Page 97 of The Sinner's Sanctuary

“Excuse me?” she gasps.

I flick my eyes up and down her body before narrowing them. “Why are you dressed like that?”

She looks down at herself like she forgot what she’s wearing. When she looks up, she wraps the robe around her body and ties the knot at her waist tightly, which confirms exactly what I was thinking.

She’s manipulating meagain. “It’s called lingerie, Gibson. Surely you’re familiar with it. Your lips are swollen by the way. That lunch must have been very trying for you.”

My mind feels addled with all the different directions she’s trying to point me in. Like she’s waiting to see which bait I’ll swim after. “Meaning?”

“You’re in a foul mood despite the fact that you managed to find your way betweensomeone’slegs on the way back from the restaurant.”

Inhaling and exhaling through my nose feels like blowing steam. “Regardless of how I spent my afternoon after I did your dirty work, what I’m telling you is that threats to the senator end here.”

She snorts derisively, but all she says is, “That’s disappointing.”

“Trust me,” I tell her. “The damage is done. There’s no need for follow-up.”

“You could have opened withthat.”

One of Marianne’s better qualities is that she doesn’t like fighting with me. She may manipulate me to within an edge of my sanity, but there’s a part of her that pities me, too, and feels guilty for what became of us—or me in particular. It’s why she so aggressively supports my business success—as if it can replace what I’m missing from her.

I think we both know by now that’s ridiculous, but again…old habits.

I start to walk past her, but she steps in front of me. “What’s going on with you?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been moody since Rome. More than usual. Is it only Graham, or is something else not going well?”

“Other than what we discussed at breakfast the other day? Everything’s fine.”

“Palm Beach?”

“Yes, Marianne. Palm Beach. I asked to spend time alone with you, and you said you’d think about it. I assume you either haven’t because it’s not important to you, or you dismissed the idea the second the words left my mouth.”

“What do you expect to happen if I say yes?” she asks.

“Nothing,” I tell her honestly. “But when we’re here, it’s thirty minutes for breakfast and then ‘zip me up—one of my lovers is on the way.’ Other than the money, is there some reason you enjoy having me around?”

Her eyes soften, and it’s genuine. She doesn’t drop her guard often, but it’s obvious to me when she does. In her expression, I see the girl she used to be—loving and wild. Funny and fearless. Vulnerable and sweet. “Gibson, please. Don’t do this. Don’t question us and what we have. I realize it isn’t what you signed on for, but I would never change marrying you. You’ve made me feel safer than you can possibly understand. I cherish this. What we’ve built together. I love you. I willalwayslove you.”

I swallow, emotion catching me in the throat. But when I reach to touch her cheek, she flinches.

I fist my hand and bring it back to my side. “That,” I say softly. “Feels like shit.”

“Love, I’msosorry.”

I shake my head and sidestep her, moving quickly to my room where I lock the door and hurl my jacket onto the bed.

I live with a ghost. She haunts me, and I allow it. I’m like one of those old Victorian men brooding on his estate, mourning his lost love and refusing to move on.

Would I be happier if she weren’t here? Or would I miss her just as much as I do now? At least while she’s here, she includes me. It’s not that she makes me feel irrelevant or unimportant to her. It’s more that she makes me feel alone. Abandoned.

It began with the rape, but I can’t help but think there’s something aboutmeshe wishes were different, too. Like if I’d come with her to Ibiza even when she hadn’t pressed the issue. Or if I were stronger or firmer with her, more insistent that she get help, moredominant,that her attraction to me would have returned. But I’d turned into a mess after her attack. I suffered with her. I wasn’t a firm, stabilizing force. I cried with her and hurt for her. I tamed myself and my desires so she would never feel threatened around me. So she would forgive me.

When she first started sleeping with women, I stupidly thought it might be her way back to me, and I stood by in the shadows while she allowed herself to be touched again. But it’s been over a decade now, and she very clearly has a preference she’s not shy about indulging. Whether I disgust her or not, she’s never said, but it certainly feels that way.

It’s made me hyperaware of my body. My scent. My grooming. The way I dress. The volume and tone of my voice. When she’s in the room with me, I no longer recognize myself. Her comment about my lips being swollen made me instantly self-conscious. Her flinch felt like revulsion.

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