and I knew this conversation wouldn’t be easy, especially for me. But it needed to happen. I was ready. It took me four weeks after the night of the gala to organize my thoughts in a way that made sense, so I could finally articulate them.

When I suggested a walk, it was in the hope that the fresh air might make the discussion a little less stifling.

We stepped out onto Market Street, heading toward the waterfront. This part of Market was gritty and worn, a contrast to the glossy skyscrapers and trendy shops further up where the Archers and their ilk lived.

But I was more at home here. I wondered how Damian felt. Did he think this was temporary and once the divorce came through he'd be back at the Four Seasons? If so, why hadn't he signed those damn papers?

We walked in silence for a few blocks, passing shuttered storefronts and graffiti-covered walls. As we approached the Ferry Building, the ambiance began to change. The streetlights cast a warm glow, and we could hear the distant sound of the bay lapping against the piers.

"Why haven't you signed the divorce papers?" I asked him, flinching at my own question. This was not how I wanted to start this conversation. In my head I had thought I'd be graceful and calm, not sound like an angry fish wife.

"Because I don't want a divorce." He was the calm one. It infuriated me.

"Why?"

"I'm in love with you."

I gritted my teeth. I didn't believe him, not even a little bit. I didn't know what his game was this time. But I wanted to believe him, so very badly.

"Fuck you." So much for being graceful!

“I know you’re upset.” Damian's voice was low, tentative.

No shit, Sherlock.

I was surprised that I was still so angry. I had thought when I suggested the walk that pouring all my pain onto the canvas had eased me enough that I could actually talk to him beyond good morning and saying, "Yes, I would like a cup of coffee."

“Upset doesn’t begin to cover it,” I replied, my words sharper than I intended. “I feel like my whole world has been turned upside down.”

He nodded, his jaw tightening. “I never meant to hurt you, Emilia. I thought I was protecting us.”