Page 39 of The Unwanted Wife

"Five-feet four-inches is tiny; counts as tiny." He snickers.

"Okay, fine, but physical attributes are not as important as emotional maturity, which I lead on."

"That you do." His voice is sober. "You’re the best of both of us, the best of our parents. Every time things go to shite out here, I draw strength from the fact you're safe. That everything I do will ensure you live a long and happy life."

"And I’m so grateful for that." I swallow down the worry that clogs my throat. "I miss you, big brother."

"And I miss you, too. I wish we had more time together. I wish I hadn’t had to leave when I did?—"

"Don’t talk like that. You'll be back soon, Ben. You’re going to deliver on this mission; you’re going to surpass all expectations."

"Of course I am. After all, I am the best at what I do." His voice is cocky, then he coughs.

"You okay?" I frown.

"Yea. Picked up a chill. The nights here can get real cold, real quick." There’s a beeping sound on the line, and he sighs. "I gotta go. There’s only one phone line in this place, and the rest of the men need to call home, too. I love you, little sis. Just remember, you’re worth a lot more than you give yourself credit for and you deserve a lot more than you realize. Don’t just give yourself away to any—" The call cuts out.

I lower my phone to my lap and stare at it. How like Ben to be cut off in the middle of another of his pithy sayings.

It’s almost as if he was in my head and knows what I’m planning to do, but that’s not possible. Did he sound more tired than usual? Is he unwell? Under the weather? He definitely wasn’t his usual self-confident and optimistic self. Every other time he’s called me, he’s always been itching to get back in the game. This time… It felt like he couldn’t wait to come back home. And he will. And then he’ll find out I’m married to his best friend and, no doubt, both Nate and I are going to get an earful. But he’ll be happy for us—less so, when we divorce… But when he finds out the reasons behind why I did it, he’ll understand. He’ll know I did it because I wanted to save my business and take care of Hugo… And do it on my own. He’ll be proud of me, I’m sure of that.

And if what I’m going to do right now makes me a little less proud of myself, that’s okay. At least I’m choosing to do this. Unlike this marriage, which I’ve been coerced into. Sure, I’m benefiting from it, but if I had another way of getting the money, I wouldn’t marry Nate. A-n-d I’m trying too hard to convince myself. I cannot let thoughts of Nate sway me. I can’t. I?—

"Taylor?" A man’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

I look up to find a slim man with thinning hair and a pleasant face smiling down at me.

"Larry?" I rise to my feet and hold out my hand. "I’m Taylor Smith." So, I used my girl crush’s first name and couldn’t come up with a more exotic surname. It works though, doesn’t it?

"Larry Jones," he says with a knowing smile. He's probably also using a pseudonym. I glance down at his left hand and, thankfully, there’s no mark where a wedding band might be. Good. One less thing to feel bad about.

"Would you like a drink?" He aims an awkward smile in my direction.

I wince. "Um, actually I’d prefer to get this over with."

He seems taken aback, then nods. "That’s a good idea. Why beat about the bush when we can head straight for the sack, eh?"

I wince.

So does he. "Sorry, that came out sounding a little creepy. I promise I’m not." He holds up his hands. "Creepy, that is. You sure you don’t want that drink?

19

Nathan

"Where the fuck is the goddamn elevator?" I stab my finger into the button that's supposed to summon the elevator, but which has shown no sign of doing so for the last thirty seconds.

On my way over, I used the Davenport name to talk to the manager of the hotel, who confirmed to me that my fiancée was in the hotel. He also obtained the room number she’d gone into and messaged it to me. Apparently, the Davenport clout is good for something.

The elevator doors open, I stalk inside, turn, then bare my teeth at the couple who were about to enter. They freeze, then skitter back. I punch in the floor number where the room she went into is located, then drag my fingers through my hair as the elevator climbs the floors. It comes to a stop, and when the doors slide back, I rush out. Down the corridor, toward the room where she’s supposed to be.

I use the keycard I took from the manager to let myself in. I rush inside, then come to a stop. She’s standing at the far end by a big bay window. Her back is to me, her thick blonde hair flowing down her back. Her hips are outlined in the dress she’s wearing, which comes to just above her knees. On her feet, she’s wearing stilettos, with chain-like straps that go around her ankles. Something about the erotic effect of how it clings to her skin twists my stomach. She wore this for another man?

She turns to look over her shoulder. There’s a smile on her face, which disappears when she spots me. Her gaze widens, and her color fades. "You," she whispers, "what are you doing here?"

"I should be asking you that question, dear fiancée. Speaking of"—I glance down at the empty ring finger on her left hand—"where is your ring?"

She turns around to face me, then shoves her hand behind her back. "That’s no business of yours."

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