Newlywed Marriage in Crisis (Crawling Back #7)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Paradise lasts three days.

On the third morning of my honeymoon, I wake with my husband's hand spread over my stomach and the Pacific throwing molten gold against the curtains. Caleb is warm behind me, his breathing slow, his wedding ring cool where it rests against my skin.

For almost a full minute, I lie perfectly still.

I want to remember this exact version of happiness. The ocean outside. The white orchids on the nightstand. The faint soreness between my thighs. The man I married wrapped around me as though even sleep cannot convince him to let go.

Last night, Caleb carried me back from the beach after the strap on my sandal broke. I complained the entire way because his back was still sore from dancing at the reception, and he told me husbands receive new spines with the marriage license.

In the elevator, an older couple asked how long we had been together.

"Five years," I said.

"Three days," Caleb said at the same time.

He explained that only the married years counted now. Everything before Saturday had been rehearsal.

I kissed him while the older couple applauded.

This morning, my wedding dress is still preserved at a cleaner in Connecticut, my bouquet is drying upside down in Marguerite's guest room, and half the thank-you cards are unwritten. I have not finished becoming a bride. I have barely begun becoming a wife.

Then Caleb's alarm begins chirping from somewhere under the bed.

He groans into my hair. "Tell Maui it can start without us."

"You booked the sunrise breakfast."

"Past Caleb was an ambitious bastard."

"Past Caleb also paid ninety dollars for it."

That gets him moving. He kisses my shoulder, then my neck, then rolls me beneath him with enough enthusiasm that breakfast immediately becomes less important.

"Good morning, Mrs. Ashby."

I still feel a ridiculous little thrill at the name. "Good morning, husband."

"That sounds filthy when you say it."

"Everything sounds filthy to you."

"Not everything." He kisses the corner of my mouth. "Marguerite. Tax audit. Jeremy."

I laugh and push him away. "Go shower."

He walks naked toward the bathroom, steals one of the orchids from the vase, and holds it between his teeth before closing the frosted glass door.

I take a picture of his retreating ass.

That is the last photograph I take as a happy woman.

My phone vibrates on the nightstand.

I assume it is another wedding message. We got married on Saturday in front of a hundred and twelve people. Since then, my phone has been a parade of blurry dance-floor photographs, congratulations from distant cousins, and complaints about the open bar closing too early.

The screen lights again.

IVY: Call me before you open anything.

I sit up.

My sister does not send warnings without explanation. Ivy normally sends ten messages in a row, six screenshots, and at least one threat of bodily harm. A single careful sentence means something has frightened her.

Before I can call, notifications begin stacking across my screen.

Twenty-seven messages in the wedding group.

Three missed calls.

Nine new tags.

One message from someone I have not spoken to since college: Dahlia, I am so sorry. I thought you knew.

The shower runs behind the closed door. Caleb begins singing an off-key version of our wedding song.

My thumb hovers over the first tag.

The account that posted the video has no profile photograph and four followers. The caption is worse than anything the image could show.

When the groom kisses the woman he should have married.

For a second, I do not understand the man on the screen is Caleb.

He is sitting in a leather chair, wearing the black shirt he wore to his bachelor party. A strip of red silk covers his eyes. Men crowd around him, laughing, but whoever edited the footage has dimmed their voices beneath slow, romantic music.

Jeremy steps into the frame. Caleb's best man. Caleb's closest friend since they were eleven.

"Your bride has a surprise for you," Jeremy says.

Caleb laughs. "Dahlia isn't here."

"She is now."

A woman walks into the light wearing a black coat over something glittering. The camera stays behind her until she drops the coat and straddles my husband.

I know the shape of her before I see her face.

Sable Vaughn has hair the color of polished mahogany and a tattoo of a swallow at the base of her spine. She dated Caleb for four years. She broke his heart, rejected his proposal, and moved to Los Angeles.

I started dating him shortly after and he’d cheated with her in the first six months of our relationship. She’d been a dark spot on our relationship for months, even years, but we had gotten to a good place when he asked me to marry him.

She came back eighteen months ago and began working as a dancer for private events.

The first thing she’d done was contact Caleb. The second thing she’d done was ingratiate herself back into his life through his family and all their mutual friends. Caleb told me none of that mattered, he only had eyes for me.

But I had to be honest, it hurt at first, and I was triggered again but we had rules, and Caleb always followed the rules. Eventually she had become background noise once again and I’d allowed myself to fall into the joy of planning our wedding.

I didn’t want to be make a fool of again, people still judged me for taking him back. My heart took so long to recover I didn’t think I’d ever be as carefree as I’d been before him cheating.

I believed him at the time, I swept my intuition about Sable under the rug and ignored the way she made me feel.

And now…

On the screen, Sable puts her hands on his face.

He smiles beneath the blindfold.

Then he kisses her.

Not a startled brush of mouths. Not a mistake recognized upon contact. He grips her hips and pulls her closer while the room explodes around them.

Someone yanks the blindfold away.

Caleb opens his eyes.

He looks directly into Sable's face.

The editor slows the footage and adds sexy music until every movement becomes obscene. Sable's lips part. Caleb's hand tightens at her waist. His mouth returns to hers.

One second.

Two.

Three.

The video fades to black.

The shower stops.

I replay it.

I stare at his face after the blindfold comes off, searching for confusion that might save me. I see surprise. I see recognition. Then I see him kiss her again.

"Dahlia?" Caleb calls. "Do you want coffee before we go down?"

My body begins shaking.

I watch it a third time with the sound off. It is worse without music. There is no manipulative swell to blame. There is only my husband holding another woman three nights before he promised himself to me.

I let out a cry of betrayal and I make it to the toilet before I vomit.

A moment later Caleb’s voice on the other side of the guest bathroom of our luxury honeymoon suite.

"Baby?"

The bathroom door handle moves.

I lock the door and flush before he can hear me whimper as my heart shatters in slow motion. "I'm fine."

"You don't sound fine."

"Too much champagne last night. Finish your shower."

"I am finished."

"Your hair still has shampoo in it."

Silence. Then Caleb laughs. "You were watching me?"

I press my fist against my mouth.

"Always," I manage.

The shower turns on again.

I move without thinking. My suitcase is still mostly packed because Caleb insisted we spend yesterday naked. I throw in the few things scattered around the room, take my passport from the safe, and shove my feet into sandals.

The ring will not come off at first. My fingers are swollen from the flight and the heat. I twist until the skin burns, then leave the diamond on his pillow.

Beside it sits the orchid he carried into the shower.

I do not write a note.

Caleb is singing again when I close the hotel door behind me.