Chapter Seventeen #2
Just like I predicted, my door flies open minutes later and Audrey walks in with a wide smile on her face.
That smile may have fooled me before, but it doesn’t now.
Her hazel eyes don’t have their usual gleam. Her bun is messy and her shoulders sag as if she’s carrying an invisible weight.
A sharp ache twists beneath my ribs. For one reckless second, I want to smile back at her and ask if she’s okay. I want to pull her into my arms, kiss her forehead, and tell her how my day was.
But then the photos of her standing with Emiliano flash through my head, and every ounce of softness I feel toward her is buried beneath the rage simmering inside me.
“Where have you been?”
She flinches, but regains her composure quickly. “Um. I was…I got tired of staying indoors, so I went out to get some fresh air. I’m sorry I went out without security. I just wanted to be alone.” She pauses, her tongue wetting her lips. “There’s, um…something I need to tell you.”
Something hot and ugly twists inside me at the way she lies so easily. She doesn’t even hesitate. I wonder how much of everything between us has been a lie.
Does she even like me?
Has she ever even seen me as anything but the man who was mean to her a year ago?
“Is that so?”
Her smile vanishes and she stares at me intently. “You don’t look happy. Is something wrong?”
Everything is wrong.
Every. Single. Thing.
Grabbing my phone from the table, I scroll to the pictures hold it out to her. “Have a look.”
The phone slips from her fingers.
She barely catches it before it hits the floor, clutching it against her chest with trembling hands. Terror floods her face so quickly it steals every trace of color from her cheeks.
“God…” she whispers, mostly to herself, shaking her head as if she can’t believe what she’s looking at. “No. Oh God, no.”
Each swipe seems to hollow her out even more, until she’s standing in front of me looking less like my wife and more like a woman waiting for the executioner’s blade to fall.
“Igor...” Her hands tremble and her voice cracks. “I can explain. I promise. I’ll explain everything.”
A bitter laugh escapes me. “Can you?”
Her eyes snap up to mine, already shimmering with tears. “Please, just give me a chance to explain.”
“Explain what?” I ask quietly, my pulse hammering so violently against my ribs I can hear it. “Explain why you lied the second you walked into this room? Or explain why you met with the man who’s spent the last few weeks trying to destroy everything I’ve built? What is there to explain?”
Her chest heaves and her breathing comes in short bursts that sound almost painful. “It’s really not what you think. I wanted to—”
“Then tell me what I should think.” I want to hear her out, but she’s spent the last few weeks lying to me, so I can’t trust anything she says. I can’t let her make a fool out of me again.
“I...” She stops, her eyes meeting mine. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I’m so sorry. I thought you’d hate me if you knew. It’s why I never said anything.”
Somehow, hearing her say that hurts me even more. We’ve been through so much together. I risked my life for her. How could she not trust me with the truth, no matter how bitter it might be?
How could she think so low of me that she couldn’t trust me?
“Keep your truth.” My voice is colder than I’ve ever heard it. “I can’t trust you or the things you say. This is where it ends for us.”
The pain that bleeds into her eyes when I say those words is so raw it’ll haunt me forever, but I can’t bring myself to forgive her. Not right now. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to.
“Igor, you can’t do that.” She’s clutching her chest as if it’s the only thing keeping her from breaking apart. “I was wrong. I’m sorry. Please don’t do this.”
For one stupid, pathetic second, I want to pretend none of this happened. I want to pretend I never saw those pictures and she never went to meet Emiliano. But that would just be me denying reality.
“It’s over between us.” My chest tightens, and every word tastes like ash. “Get out of my house.”
The finality in my voice steals the final trace of light from her eyes. She stares at me for another long moment, silently begging me to change my mind.
I don’t.
Instead, I turn away from her, refusing to see any more of that pain on her face. Refusing to get fooled again.
After a moment, she nods and whispers, “Okay.” Then she bends down with shaking hands, picks up the car keys that fell at some point during our argument, and walks toward the door.
She pauses with her hand on the handle and says over her shoulder, “I hope one day,” she whispers, her voice breaking, “you’ll realize why I couldn’t tell you.”
Only when I hear the door click shut behind her do I finally glance in the direction of where she was standing just a couple seconds ago.
My fists clench until my nails bite into my palms, but the pain doesn’t come close to the hollow ache spreading through my chest. Letting her go hurts more than I would have ever imagined it would, like I’m cutting away a part of myself.
Yet beneath all of the pain and anger, something else cuts even deeper—the fear that I just made the biggest mistake of my life.