Chapter 28
Darius
I’m sitting on my bed, my legs crossed beneath me as I page through a magazine, when the doorbell rings.
Floyd is in the lounge, so I don’t bother getting up, leaving him to deal with whoever’s stopping by on a Sunday evening.
It’s been two weeks since we got married, and to say it’s been an uncomfortable two weeks is an understatement.
The wedding went as well as could have been expected. I drank away my sadness and can only vaguely remember Caiden helping me into the limo at the end of the night. I woke up on the sofa, still in my suit, with a rather pissed off Floyd hovering over me and a headache bad enough to kill a horse.
We don’t eat together, we simply co-exist. The only time we’ve ventured out as a ‘couple’ was to visit his family.
And I hated that day because not only did he insist I change out of the purple body suit and white jeans I was wearing and into something ‘more acceptable’, but I had to spend the afternoon lying to people who, unlike him, are lovely.
During the week, I take as many shifts at the coffee shop as I can, running myself dry just to have a reason to be out of the house and away from my husband, who works from the home office he set up shortly after we moved in.
I don’t even know what he does, and I don’t really care.
I’m literally counting down the days until this is over.
“Seven hundred and sixteen days, Norman,” I say to my betta fish. “And then we can go home.” I get up and open the top of his tank, then sprinkle in a little food. He swims up to the surface, grabbing at the flakes, his beautiful blue fins spreading out as he glides through the water.
I startle when there’s a bang on my door and I close the lid, cross the room and pull the door open.
“What?” I snap, irritated that Floyd would bother me in the only place I find any sense of solace now that my life’s been tipped upside down.
“Sweet boy, we have guests.” His eyes are hard, betraying his honey smooth words, which means there is someone here that we have to put on an act for.
He glances at my pink shorts and baggy white tee before dropping his voice.
“Put something on that doesn’t make you look like a slut.
” Then he smiles – all teeth and fake charm and turns and walks away.
“He’s finishing up in his office,” I hear him say to whoever is here.
My office. Because we don’t have separate rooms – why would a happy newlywed couple have their own bedrooms?
Looking down at my outfit, I huff, then open the door and pad through in my socks to the main living area. Fuck him if he thinks he can control me in my own house. This may never be my home, but it is still my fucking space.
“Darius!” Floyd’s mum exclaims when I come into view.
She’s dressed in a white pantsuit with a pink blouse.
She looks beautiful. She loves to talk to me about my uncle and how happy they were together before he passed.
I still can’t wrap my head around how she gave birth to the narcissist standing on the opposite side of the room, anger and distaste flashing across his features as he rakes his gaze over me.
“Hi, Mrs Hastings. We weren’t expecting you this evening.”
“We were in the area and thought we would stop in,” Floyd’s grandmother, Elizabeth, the matriarch of the family, says, coming around the sofa to greet me.
It’s the second time she’s ‘popped’ in unexpectedly and I think Floyd may be right that she’s looking to catch us out.
“Hope that’s okay?” she asks, taking my hands in hers and giving them a squeeze.
I smile. “Of course, you’re always welcome.”
It’s only when she looks down at my hands that she’s clutching between hers that I realise the mistake I’ve made. She raises a well-manicured brow.
“Oh! Where is your ring? Don’t say you’ve lost it already?” She tries to joke, but there’s something in her voice that says she’s smarter than both me and her grandson.
Over her shoulder, Floyd shoots me a glare that could kill, before he replaces it with a smile that he hopes resembles real human emotion and moves swiftly towards us.
“The fit was wrong,” he says. “It was much too loose.” He wraps his arm around me, and I fight back the wince as he digs his fingers in so hard I know there will be bruises.
“Yes.” I cough, to hide the bite of pain he’s inflicting on me.
“It was too big. Floyd kindly took it in to be resized. I should have it back later this week.” His grandmother narrows her eyes, but eventually drops my hands and changes the subject, moving around the apartment and inspecting the bits and pieces dotted around to make the space look like somewhere a happy couple lives.
“Shall we go out for dinner?” Floyd asks and I’m already thinking up excuses for why I can’t join them, but am saved from having to lie when his grandmother shakes her head.
“No, we have plans with your grandfather’s lawyer this evening.”
“On a Sunday night?” Floyd asks, failing to hide his surprise.
