Chapter 18
CHAPTER 18
EARL
I hardly ever drink. I’ve seen what it’s done to my father, how he sought it out as refuge through every failure in his life. Failed businesses. Failed marriages.
But now, here I am, seated in the music room, staring out at the storm raging across the night sky, a tumbler of whiskey in my hand. It burns down my throat. I’ve been sipping it steadily—not drunk, but I know it’s almost time to stop. And yet, I don’t, because I’m waiting. Not consciously, but the storm holds my gaze. I know what I’m waiting for.
Raven isn’t back yet.
Irritation coils in my chest, tightening with every crack of thunder. She said she was visiting her parents, but so many hours have passed. And the thought gnaws at me: Is she really? Or is she with Charles? My stomach twists at the possibility, and I grit my teeth, hating myself for being so obsessed with someone who already betrayed me once. No matter how much I want to believe her, doubt clings to me like a second skin.
The headlights of the car I assigned for her use finally slice through the rain. She’s back. A flicker of relief settles in my chest as I straighten. I watch her figure dart through the downpour, her movements unhurried and graceful. And I remember she likes walking in the rain. I see Nora rushing out with an umbrella to meet her and shield her. I can make out the older woman’s voice, scolding her for not waiting in the car a moment longer.
I’ve left instructions for her to come see me the moment she returns and they have been dutifully passed on. I hear her footsteps on the hardwood floor and there is no urgency in them. I grip my glass tightly as I listen, my pulse quickening with every approaching step.
And then, there she is.
Her hair clings to her face, damp and wild, her blouse plastered to her skin from the rain. It clings in all the right places. A shaft of lightning lights up her face and figure. My eyes roam over her before I can stop myself, taking in the curve of her body, the delicate outline of her bra beneath the soaked fabric. My blood heats, and I hate how instantly and thoroughly she affects me.
“You wanted to see me,” she says softly, stepping into the room. Her lips are slightly parted, and I can see the faint tremor in her shoulders, whether from the coldness of the rain or nerves, I don’t know.
I lean back in the chair, forcing my expression into something impassive, detached. “You took your time.”
Her eyes flicker with defiance. She shifts her weight, her wet hair sliding over her shoulder. “The rain slowed me down,” she replies, her voice even, though I catch the hint of an edge. “And my parents wanted me to stay for dinner.”
I swirl the amber liquid in my glass, watching her closely. “Convenient.”
Her brows knit together, and she crosses her arms, though it only makes the wet fabric of her blouse pull tighter. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
The tension between us becomes electric, the storm outside nothing compared to the one brewing here. I lift my gaze to meet hers, hating how easily she stirs every part of me—anger, doubt, desire.
“You know exactly what it means,” I say sharply.
Her eyes lock onto mine, daring me to push her further. The rain beats against the windows, the sound filling the heavy silence between us. Then, with a sigh, she brushes a damp strand of hair from her face and takes a cautious step closer.
“I’m not doing this with you tonight,” she says. “I went to see my parents. That’s it. If you don’t believe me, that’s your problem.”
My mind is torn between wanting to believe her and knowing better. Trusting doesn’t come easily for me anymore. Maybe it never will again. But as she stands there, rain-soaked and defiant, there’s something in her eyes that almost makes me falter. Almost.
I down the rest of the whiskey in one long swallow. “You’re right,” I agree, setting the empty glass down with a decisive clink. “It is my problem.”
Her shoulders tense at my words, but she doesn’t look away. Neither do I. And in the charged silence that follows, I wonder if we’ll ever find our way back to something real—or if our relationship will always be like this storm.
"Didn’t your parents pay for you to learn to play the piano?" I ask, nodding toward the grand instrument, its dark lacquer glinting faintly in the dim light.
“Yes,” she says simply.
"Play something to make me feel good," I hear myself say.
I expect her to protest. She’s always been fiery, full of opinions and ready to argue every point to exhaustion. My blood hums with anticipation, already bracing for her defiance, for her biting retort that’ll make me feel alive, even in irritation. But once again, she surprises me. She smiles softly—a kind, gentle curve of her lips that cuts deeper than anger ever could. It’s the same smile that made me fall for her, and I hate how it disarms me even now. Without a word, she moves toward the piano.
I watch intently as she lifts the lid and looks down at the gleaming keys. Then she takes her seat on the piano stool.
