Chapter Thirty-Two
DEE
For the last two hours, I’ve been pouring my heart into Colt’s favorite dinner, making sure everything’s perfect. He left early for Macy’s and said he’d only be a couple of hours, so I’ve been holding onto the hope he’ll be home by five.
It’s four-thirty now. I race upstairs to change into the lingerie I wore on our wedding night—white and blue lace, delicate but sexy, with the garter and heels to match. As I descend the stairs, I feel more alive than I have in days.
There’s still fight left in me.
Colt is mine, and I won’t lose him without a battle.
If Macy thinks she can swoop in and rewrite our story, she’s in for a rude awakening. I didn’t come this far to let go now.
Back in the kitchen, I check on dinner. The aroma is mouthwatering, and everything’s on track.
I set the table with a crisp cloth, soft lighting from the candles, and even Colt’s favorite chocolates in a dish.
I went down to the cellar earlier and picked out a vintage bottle of wine, letting it breathe just in time for us to share a glass.
Everything’s ready.
All that’s left to do… is wait.
In the living room, I flick on the television, but I can’t focus. The news warns of heavy snowfall heading for Oxfordshire, but Colt should be home long before that hits. Still, a tiny flicker of unease stirs.
I smooth down my lingerie and cross my legs, trying to settle. I feel nervous, like I’m waiting for a first date with anticipation fluttering in my stomach. I want tonight to matter. I want to make love to my husband. It’s been a while. Too long for us.
When Colt’s inside me, I don’t question his love—I feel it. And right now, I need that reassurance.
If it’s still there, I’ll hold onto it.
The news ends, and I glance at the clock. Five o’clock. He should be home by now.
Trying not to panic, I head to the kitchen and feed Princess, dragging out the task longer than necessary to stay occupied. She eats, stretches, and trots off like the loyal pup she is, completely content.
Lucky girl.
With nothing else to do, I wander into Colt’s music room. The air here feels different—sacred. I trail my fingers along his microphone stand and close my eyes, picturing him singing just for me. I miss the way he used to hum while I fell asleep. That quiet rhythm was my lullaby, my comfort.
I’m teary again, so I leave before the memories unravel me.
Back in the kitchen, I check the oven. Dinner’s almost done, and it’s already close to six.
Is he still coming?
We argued this morning, but we made plans.
Surely he remembers that.
Surely he wants to be here.
I walk to the counter and grab my phone. My fingers hesitate before dialing. I’m not trying to hound him, I just want to make sure Colt’s okay, and still coming home.
The line rings. And rings. And rings.
Then it goes to voicemail.
I take a calming breath and wait for the beep.
“Hey, babe… I’m really sorry about this morning.
I hate that I upset you. Dinner’s nearly ready and…
I’m hoping you’ve already left London. But if you haven’t, I’ll keep it warm for you.
Just… call me, okay? Love you.” I end the call and set the phone down, tapping my heel lightly against the tiles.
The sound echoes through the quiet kitchen, amplifying the silence in the worst way.
I don’t want to jump to conclusions. I really don’t. But my chest tightens all the same.
Is he ignoring me?
I sit at the dining table, wrapping my arms around myself despite the heating. I’m cold, but it’s not the temperature, it’s the distance I feel from him.
Fifteen minutes pass. No call. No message.
I stare at my phone. I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. But my hand moves on its own, dialing again.
This time, it goes straight to voicemail.
My heart sinks.
He turned it off.
There’s no other explanation.
He saw the call and chose not to answer.
I close my eyes, trying not to spiral, but the thoughts come anyway. Is he still at Macy’s? Is she comforting him the way I should be? Is he venting to her about me? Laughing at how emotional I’ve been? Letting her in further?
I press my fingers to my temples and inhale deeply, trying to slow the pounding in my chest. I force myself to stand, brushing invisible creases from my lingerie, fixing what doesn’t need fixing simply to keep my hands busy.
I move to the oven. Dinner’s ready. So I pull it out and place it on the counter, my hands shaking, blinking back the tears that threaten again.
I glance at the clock.
Six-thirty.
I nod to myself and start plating the food.
I even give Colt an extra helping, because it’s his birthday and because, despite everything, I still love him enough to show up for him.
Even when he’s not showing up for me. I carry the plates to the table and set them down with care.
Then I just stand there. Looking at the food. At the empty chair across from mine.