His grandmother grins. “He’s a close family friend.” I don’t miss the way Floyd bristles, his eyes briefly flitting my way.
“We have time for a quick cup of tea, don’t we, Liz?” Floyd’s mother asks her mother-in-law.
“Sure,” Liz says, and I use the opportunity to dash out of the room and put the kettle on.
They stay for an hour, making idle chitchat about sports and the weather and when we’re going on our honeymoon (we’re not), before they say their goodbyes. At the door, Floyd’s grandmother leaves with a suggestion of meeting up with my father for drinks later in the week.
And isn’t that great? Another chance to play happy fucking families. I have to physically restrain myself from rolling my eyes. How I’m going to do this for another seven hundred plus days, I do not know.
When the door closes behind our guests, I turn to head back to my room, caught completely off guard by the strong hand that grabs the back of my neck. I cry out as Floyd throws me against the wall, my head hitting the concrete with a thud.
“Stupid little slut,” he seethes, getting right into my space and pressing his forearm with force across my collarbone.
The pressure he uses is so intense, I know there will be bruises there soon.
I go to speak, but he uses his free hand to grip my chin tightly.
“I told you to change, and you ignored me.” I thrash against him, trying to knee him in the groin, but he presses his lower body tightly against me, crowding me completely against the wall.
“And then you forgot your fucking ring!”
“Let me go,” I say around my gritted teeth, but he ignores me, spittle landing on my cheek as he rants on about how I’m trying to ruin this for him, how he should throw my father to the wolves for my insolence.
He uses his grip on my face to lift my head, then drops his nose to my neck, sniffing me like an animal. “You smell scared, sweet boy.” I cringe at his words, and the heat of his erection pressed up against me.
Until now, he’s been cold. Rude. An asshole with strong opinions, but not violent. So, yeah, I am scared, but I’m also fucking furious that he thinks he can treat me like this.
“Fuck off,” I mumble, trying to inch myself away from him, but it’s no use because the grip he has on me is too strong and he’s so much bigger than me.
When his tongue comes out to lick across my neck, I lose it, twisting and turning until I land a kick to his shin.
He loosens his grip on me and I make to run, but he grabs my hair and slams me into the wall.
I have just enough time to get my hand up to stop my face from hitting the concrete.
My wrist takes the brunt of my weight and with the amount of force he used to throw me, the impact causes it to twist back with a god awful crack.
“Fuck!” I yell, pain searing through me.
Floyd releases me and steps back. I cradle my hand against my chest and turn to look at him. He straightens his jumper, a completely blank expression on his face.
“Let that be a lesson, Darius. Do not fuck with me again. If you think those files leaking are the worst thing I can do to you, think again.”
I lean against the wall, too afraid to move, pain throbbing in my wrist. Floyd heads to his office, returning a moment later with his coat.
“Don’t wait up,” he says, stepping out of the front door and slamming it behind him.
When I’m sure he’s not coming back, I go through to my en suite, take two ibuprofen and turn on the shower.
My throat is tight and my eyes sting and by the time I’ve worked my clothes off with one hand, my face is wet with tears.
Climbing under the hot spray, I press my back to the cold tiles, then slide down the wall until I’m sitting, the spray mixing with the evidence of my anguish.
“Seven hundred and sixteen days,” I mumble to myself.
“You’re doing this for dad and for all the people who would lose their jobs.
You made the right choice.” I say the words over and over until the water runs cold.
Then I get out, throw on a tee Oliver left in my flat after our trip to Devon, check my bedroom door is locked and climb into bed.
In the two days since Floyd fractured my wrist, I haven’t left my room except to make the odd meal and visit my doctor, who gave me a splint for my wrist. I told him I fell off my bike while cycling and thankfully he believed me.
Now, I’m standing in front of my mirror, awkwardly adjusting the buttons on my blue silk shirt with one hand, to ensure it covers the bruises across my collarbone.
I know I shouldn’t accept what Floyd did to me – it’s not okay. If I saw the same happen to any of my friends, I’d be encouraging them to leave, and in normal circumstances, I wouldn’t hesitate, but the situation I’m in isn’t normal. The best I can do is steer clear of him as much as possible.
There’s a knock on my door. I unlock it and swing it open.
“Ready?” Floyd stands, arms crossed over his expensive black suit.
No.
