Chapter 4
FOUR
MATTHEW PUSHES OPEN the door and flicks the switch. Soft light floods the room. Casement windows reflect the moonlight to my left; to my right, a large bed is draped in soft linens the color of melted butter. The wallpaper behind it captures my attention.
Giant blush roses, each petal delicately shaded, bloom across a cream background.
“That’s…” My hand rises, hovering near the wall. “Beautiful.”
“Roses were my mother’s favorite,” Matthew says, his voice tight.
“Were?”
“She passed before she could move in.” His gaze is fixed on the roses, a deep sadness shadowing his features.
The familiar ache of loss tightens my chest. “I’m so sorry.” I instinctively reach out, fingers brushing his forearm.
He tenses, eyes closing for a beat. “It’s fine,” he murmurs. But the pain in his gaze betrays the words.
Guilt spikes.
I’m intruding on his grief.
“I can’t stay here,” I say, turning for the door. “Thank you, but I can’t—”
He catches my arm. “It’s about time I put this room to use.”
“But—”
“Please,” he insists softly. “Stay.”
Our eyes lock. In those green depths, my defenses crumble. A strange flutter starts in my chest, a flicker of something unfamiliar.
Hope?
No, not after tonight.
Not after James.
Matthew inhales sharply, breaking the connection. “The bathroom is right there.” He points to a door at the far end of the room. “No spare toothbrushes, I’m afraid.” His playful grin eases the tension.
“Mouthwash?” A genuine smile tugs at my lips.
He chuckles. A soothing balm to my raw nerves. “More than happy to share. Anything else?”
“No. You’ve done more than enough.”
“Totally my pleasure, Amy.”
“Thank you, Matthew.”
“Matt,” he corrects. A charmingly lopsided grin tilts his lips.
“Matt,” I echo.
After Matthew leaves, I wander to the bed, fingers trailing across smooth linen. The scent of fresh laundry fills my senses. My gaze drifts around the space until it snags on my reflection in a full-length mirror propped against the wall. Dark curls frame a face I no longer recognize.
The image of James and the redhead assaults my mind.
His hands tracing the curves of her body, lips on her neck, their bodies entwined.
Nausea rises. Hands ball into fists.
Who the fuck do you think you are?!
James’s voice echoes.
A sob bursts out. I grip the front of the wig, fingers tangling in synthetic strands. Chest heaving with each painful breath, I peel it off, exposing my blonde hair. My eyes squeeze shut as tears track down my face.
A floorboard creaks.
My eyes snap open.
Matthew stands in the doorway. His reflection stares back at me from the mirror, brow furrowed.
Shame swells, hot and suffocating.
I turn to face him, the wig balled in my fist.
He approaches me slowly. Features serious.
He reaches for the wig.
I let him take it.
Without sparing it a glance, he tosses it onto the bed and closes the distance between us. Hands, now free of boxing wraps, cup my face. His touch is feather-light as he tilts my chin, thumbs sweeping away the dampness on my cheeks.
Overwhelmed by his tenderness, my eyes flutter shut.
His fingers brush the sensitive skin of my neck, sliding to my nape to find the elastic binding my hair.
A shiver runs through me, apprehension and anticipation warring.
His eyes never leave my face as he carefully loosens the elastic, freeing my hair so it falls in a soft cascade of golden waves.
He gathers the lengths, brushing them forward over my shoulders like a silken curtain.
“Amy…” His voice is a husky whisper. “There you are.”
No simpler words have ever made me feel more seen.
More understood.
A spark of hope flares.
He sees me.
The real me.
My heart aches for everything he embodies.
Smoothing my hands down my hair, I step closer. My body brushes his. He remains still, arms hanging loose at his sides, as my palms settle on his chest. His eyes close as he lowers his forehead to mine. A surge of longing steals my breath, driving me to press my lips to his in a tentative kiss.
A single tear traces a hot path down my cheek.
He pulls back slightly, searching my face.
Ashamed, I instantly look down. He cups my face again, wipes my tear with his thumb, and presses a kiss to my forehead.
His lips then trail down the bridge of my nose.
My breath hitches. Half gasp, half sigh.
But when his mouth finds mine again, something in me twists.
It’s not tenderness I crave.
It’s erasure.
Images of James and the redhead erupt in my mind.
His hands pulling her flush.
Her head thrown back.
His mouth on her neck.
Her fingers tangled in his hair.
His palms slipping beneath the hem of her dress.
