Chapter 26 #3
“Your car is having brake issues.” We stop beside his limo, and he opens the back door, ignoring my question completely. “Theo will take you home in mine.”
“Okay.” I slide inside the lavish vehicle and, turning to meet his gaze, I repeat, “What happens tomorrow?”
“I destroy their business.”
My jaw hits the floor. “You can’t do that. It was a simple misunderstanding. Do you have any idea how many people’s livelihoods might depend on that shop?”
“I don’t give a fuck and can do whatever the hell I want.”
“Please. Please don’t be like that.”
He halts, his gaze finding and locking with mine. “I am who I am, little flower. I’ve never pretended otherwise. At least, not with you.”
The door latches shut with a soft snick. A moment later, the vehicle pulls into bustling traffic.
No. He never hid who he is from me.
I slump back into the buttery leather seat and close my eyes, hoping to shake off the maelstrom of feelings raging inside me.
Crushing my chest under their force. Sinking to the pit of my stomach as if weighted by boulders.
Some are still grounded in the shame levied on me by the sales lady who so nicely cast me out of the store.
Others are burdened by the regret and guilt of potentially hurting many ordinary workers with my inability to hide the truth from my husband.
He obviously figured out what happened to me at that shop and is ready to unleash his wrath.
But, there’s something else, too… Something I’m reluctant to admit even to myself.
There’s…joy.
Not like carefree happiness or glee, but joy born from a moment of contentment.
Because he stood up for me. My husband declared that he will destroy that business, and with it, that woman’s privileged life.
I don’t have a single doubt that he is capable of it and will do just what he said.
And I liked it. Not the “destroying” part, of course.
But that he would do it because of me. To avenge me somehow.
I never really had anyone defend me before.
Never had anyone to lean on to right the wrongs done to me.
But as I’m basking in the warmth of that feeling, an image of that poor man—the donor—invades my mind.
Adriano somehow persuaded him to take his own life so my mom could get his heart.
The mere thought of it is sickening. Abhorrent.
Only a despicable man would conceive of something like that.
And yet… Despite knowing he orchestrated it all simply to make sure I would do his bidding…
Despite being fully aware that no feelings were involved, and I personally was in no way the catalyst for it…
He kind of did it for me. Arranged a man’s death to save my mom’s life.
Deep, deep down, a small part of my heart flutters.
Jesus.
I shake my head, trying to banish these thoughts about my mercurial husband. Purge the feelings he is making me feel. Deny the truth, because accepting it would be terrible. Inconceivable. Hypocritical.
Adriano Ruffo has no care whatsoever for other people’s feelings or how his actions impact those around him—the things I hold in the highest regard.
Without remorse, he has stepped over literal corpses to achieve his goals—something I couldn’t even imagine.
Based on what I’ve witnessed so far, I think he’s incapable of feeling even the slightest concern for anyone but himself—not another human being, maybe not even his own pet.
Knowing all that…
How could I ever fall for a man like him?
I never could.
Right?
***
The gleaming roof of the mansion rises above the treeline as the big iron gates swing open, unblocking the path up the wide cobblestone driveway toward the majestic oceanfront property.
I reach beside me, feeling for my purse, when my fingers brush over something else lying on the soft seat cushion.
Glancing down, I find a small leather-bound book on top of a slim laptop.
Adriano must have forgotten them when we switched cars.
Hesitantly, I pick up the book, turning it in my hands to examine the cover. It looks like a journal of some kind. Strange. I never would’ve envisioned my husband keeping a handwritten diary or a daily planner, considering how modern and tech-filled his corporate office is.
As I’m setting it back down where I found it, the car jolts and screeches to a sudden stop, and the book slips from my grasp.
“Crap.”
Up ahead, an angry bark erupts outside the car.
It must be Taffy. Though he’s never acted that way when I returned home before.
I reach for the fallen book, which landed face down on the floor of the car with its pages open.
Hopefully, no dirt marred the inside. I lift it, turning it around to brush off the dust or whatnot that might’ve gotten on it.
Yup, I was right. It is a journal. The days of the week and dates are printed in big red font at the top outer corners. Neat and precise notes are jotted across the pages, brief entries in meticulous handwriting. Interesting. Even Adriano Ruffo’s penmanship is as buttoned-up as he outwardly is.
I’ve finished dusting off the surface when my eyes catch on the two numbers representing the dates.
On the left, it reads: 18. The right corner is marked: 21.
Seems like a page is missing. I force the two halves of the journal further apart, and sure enough, there’s a narrow, jagged strip along the gutter, as if someone tore out the page.
The commotion outside has reached new heights. Taffy’s barks have transformed into loud snarls, while Theo is yelling through a cracked-open window for someone to get the dog off the road.
All that hardly registers with me; my focus is completely on the journal in my hands.
On the bold, classic-looking typeface. The red, printed number of a date a few months ago.
On a high-quality paper that feels slightly thicker under my fingertips than a regular loose-leaf sheet.
That looks remarkably like the premium, grid-lined pages I have admired on my way home after my evenings at the Annex.
With the red dates in the corners, too. And the day of the week depicted underneath.
Saturday. Always Saturday. The day I met with my silent guest. The pages that have also been ripped out of the daily planner. The ones that contained notes to me.
It has to just be a weird coincidence. Ruffo’s clean, easily discernible cursive doesn’t look anything like the messy scrawl on those notes.
I flip through the journal, ignoring the entries penned in tidy handwriting, my eyes fixed only on the dates in the upper corners.
Several weeks in a row, the weekend page is missing.
My fingers tremble as I frantically leaf through the leather-bound book.