We’re meeting my father and Floyd’s grandmother and mother for drinks at Bar La Vella. It wasn’t my suggestion – it was my father’s – and though I offered an alternative; he ignored it. What was I going to say? No, we can’t go to Bar La Vella because the love of my life may be working there?
“Sure.” I lift my hand. “Can’t wait to explain this.”
He scowls and I know I shouldn’t push him, given how volatile he’s proven to be. “I’m sure I can trust you not to run your mouth,” he retorts, turning and heading to the lounge.
I follow behind, putting on a coat and scarf to ward against the cold night air.
We take a cab and ride in silence, our ruse only needing to start when we walk into Bar La Vella.
When we arrive, he stands on my left, sliding his hand into my uninjured one.
My immediate instinct is to pull away, which he must feel because he tightens his grip.
“Smile, sweet boy. People are watching.” I look at him and then towards the entry of the bar, where I see his mum and my father talking. When they spot us, his mother beams, coming to greet us both with a warm hug. My father merely nods in our direction.
“What happened to your hand?” His mother remarks, reaching out to carefully touch the hand covered by the neoprene splint.
“Fell off my bicycle,” I say, looking at my father, who is watching me with a furrowed brow. “It was silly. It was raining and I could barely see where I was going.” The lie rolls off my tongue like maybe even I believe it’s the truth.
“Where’s Grandmother?” Floyd asks, a hand on his mother’s lower back as he guides us inside. It’s quiet tonight, with only a few of the tall bar stools occupied. My eyes immediately drift to the bar, relief and disappointment warring for space inside me when I don’t see Oliver.
“Leonard is bringing her later. They were going over some documents from Grandad’s estate.”
From what I’ve gathered from the few times I’ve met his family, Floyd’s grandfather was a well loved and respected man.
A family man who put his wife and children first. Sadly, his only son – Floyd’s father – passed away shortly after Floyd was born.
They welcomed Floyd’s mother in as part of the family and though she was left out of the will, she doesn’t seem to be bothered about it.
Unlike my father, who amassed his wealth through business – and unscrupulous dealings – the Hastings family is old money rich.
“Great,” Floyd mumbles under his breath.
When we take our seats at an empty table, Floyd grabs my hand before I can sit down. “We’ll get the drinks,” he says.
“They have table service,” my father offers.
Floyd brushes him off. “No need. Darius and I will get them.” His grip on my hand tightens and then he’s dragging me towards the bar.
A sensation passes over my spine, the hairs on the back of my neck rising and I know before my eyes even meet his across the bar that Oliver is in fact here this evening.
Floyd pauses a few steps from the bar, smiling as he leans into me, his lips touching the shell of my ear.
“I don’t think I need to tell you what happens if you fuck up tonight, Darius. My grandmother is spending far too much time with Leonard for my liking. I’m certain she’s on to us. So prove her wrong and play the doting husband. Got it?”
My eyes are still locked on Oliver’s and I swallow thickly, my throat suddenly dry. I manage a nod, which seems to satisfy Floyd. He kisses my cheek, an act for anyone watching us, then heads to the bar.
Oliver barely reacts as we approach him, until his eyes settle on my wrist. Then his features cloud, a brief flash of anger that you wouldn’t notice unless you were really looking at him. And I am, because he is so beautiful and I miss him so bloody much.
“What can I get for you this evening?” he asks, tone neutral.
“Have we met before?” Floyd asks. I don’t know what Oliver’s going to say and I’m both hurt and surprised when he shakes his head, acting like we’re complete strangers to him.
I guess I deserve that. It’s probably for the best, anyway.
“I don’t think so. Unless you’ve been in here before?”
Floyd hums under his breath. “Maybe.” He pulls me closer and wraps an arm around my waist. “We’ll have four gin and tonics, please.
” He looks at me, knowing full well I fucking hate gin.
I get this sense he’s trying to fuck with me, so I don’t react.
“Have them brought to the table.” Floyd hands over his credit card and Oliver takes the payment.
He doesn’t look at me again and we head back to the table.
A few moments later, Oliver brings over the tray and places a drink in front of each of us. I’m surprised because I know, as the barman, he rarely handles table service.
He walks away, and as I take a sip of my drink, expecting the sharp, dry taste of gin, I know why.
Because he knows me.
Because he loves me.