32. Raif
Days pass.Weeks. Then one month. Lavender, Daisy, and I settle into a routine. Breakfasts together. Dinners. Grown-up evenings out where I introduce her to those people of questionable tastes and heavy pockets, as I promised.
Lavender’s business booms, and that makes her so happy. She begins to relax and jumps less at the slightest noise. The sound of a car door slamming. Kids yelling in the street. That she reacts that way at all makes me feel sad. Angry. Fucking impotent.
I can’t change her experiences, but I can choose not to add to them. Choice being the operative word. Selfishness being another, more compelling voice.
Since that night in the gallery, I’ve found myself taking a closer interest in debt collection meetings. Some days, I’m just plain fucking angry. That she suffered. That no one noticed. On these days, my muscles seem to hum like electricity without an outlet. Those are days of violence. Broken noses. Hands. Arms. But only for those who offered broken promises.
Daisy’s father takes his settlement, which is one less problem. All that remains is for him to stop turning up for visitation and drop out of our lives. It’s only a matter of time.
As for Lavender, I should’ve told her the truth now that Daisy’s future is safe. But then she wouldn’t need me. And she’d leave. As she should.
I don’t want to be the second man in her life to hurt her, so I tell myself I’m doing this for Daisy, that she’d already lightened that little girl’s life so much. But the truth feels much more complicated than that.
Eleven months left. What happens after… I can’t think about it. All I know is this selfish need to keep her close.
I’m determined she’ll never know I considered not filing our marriage paperwork. At that moment, I was all in my head. Resistant to my own feelings. It was never about her.
As for that fucker, her ex, I kept my word. He’s alive, though it wouldn’t be a life I consider worth living. But he won’t be hurting anyone ever again.
I’ve had time to reflect, though there is no space for regrets because I can’t take back what took place that night in Chelsea. Even if I could wind back time to watch her sashay into my office one more time, I’m not sure I could change a thing. But that doesn’t mean I feel good about it.
One boyfriend her whole life. One sexual partner in an act that wasn’t her choice. And then I walk in, and without asking a question, I spread her out on a desk and devour the fuck out of her. Then through blackmail, intimidation, or bribery, dependent on your take, I tied her to me in matrimony for my own fucked-up devices.
I’ve asked myself what kind of man that makes me. I’ve replayed our interactions over and over again. That first night, she seemed so worldly, so sophisticated. She wasn’t intimidated by me. In fact, she gave as good as she got. How I wanted her, but did that want cloud my decisions? And then later, in Gibraltar, we were intimate again. The promise of money already made. Was she thinking only of that inducement? Or did she want me? Like I wanted her.
Like I want her still.
“Morning.” Lavender leans in, pressing a kiss to my cheek and a finger to my forehead. “Hm. Looks like it must be nearly time for a Botox appointment.”
“Funny.”
“That’s me.”
She’s also thoughtful, frustrating, combative, giving, disdaining, observant, taunting, provocative, and so much more.
Like hot. So fucking hot.
She has the capacity to drive me to the brink of insanity. And make me like it.
“What are you doing up so early?” Lavender plucks a strawberry from the bowl of fruit Sam had prepared.
“I’m an early riser.”
“I know.” There’s a hint of suggestion in her words, one that twists and grows inside me as I imagine myself slinging my arm around her waist, the other swiping the contents of the table to the floor. I’d deposit her there and—
Fuck.We’ve barely touched since the gallery. That night, the truth of her experiences and the decisions I’d made now wedged between us.
“What are your plans for this morning?” she asks, sliding into the seat opposite.
“I have a meeting in Soho in an hour.” Some would call it a meeting—a meeting that requires a pair of gloves and a dark suit. Stretching my fingers, I examine the condition of my knuckles.
“Oh.” Was that disappointment? Her expression changes so quickly, it’s hard to tell. “This is a lot of food for three people,” she says, changing the topic as she studies this morning’s breakfast selection. Greek yogurt, honey, berries, and freshly made granola. On the side, there’s also homemade labneh and jben cheese, fresh bread, and olives. Tastes of the past, I guess.
“Maria and Sam eat breakfast, too.” My answer sounds defensive, though I choose not to examine it or explain how anyone who works in this house is welcome to help themselves to food, no questions asked. No complaints made. “You’re not at the gallery today?” I ask, noting her pale jeans and T-shirt. Saturday is usually one of their busy days.
She shakes her head. “Tod’s opening up.”
At least Tod’s presence in her life makes sense now. She saw safety with him.
She’s safer with him than she is with me.
“Plus, Primrose is back to uni soon and wanted a few more shifts. I thought I might play hooky today while I have the chance.”
“I’m sorry. If I’d known…”
Her shoulder flicks. “It’s no big deal. I might take Daisy shopping.”
“You don’t need to.” Anita might not be back, but, “Maria is here.”
“I know that.” She moves her silverware a little to the left, then reached for the orange juice. “But I want to.”
“Okay.” I watch as she pours, then lifts the glass to her lips. Which quirk, silently calling me out for watching. “Good.”
I pick up my coffee cup, hating how I’ve become so stilted, how I second-guess my actions all the time. It’s just circumstances, I know. I feel tender toward her in the face of what she’s endured, what she’s kept to herself all these years. But she refuses all attempts, so I feel so fucking awkward around her. Useless, like I can’t find the right thing to say.
She doesn’t need to be here.As the thought tattoos itself across my frontal lobe, my heart drops. Like a body down an elevator shaft.
“Fuck!” Espresso splashes my hand, the cup rattling as I attempt to set it back on the saucer. So much for Lavender’s nerves settling. “Sorry, my finger slipped.”
My shoulders stiffen, my skin tightening. I want to roar—bring the fucking walls down. Beat that fucker within an inch of his life again and again and again.
All because I can’t take her pain. I want to bear it for her.
“Good, you’re not a cappuccino fan.” I feel her eyes as I mop at the dark liquid with a napkin. “I’m not surprised. Those big hands…”
I glance up, noting her lingering gaze. The way she bites the tender skin on the inside of her lip. I want to peel the plumpness from her grip and listen to her sigh as I sink my teeth there instead. Under the table, my cock throbs incessantly. How the hell am I ever going to overcome this?
Divorce. That would be Lachlan’s answer. Not that I’d ask him. He’s still lamenting the eventual cost. Eventual cost because I have no plans of ending things between us prematurely.
The choice I’ve made. The selfishness I’ve displayed. The lies I continue to tell myself. What kind of man would that make me? What kind of signal would it send?
Like keeping her here is an act of kindness.
Who knows, maybe it is masochism.
The reason—the impetus—for marrying Lavender may now have been served, but I don’t want out of this marriage. Just out of this stilted impasse. I want to be taken into her confidence. Into her arms. Her body. And I don’t know how I begin to achieve that.
Instead, I watch her. And want her.
So badly that my chest hurts.