My stomach churns with a toxic mix of anger and grief.
I need to obliterate the memory.
To reclaim myself.
I grip the straps of Matthew’s tank top and yank him to me. We stumble until my back hits the wall. He groans, bracing a hand against the wall beside my head, the other tightening on my waist. I devour his mouth.
Fierce.
Desperate.
Mimicking the hunger I witnessed. My hands clutch and pull. A desperate parody of intimacy. Driven by the repeating images, I break the kiss and tilt my head, baring my neck just as she had.
“Here,” I whisper.
He hesitates, eyes questioning, but obliges. His lips scorch a path up my neck. I close my eyes. The sensation is thrilling yet strangely detached. I guide his hand to my thigh, urging it higher. His fingers hover at the hem of my dress.
“It’s okay.” My voice is thick with a need that feels alien.
His touch grows more confident as his fingers slide under the fabric at my thigh.
“Yes, exactly like that,” I murmur. My voice sounds distant. Hollow. “Just like James.”
Matthew freezes.
He pulls away abruptly.
My eyes fly open.
“Shit.” I cover my mouth, mortified.
“Amy…” He reaches for me, but I flinch away.
Shame is a hot coal in my chest. I rush to the bed, stuffing the wig into my bag.
“Stop.” He gently clasps my hand, taking my handbag from me.
I can’t meet his gaze. I am burning from the inside out. “I’m nothing like him,” I say, my words thick with self-loathing. “I just thought maybe if I—” My explanation dissolves, a tangled mess in my throat.
He sighs, running a hand over his face. “God, what did he do to you?” Pity laces his tone.
I bristle. “I’ll be fine,” I snap, reaching for my bag. “I should go.”
“Hang on—”
“Thank you for everything.”
“Wait—”
“Really.” I head for the door.
He grabs my arm, turning me.
“I’ll be back for my ring tomorrow,” I argue, voice trembling. “You don’t need to be home when—”
“Will you please just stop!” He gives my shoulder a small shake.
“I said I’m fine, Matt.”
“Right.” He gives me a level look.
“Forget it, okay? This is not your problem.”
“You’re wrong. This hits way too close to home.”
I frown.
“No, I can’t go there.” He shakes his head, gesturing to a folded tracksuit on the nearby chair. “I could really use some fresh air. Why don’t you freshen up and join me in the backyard? Some company would be really nice.” A tender smile touches his lips.
I hesitate, then nod. “It’s the least I can do.”
“Good.” His smile widens.
Clutching the tracksuit, I seek refuge in the bathroom. The mirror reflects a stranger with red-rimmed eyes and messy makeup. I unzip my dress. It slides down my body and pools at my feet. The fabric feels tainted.
I turn the knob. The showerhead sputters to life, releasing a torrent of water that fills the space with a soothing hiss. Steam billows around me as I step under the spray.
Sweat and tears quickly wash away. But the memories cling to me.
I close my eyes, inhaling the fragrant soap. Lavender. Fresh. A scent of peace I can’t quite reach.
My one question, whispered to the falling water, echoes in my mind.
“Why did you propose to me?”
The first time, James had smiled and said, “Because I love you, silly. I want you in my life.” Empty words.
With each repetition, his patience wore thin.
“How many times are you going to ask me that?”
I should have known.
Dinners left uneaten, growing cold as I waited for him to come home.
That was my answer.
Nights spent tossing alone in our bed until he finally stumbled in at dawn, the faint scent of another woman’s perfume a silent accusation in the darkness.
That was my answer.
Countless plans abandoned, replaced with last-minute excuses and empty promises.
That was my answer.
A sob catches in my throat.
I have been clinging to a fantasy. A desperate hope that he would go back to being the man I fell in love with. But that man is gone, if he ever existed at all.
His deception is a rot inside me.
I scrub my skin raw, desperate to erase the lingering touch of James and the memory of his betrayal. Matthew’s kiss too, and the fleeting hope he ignited.
Hope is dangerous.
Hope leads to heartbreak.
My tears mingle with the water. A cleansing release. For a moment, all I want is to be alone with my pain. But the promise I just made to the man waiting for me in the backyard pulls me from the darkness.
I turn off the water and step out. Wrapping myself in a fluffy towel, I catch my reflection again. My eyes are still red and swollen, but a new defiance burns in their depths.
I am not going down without a fight.
I’m going to find that damn ring and start over.
A tremor of doubt runs through me.
Can I really do this?
Can I ever escape him?