Page 154 of One Wealthy Wedding

“Shut the door,” he bites out. I shut it and lean back. He’s pacing the room, his body rigid, his face set.

“It’s fine. She’s fine. It looked scary, but I had her drop the—”

“What the hell was that?” He gestures toward the living room.

I freeze, pressing myself against the door. “Cleaning,” I say slowly. This isn’t the Theo I’ve seen over the last two months. This is Theo from the day we got married.

“Cleaning. You had my mother cleaning.” Anger simmers in his eyes as he stares at me.

We’re right back to where we started. This is proof that people don’t change. I should summon anger, but all I can summon is a crawling sense of betrayal.

“No. I didn’t. It was her idea.” The reason sounds weak even as I say it.

“She should never have to clean again,” he bursts out. “After what she went through with you and your horrible family, she should live a life of leisure forever. I can’t believe you, Catherine.”

“Went through with me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I press a hand to my chest like it will stop my pounding heart.

“She’s been through hell.” He shoves a hand through his hair. “The way your parents treated her. The way you treated her. I tried to look beyond it.” He shakes his head, face bitter. “I was falling for you. Despite what I knew of you from the past.”

“You were falling for me?” I latch on to the words, even though I shouldn’t. I should focus on how he still thinks the worst of me, even after all this time together.

He nods, mouth twisting unhappily. “I shouldn’t have. I know I shouldn’t have. But I’m weak where you’re concerned.”

“What a confession of love,” I say bitterly. “I didn’t realize you hated me this much, Theo.” I feel like I’m floating. This isn’t happening. I’m going to wake up and discover this is all a dream. Because after everything I’ve told him, he still sees me as a spoiled brat. “Why?” I ask when he doesn’t respond. “Tell me what I did to deserve your hatred.”

I think I know, but I want him to say it. This marriage is a farce. I’m a fool. Looking for love in all the wrong places, Cat Peterson. Again.

“I don’t hate you.”

I snort. “You’re a liar. I told you all about my family and my past, and you still see what you want to see. So tell me.”

46

Theo

Cat’s cheeks are red and her eyes are bright with emotion. Anger, maybe? Or hurt. She doesn’t deserve to be angry. She doesn’t get to be hurt. She’s the one who tormented my mom, who is too lovely and kind to not be generous to Cat. She’s spinning this in her favor. I won’t let her rewrite the past.

“Let me count the ways,” I say in a low voice. “Your treatment of my mother, making her wash your sheets at midnight. Making her sleep in your room. She’s sick now, you know. From the cleaning products your family made her use. Every time you made her do something for you, it made it worse. When you made her clean your bathroom, you were killing her.” My voice is vicious now. “Every single birthday when you demanded presents.”

Her face is stricken, but I can’t stop. The ugliness pours out of me, and I’m not sure it’s cleansing me at all.

“Was it worth it? Was getting a pink notebook worth it? My mom had nothing, and you made her buy you gifts for ten fucking years.”

“Made her?” She chokes out.

“I heard you, you know. When you told her you wanted a Barbie, and she got you the off-brand one. Did you even play with it? Or was it not good enough for you?”

Anger and shame tangle inside me. I hate myself in this moment, but I hate Catherine more. “Were those gifts your favorite because you knew how hard she had to work for them?”

The words come out hard and cruel, and my body is shaking. I’ve been holding this in for years. But even I know this is unforgivable. Cat will hate me after this. “Answer the question, Catherine. No, what?”

“They weren’t my favorites. Those gifts were the only ones.” She lifts her chin. Her brown eyes are huge and wet, and she’s going to cry. She’s going to fucking cry, and it’s because of me. It’s what I wanted, and yet the worst thing possible.

“And you’re complaining about that? I can’t believe this.” Shock is choking me. Cat’s worse than I thought. “I barely saw my mom as a boy because she was too busy helping you. Teaching you to bake and bandaging your skinned knees and making sure you were okay.” The boy I was at eight and eleven and thirteen hated Cat for that. I shouldn’t be saying this. I shouldn’t be holding things against Cat that happened when we were kids but the little boy I was back then was so wounded, and he never let it go.

“So now we get to the heart of it,” she says, eyes flashing. “You had all the love in the world and still you pitied yourself.”

“I can’t believe this,” I exclaim. “We lived off food stamps. I never had new clothes. You had nothing but. I worked three jobs at sixteen, Cat. Three. Do you know how hard school was for me with three fucking jobs?”

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