3. A Sad Realization #2
As soon as the elevator doors closed, sealing them away from the employees’ watching eyes, Nash pulled back and stared at her, fire raging in his eyes. Her eyes flashed back at him. After what they had shared in his office, she found herself much less willing to simply give way to his desires.
She had power in this relationship. Maybe not as much as he did, but still.
It wasn’t as if he planned to lock her up and ignore her.
He might have been forcing her into this marriage as a form of revenge for leaving him, but he still desired her.
A desire she shared—much as she was loath to admit it.
She waited with bated breath for something to give. His hands were hard but not bruising on her upper arms. He stared at her with dark eyes that she had once thought would promise her the world. Desperate to break the horrible tension, Iris spoke.
“Where are we going?” she asked, averting her gaze. His eyes narrowed as he took her in. He was silent for so long that Iris convinced herself he wasn’t going to answer. But as the elevator carriage slowed to a stop at the underground parking garage, he finally did.
“We are going home.”
Her eyes bulged at his words. At this time of day?
“Home?” she questioned. “You mean your penthouse? Really? Don’t you have more work to do?”
His jaw tensed at her words. The doors slid open, and he gripped her hand tightly, pulling her behind him.
“No, I don’t mean my penthouse. I mean our fucking home.”
His words fell heavily between them, leaving her reeling.
Before, she had known what to expect with him, but now?
His reactions were erratic at best. Iris worried her lip between her teeth, something in his words nagging at her.
And even though her instincts screamed at her to leave it alone in the face of his anger, she found she couldn’t.
“No, I mean your penthouse. You had that long before we got together,” she bit out, irritation running down her spine. “I was not once consulted on where I might like to live.”
Not by you or my parents. She didn’t add the last part aloud, but thinking it was almost just as satisfying.
Daisy had been the first person who ever asked her opinion about her own living space.
Sure, the house had been something Daisy inherited after her husband’s death and was paid off with no mortgage.
They hadn’t been in any position to look for a new house.
But still, Daisy had asked her which room she wanted.
Let her have full decision-making power over furniture and household matters.
Meals, décor, repairs, renovations—hell, even which cleaning products they used—were joint decisions.
She had been an equal in that house. Nothing like her life here.
Her mother had sent Nash’s chef a weekly meal plan for her. The housekeeper was an older woman who had been cleaning for Nash for close to a decade, having followed him when he left his childhood home. The old woman had never listened to Iris’s opinions, let alone asked for them.
"This is how Mr. Nash likes it.""Oh, I couldn’t possibly buy that. Mr. Nash prefers his things just so.""I am sorry, Miss, but I told the delivery man that we couldn’t accept that vanity stool. It would clash with Mr. Nash’s color scheme in his bathroom."
Iris smiled bitterly as she recalled her time living there.
Mrs. Morris—Mary to Nash and Nash alone—had hated her.
She had always been careful to hide her hatred behind cool politeness, but Iris had known better.
The woman hadn’t appreciated any changes to the penthouse and had made sure Iris knew she was nothing more than a guest.
His place had been fully furnished, and she had immediately moved into his room, which was likewise furnished. She had had nothing of her own. Not really.
She had lived for years in a luxury apartment where there wasn’t a single item inside that she had chosen for herself. Nothing to show she had ever been a part of it. That she had belonged there.
Her words seemed to have ratcheted his anger up once more, but other than a tightening around his shoulders, there was no sign of the rage she was sure he felt.
She felt a momentary flicker of unease at needling him, but overall, she didn’t regret it.
She wasn’t the same meek woman he had known three years ago.
He moved quickly across the lobby floor and spared not even a glance for Marcus, who was still manning the security desk. Not wanting to direct even more of Nash’s focus onto the innocent man, she averted her eyes as well.
They exited the glass doors and saw their driver standing at the ready to open the car door.
“Sir, ma’am,” he said with a respectful nod.
She gave him a polite nod but said nothing as she ducked into the backseat of the car.