Her fingers hover over the keys before she starts to play. At first, it’s just a few hesitant notes, soft and uncertain, like she’s testing whether she still remembers how to. But then, without warning, her fingers explode into movement. Vivaldi’s Four Seasons, the piece from our school play—a piece that rushes back into my memory as if it never left.
I used to sit in on her practices. I’d been there for every single one, watching her. She was the sun. Every note she played, every smile she gave—it lit me up in ways I hadn’t thought possible.
And now, hearing the music again, it’s like a chokehold on my chest. The warmth spreads through me. Old emotions hit me hard, so fast. The arousal, the heat, the raw desire—they all rush back, as strong as they ever were.
The final note lingers in the air like a whisper of the past. She turns to look at me and our gazes lock. There is such sadness in her eyes that it disarms me.
"Tell me more about your dad’s condition," I say, my voice cutting through the haze of nostalgia and longing.
She sighs softly. "He has thyroid cancer.” Her eyes glisten with unshed tears under the soft light and to hide her vulnerability she turns back to face the piano. "We found out a few months ago. At first, he thought it was just some swelling, maybe a nodule or something harmless, but the tests confirmed it. Stage two."
I lean forward slightly, my elbows on my knees as I listen.
"They went through all the treatment options—surgery, radiation, even targeted therapies. The doctors think his prognosis is good as long as we move quickly, but it’s been... hard, you know? Adjusting to it all."
Her fingers brush lightly over the piano keys as she speaks, almost absentmindedly, like she’s grounding herself in the feel of the instrument. "I’ve scheduled his first treatment on Monday morning," she says, her voice softer now. "It’s... a relief, honestly. Knowing we’re finally doing something about it.” She glances at me warily. “Thanks to you."
I study her, the way her shoulders are slumped as she talks, the way her voice carries that faint tremor of hope mixed with weariness. And for the first time in what feels like forever, I wonder if she’s the only person who I have ever loved and has ever made me feel loved.
That’s probably why the betrayal stung so much. She was my sun, moon, and stars, and after her treachery, it was as though my entire being was plunged into darkness. I hate that I gave her that much power. I hate even more that once again I’ve given her just as much power—maybe even more—by marrying her. At the time, I told myself it was to torture her. To make her pay for what she did. But why does it feel as if I’m the one who is being tortured? Why is it that I’m not having any fun at all?
“Do you like your portrait?” I ask, my voice smooth.
Her eyes flick to the massive canvas hanging above the fireplace. The shift in her expression is immediate. Her shoulders stiffen, her earlier ease evaporates into tension. Perfect. Just what I wanted, I tell myself.
Her gaze lingers on the portrait as though she’s trying to make sense of it, to find something polite to say about the woman staring back at her from the golden throne. I watch her intently, savoring the discomfort that radiates from her like heat from a flame.
Finally, she speaks, her voice soft and neutral. “It’s an interesting painting.”
“That’s all you have to say? Interesting?”
She tears her eyes away from the painting and looks at me. There’s no anger in her gaze, no defiance—just exhaustion, like she’s too tired to fight. “What do you want me to say, Earl? That I hate it? That I very clearly get your message with it? Would that make you happy?”
I lean back in my chair, studying her. “I just thought you’d appreciate the artistry,” I say coolly. “I had it commissioned specially for you. To capture the essence of who you are.”
Her lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, I think she might explode. Instead, she takes a deep breath and nods.
“Well, thank you for going to such trouble. It’s nice of you. It’s … unforgettable.”
One thing I can’t take from her mockery. I didn’t marry her for that. I rise from my seat and move closer to the painting. “Unforgettable,” I repeat, tasting the word. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”
She looks away, her fingers tightening around the edge of the piano stool. “Why?” she asks quietly, almost to herself. “Why did you do it?”
The question hangs in the air between us, unanswered. I know why I did it. To remind her—and myself—that I’m the one in control now. That she doesn’t get to rewrite the past or pretend it didn’t happen. No matter how much she smiles, how pitiful she looks, or how much she wants to move forward and forget the past, I’ll always be here to drag her back.
I refill my glass again and swirl the amber liquid gently. I don’t want to spend any more time with her tonight. I want to be alone. To drown in the quiet and let the storm outside mirror the one inside me.
“It’s late,” I say, my tone dismissive. “You should get to bed.”
She shakes her head in defeat and without another word, she rises and heads for the door. I watch her go, the faint scent of rain clinging to her as she moves. The outline of her silhouette against the dim light of the hallway makes something twist deep inside me—something I wish I didn’t feel.