Five missing Saturday pages. The next two are intact. The one after is gone.
The final spot with a missing page freezes me in place.
It’s not a Saturday. But rather the page before the day of my and Adriano’s wedding.
The preceding page has a neatly written notation about a follow-up phone call with someone named Hutchinson in London, and the one after—the Saturday page—has a roughly doodled flower and the name of the cathedral where our ceremony took place.
But none of those details are of interest to me.
None of them is important right now. It’s the missing parts that are vital.
The absent pages, especially the last.
That Friday night, just as with all the other ripped-out dates, I met with my silent guest.
It can’t be.
It’s…crazy. I’m crazy for even thinking it.
Hastily, I leaf through the meticulously scribed journal entries of the past week and then the pages of the upcoming days and weeks until I reach the end of the book. The final sheets are simply lined, reserved for random notes. And they are filled with plenty of information.
Messy reminders.
Barely legible writing.
Chicken scratch.
Left-slanted and hardly readable. Where the Ms and Ns look practically identical. Where Os and As are nearly indistinguishable. Jagged. Sloppy. With almost angry-looking, long slashes across the Ts.
I know that handwriting.
Still, I refuse to accept it. This isn’t enough proof for the wild idea overwhelming my mind.
Not definitive.
Until I see the scribbled note at the very bottom of the page:
Teacup set of 6. Approx. 15 yrs old.
White, with iconic European landmarks.
Broken — Eiffel Tower.
“Did I sprout a second head or something?”
My statement is followed by the shrill scrape of a fork across a dinner plate as my wife loses grip on her utensils and her hand bumps the table. She quickly recovers and resumes eating, focusing on her cannelloni.
“No.”
I narrow my eyes at her. She’s been behaving rather oddly ever since I got home an hour ago.
First, she wasn’t hiding from me in her rooms, as she tends to do.
Instead, I found her sitting on the steps of the back entrance, arms wrapped around her knees, staring absently at the trees.
When I exited the car, a strange, frantic look filled her wide eyes as she watched me approach.
But when my foot hit that first stone step, she bounced up and darted inside the house without a single word to me.
After that greeting, I certainly did not expect her to join me for dinner, but Iris was already in the dining room when I got there.
Once we sat down to eat, she started stealing glances at me from beneath her lashes, as if I were some kind of ghost.
“Is this about the dog?” I ask.
A low growl sounds a few feet away. I turn to find Taffy sprawled on the floor nearby, his gaze fixed on me.
Theo told me about what happened when he brought Iris home in my car.
The damn pooch wouldn’t move out of the way, giving them the welcome he reserves exclusively for me.
He pulls that crap every time I get back to the house.
That dog hates my guts and is not shy about expressing it.
“Nope.” Iris shakes her head, putting food in her mouth as if on autopilot.
“You sure? If you’re scared of him, I’ll make sure staff do not allow him inside anymore.”
“Taffy has been sleeping in my room since the day he and I met.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So that’s where he’s been. I wondered why the pest hasn’t been barking at night like he used to.”
Iris lowers her cutlery and raises her head, her eyes locking on mine. That peculiar look is in them again, as if there’s a storm brewing in her mind, but somehow, she’s keeping it contained.
“I’d like to spend tonight at my mom’s, if that’s okay?”
“Why?”
“She’s been feeling off for the last couple of days. I think she misses me, but I want to make sure it’s nothing more serious. I’ll be back first thing in the morning.”
My hands clench into fists. I hardly see her as it is, and the idea of Iris spending the night anywhere except our home makes me outright furious. “Theo will take you over after dinner and will collect you in the morning when you’re ready to go.”
“Thank you.”
The rest of our meal passes in silence, with my wife stealing more glances and giving me that weird look when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
Maybe she thought I’d keep her as a virtual prisoner and not allow her to spend the night with her mother?
Could that be the reason for her odd behavior this evening?
After finishing her dinner, Iris excuses herself.
But as she heads out of the room, she stops right beside me.
For the span of a long breath, she simply stands there with her head slightly tilted toward me, her anxious eyes searching for something intangible in mine.
Then, she mumbles a hurried good night and disappears.
An hour later, I watch from my home office window as the taillights of the car whisking my wife away shrink down the driveway.
Followed by three SUVs carrying her protection detail.
I sent an extra team to replace my eyes on her.
While I’m preoccupied with the fading red glow, already feeling her absence like an acute pain, my phone starts ringing.
I wait until the last glimpse has vanished before turning toward my desk to take the call.
“Good evening, sir!” Maggie’s voice carries across the line. “I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you.”
“What is it?” I snarl. She damn well knows to bring whatever issue is happening at the Annex to the club manager and not me.
“I know you said we shouldn’t expect you again in the future, but, given the exclusivity parameter, I thought it would be better to inform you…”
“Inform me about what?” My patience is fading, and Maggie’s hesitant tone is grinding it to dust.
“Your girl just contacted me to see if you might be up for a visit tonight.”
“What?” I roar.
Maggie stays quiet, but I hear her breathing rapidly into the phone.
“Sh-she said she would like to meet with her regular guest,” she finally answers. “I didn’t want to dismiss her request before speaking with you. Just in case you changed your mind and would like to see her after all.”
I squeeze my phone so fucking hard, I almost crack it. My wife just called to schedule a visit with another man. A man she kissed mere hours before marrying me. A man whose savage caresses she welcomed, though my simple touch the next day left her trembling with fear.
A red haze clouds my vision as I try to form the words to respond, but fail.
“Sir? Sir, did you hear me?”
A wild growl rips from my throat. “Tell her, I’ll be there.”