The silence in the room is deafening.
Snow starts falling outside. Big, heavy flakes. A quiet kind of storm.
Concern creeps in and pushes aside my frustration. What if Colt’s is trying to get home but is caught in bad weather? What if he’s stuck? What if something’s happened?
I rush to the front door and yank it open. A sharp gust of wind slices through me, sending goose bumps prickling across my skin. I hug my arms around myself and squint down the driveway.
No headlights.
No sign of him.
I close the door with a quiet click and head back to the kitchen, my fingers already reaching for my phone again. I hit redial.
Voicemail.
Again.
The beep sounds, and I can’t hold back anymore.
“Colt, please just come home. I’m really starting to worry. I just want to spend your birthday with you. I’m sorry for doubting you. I love you so much. Please… please come home to me.” I end the call and crumble against the counter, burying my face in my hands.
I don’t know what to do.
Drive to Macy’s?
Wait longer?
Start packing?
My mind swings wildly between panic and heartbreak. It feels like Colt’s already gone, like I’m holding onto air, and the part that scares me the most is maybe he has given up.
Maybe that’s why he’s not calling.
Maybe this is his way of walking away without saying the words.
I think of Anna and Johnny. Of how they love so easily. Even Dingo and Sia—solid, grounded, happy.
Why is it always so hard for Colt and me?
I let my eyes drift to the clock again.
Seven o’clock.
And I’m still waiting.
My mouth is dry as I try to swallow past the lump lodged in my throat.
Every breath feels like a chore. With leaden steps, I walk over to the dining table and lower myself into the chair, my eyes on the untouched meal now growing cold.
I absently push food around with my fork.
Emotions churn inside me—no longer just sadness or worry, but something hotter.
Darker.
Anger.
Colt knew I was cooking for him. He knew I was planning something special. And he can’t even call me back?
The silence is deafening.
The disappointment is crushing.
I stare at the table I spent hours preparing—candles, wine, chocolates, his favorite meal—and suddenly, I can’t take it anymore. My skin buzzes with frustration, and it boils over.
With a scream, I grab my plate and hurl it at the wall.
The sound of it shattering is oddly satisfying.
I don’t stop. I wipe everything off the table—the dinner, the candles, the chocolates.
They crash to the floor, pieces flying in all directions.
I’m breathing heavily now, trembling with rage as I grab the tablecloth and yank it, trying to tear it in half.
It doesn’t rip.
Fuck! I growl in frustration and snatch a knife from the floor. With one sharp slice, I split the fabric down the middle and toss the knife across the room. The tablecloth falls to the floor in a heap, like my emotions, shredded and discarded.
Then the tears come.
I drop to the floor, my knees giving way, and land hard on a shard of broken china. A sharp pain cuts into my thigh, but I barely register it. The ache in my chest eclipses everything else.
Sobbing, I sit here, surrounded by the chaos I created. I stare blankly at the mess like it’s a metaphor for my life—a series of beautiful things ruined.
This is what I’ve become.
An undeniable disaster.
I rest my forehead against the table and try to focus on breathing. In through my nose, out through my mouth. Slow. Steady.
Princess trots in, sniffing the chaos with curiosity. My gaze darts to the chocolates scattered on the floor.
Shit.
I force myself to stand, swiping at my face with the back of my hands, before I scoop up the chocolates and toss them out of reach on the counter. Then I watch numbly as Princess eats the rest of the food. Might as well let someone enjoy it.
I grab my phone and shuffle upstairs.
One last night.
That’s all I can manage.
Still in heels and lingerie, I collapse onto the bed. I don’t have the strength to change. I curl into the fetal position, the clock reading seven forty-five. I roll away from it. I can’t bear to watch the minutes pass while I wait for a man who might never walk through that door again.
I know he’s with her.
That thought is what kills me.
I cry harder than I have in years. There’s no filter left. No strength to hold anything back. This time, it’s real. We’re over. I feel it in every breath, every tear. Unlike before, there’s no glimmer of hope to hold onto. No thread left to cling to.
I check my phone. Again. Still nothing.
I’ve tried calling four more times. Voicemail, every time.
I thought about calling Macy and giving her a piece of my mind, but what would be the point? If Colt wants to be with her, I won’t grovel. I won’t beg.