The door clicks shut behind her, and for a long while, I just stand there, staring at the empty space where she had been. Then I turn back to the painting, my gaze locking onto those cold, unrecognizable eyes.
Unforgettable. Yes, that’s exactly what I wanted. But that creature is a lie. That is not her. Even I know it.
I stare out of the window and can’t stop thinking about her. How wet she was from the rain, her clothes clinging to her curves, the way her hair dripped in dark rivulets down her back.
The liquor burns through me, igniting a fire I can’t extinguish. It fuels a raw, untamed need—an aching desperation to silence my thoughts the only way I know how. I need her. I need to lose myself in her. To drown in her until there’s nothing left of this restless, raging heat. I need to fuck her. Hard.
Before I know it, I’m on my feet. My steps are quick and decisive. I catch up to her just as she reaches the top of the stairs. Her hand is on the banister, and she’s mid-turn when I grab her arm and tug her toward me.
“Earl!” she exclaims, startled, her voice a mix of confusion and astonishment. “What are you?—?”
“Come on,” I cut her off, my tone rough and uncaring. I don’t give her a chance to argue as I pull her along, her footsteps stumbling slightly to keep up with mine.
“Ow,” she mutters, her tone sharp. Her free hand goes to my wrist, trying to ease my grip, but I don’t let go. I can’t. My pulse is pounding too hard, and the feel of her skin against mine only stokes the fire.
I lead her straight to my bedroom, the door swinging shut behind us with a finality that makes the air in the room feel heavier. She looks at me, her brows furrowed, her lips parting as if to speak, but I don’t give her the chance.
“Strip,” I say, my voice low, roughened by desire and whiskey.
Her eyes widen slightly, a flicker of hesitation crossing her face. But I don’t wait to see if she’ll obey. I reach for my own shirt, tugging it over my head in one swift motion. The fabric falls to the floor, followed quickly by the rest of my clothes, each piece stripped away with a sense of urgency I can’t control.
I turn toward the bathroom, my hands pushing the door open. “Don’t make me wait,” I call over my shoulder, the words coming out sharper than I intended. “You’ll be sorry if you do.”
The water runs cold at first, biting against my skin and making me shiver as I step under the spray. Gradually, it warms, the heat seeping into my muscles. It feels good—too good—but it doesn’t quell the fire burning inside me. The anticipation is a steady thrum in my veins, an ache that no amount of steam or scalding heat can erase.
I stand there for a few minutes, letting the water cascade over me, my head tilted forward, eyes closed, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of the droplets against my shoulders. I’m burning. Burning for her.
Then I feel it—a cold burst of air sweeping in as the bathroom door opens. I don’t have to turn around to know she’s entered. The sound of the door clicking shut behind her sends a shiver down my spine, though the heat of the water keeps my skin aflame. The anticipation is unbearable.
When I finally turn, the sight of her hits me like a physical force. She stands just a few feet away, her damp hair falling in dark waves around her face, completely naked.
In the yellow light of the bathroom, her skin glistens still with droplets of rain. She’s breathtaking—every inch of her. On her pert, high breasts, her nipples have hardened into delicious peaks, their soft pink hue practically begging for my touch. My gaze travels down, over the elegant curve of her slender arms and the taut lines of her toned stomach, down to the gentle flare of her hips.
My mind is a swirling storm of raw desire. I tell myself to look away, to pull back before I fall too far, but I can’t. My eyes are locked on her, tracing every detail, committing every inch of her to memory as though I’ll never see her like this again.
Her gaze is unwavering, fearless. There’s something in her eyes that shakes me—a quiet strength, a vulnerability she doesn’t attempt to hide, and an intensity that mirrors my own. The way she looks at me makes my blood roar, makes every muscle in my body tense with need and my chest ache. My mouth dries and my hands clench at my sides, resisting the overwhelming urge to reach for her, to feel the softness of her skin under my palms, to claim her.
She tilts her head slightly, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile. I don’t know how she does it—how she manages to unravel me with a single look. It’s infuriating and intoxicating all at once. It’s shocking how much power she has over me.
Her eyes move over me, slow and deliberate, like she’s taking her time to commit every detail to memory. Her gaze trails downward, over the hard planes of my chest, the muscles slick and glistening under the water, down to the sharp line of my hips and lower. Her eyes linger there. My cock hardens even more till it is curved and leaning towards my navel.
“Like what you see?” I ask, my voice low and rough.
Her eyes snap back to mine. “I do,” she says simply.