Nash was stone cold, completely silent. Once the driver had closed the door behind them and rounded the car to slide in behind the wheel, Nash raised the glass privacy screen.
His eyes cut to hers, and he sat staring at her.
A soft vibration filled the air, and her eyes flicked to the phone as he pulled it from his breast pocket without looking at it.
“Aren’t you going to answer that?” she asked quietly, meeting his hard stare.
He shook his head, still studying her like she was a mystery he was desperate to solve.
“What if it’s important?”
He quirked an eyebrow, then tucked the phone back into his pocket without saying a thing.
As soon as the elevator doors closed, sealing them away from the employees’ watching eyes, Nash pulled back and stared at her, fire raging in his eyes. Her eyes flashed back at him. After what they had shared in his office, she found herself much less willing to simply give way to his desires.
She had power in this relationship. Maybe not as much as he did, but still.
It wasn’t as if he planned to lock her up and ignore her.
He might have been forcing her into this marriage as a form of revenge for leaving him, but he still desired her.
A desire she shared—much as she was loath to admit it.
She waited with bated breath for something to give. His hands were hard but not bruising on her upper arms. He stared at her with dark eyes that she had once thought would promise her the world. Desperate to break the horrible tension, Iris spoke.
“Where are we going?” she asked, averting her gaze. His eyes narrowed as he took her in. He was silent for so long that Iris convinced herself he wasn’t going to answer. But as the elevator carriage slowed to a stop at the underground parking garage, he finally did.
“We are going home.”
Her eyes bulged at his words. At this time of day?
“Home?” she questioned. “You mean your penthouse? Really? Don’t you have more work to do?”
His jaw tensed at her words. The doors slid open, and he gripped her hand tightly, pulling her behind him.
“No, I don’t mean my penthouse. I mean our fucking home.”
His words fell heavily between them, leaving her reeling.
Before, she had known what to expect with him, but now?
His reactions were erratic at best. Iris worried her lip between her teeth, something in his words nagging at her.
And even though her instincts screamed at her to leave it alone in the face of his anger, she found she couldn’t.
“No, I mean your penthouse. You had that long before we got together,” she bit out, irritation running down her spine. “I was not once consulted on where I might like to live.”
Not by you or my parents. She didn’t add the last part aloud, but thinking it was almost just as satisfying.
Daisy had been the first person who ever asked her opinion about her own living space.
Sure, the house had been something Daisy inherited after her husband’s death and was paid off with no mortgage.
They hadn’t been in any position to look for a new house.
But still, Daisy had asked her which room she wanted.
Let her have full decision-making power over furniture and household matters.
Meals, décor, repairs, renovations—hell, even which cleaning products they used—were joint decisions.
She had been an equal in that house. Nothing like her life here.
Her mother had sent Nash’s chef a weekly meal plan for her. The housekeeper was an older woman who had been cleaning for Nash for close to a decade, having followed him when he left his childhood home. The old woman had never listened to Iris’s opinions, let alone asked for them.
"This is how Mr. Nash likes it.""Oh, I couldn’t possibly buy that. Mr. Nash prefers his things just so.""I am sorry, Miss, but I told the delivery man that we couldn’t accept that vanity stool. It would clash with Mr. Nash’s color scheme in his bathroom."
Iris smiled bitterly as she recalled her time living there.
Mrs. Morris—Mary to Nash and Nash alone—had hated her.
She had always been careful to hide her hatred behind cool politeness, but Iris had known better.
The woman hadn’t appreciated any changes to the penthouse and had made sure Iris knew she was nothing more than a guest.
His place had been fully furnished, and she had immediately moved into his room, which was likewise furnished. She had had nothing of her own. Not really.
She had lived for years in a luxury apartment where there wasn’t a single item inside that she had chosen for herself. Nothing to show she had ever been a part of it. That she had belonged there.
Her words seemed to have ratcheted his anger up once more, but other than a tightening around his shoulders, there was no sign of the rage she was sure he felt.
She felt a momentary flicker of unease at needling him, but overall, she didn’t regret it.
She wasn’t the same meek woman he had known three years ago.