Let him be happy with her and Caleb. Let them be a family. I’ll bow out gracefully.
I’m still crying when I hear Princess bark.
I don’t move.
Footsteps thunder downstairs, then slam up the stairs, loud and fast.
“Fuck!” Colt yells. “Dee? Dee, baby?”
My heart cracks wide open at the sound of his voice. But I don’t move. I’m done chasing.
The door bursts open, and there he is—heaving, drenched in snow, wild-eyed.
“Baby, I’m so sorry—”
“Where were you?” I croak, already knowing the answer.
He steps into the room, looking wrecked. “I know how bad this looks… Wait, have you been crying?” He rushes to the bed, eyes darting across my face.
“No,” I lie, wiping my cheeks roughly.
“Shit, Dee… I’m so sorry. After everything we’ve been through, I’m such a fucking idiot.”
My stomach turns.
That guilt. That tone. He’s done something. I know it.
I sit up, my eyes burning. “Just tell me you’re leaving me for your family. That you want Macy. She gave you what I couldn’t. Just get it the fuck over with.”
“What? No!” he says instantly, like I’ve insulted him. “I don’t want Macy. I want you.”
I scoff bitterly. “Then why were you dreaming about her? Why’d you wake up hard, moaning her name?”
His brows crease. “What?”
“This morning. You said her name in your sleep, then rolled over with a goddamn hard-on. You were dreaming about her, Colt!”
He frowns, then slowly shakes his head. “You think that was sexual? Baby, I’m always hard in the mornings, you know that.”
“Doesn’t change the fact that you were dreaming about her.” My voice wobbles, but I stand my ground.
He takes my hands, firm but gentle. “I did dream about her, but it wasn’t what you think. I dreamed we were at Caleb’s eighth birthday. She tripped while carrying the cake and landed face-first in it. I helped her up. That’s it.”
I stare at him. “That’s your explanation?”
“That’s the truth,” he says, eyes locked to mine. “And the hard-on? That’s just my damn body being a guy. Not because of her.”
I want to believe him. God, I want to. But I’m hurting.
“Then why’d you stay with her tonight?” I ask. “Was it to punish me?”
He sits back. “My car broke down on the way home. I saw your first call, but let it go to voicemail since I was driving. When I pulled over to call you back, the battery died mid-message. The cold killed the car completely. I had no phone, no car, and I was stuck in a snowstorm in the middle of nowhere. I walked halfway from London to get here.”
I blink, stunned. “You walked?”
He nods. “Tried to find a payphone. Had no coins. There were no cars on the road. Just me and snow. That’s why I’m covered in it. Look at my lips, they’re probably blue.”
They are.
“Jesus…” I whisper, finally seeing the frost in his hair, the red in his cheeks.
“I wanted to be here. With you. It’s always been you, Dee. Don’t ever doubt that.” He leans in to kiss me, but I pull back slightly, needing to see his eyes.
His sincerity is written in every line of his face. His skin is freezing, lips trembling.
My hand comes up suddenly, and I slap him.
Hard.
He rubs his cheek in shock as I unleash at him. “You’re an idiot. You could’ve died walking in that storm, you stubborn, reckless fool,” I snap, then throw my arms around him, thankful he didn’t die out there.
He holds me so tightly it almost hurts. “You look amazing, by the way,” he murmurs against my shoulder, his voice muffled and hoarse.
I pull back, finally allowing myself a smile. “You look like a walking icicle.”
“Then warm me up.”
“I’m serious. You need to get in the shower before you get sick.”
He stands, then pulls me with him. “What the hell happened to your leg?”
I look down. Dried blood streaks my thigh from the earlier cut.
“Plate shard,” I say. “I lost it. There’s a bit of a mess downstairs.”
“I saw,” he mutters. “But that can wait.”
He tugs me closer. “Right now, I need to warm up… with you. My wife. I want to make love to you in our shower. Unless you’d prefer I get all alpha and demand it.” His voice is low, almost a growl.
My breath catches. I nod, my bottom lip trembling. “Make love to me, Colt.”
He kisses me deeply, his cold lips sending a shiver down my spine.
Then he lifts me into his arms. My heels fall away as he carries me into the ensuite.
And there, in the warmth of our home, under the stream of hot water, we make love. Not like strangers trying to reconnect, but like two people who have clawed their way through hell and found each other again.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I feel like I’m home.