Page 112 of My Ruthless Husband

He was ready to leave me because of his rivalry with my father. He was ready to leave me because he thinks I was costing him his contract. He was willing to throw away everything we had for something beyond my control. Was I truly that unimportant to him?

“You’re leaving me?”My weak yet alarmed voice from the past reverberates in my ears.

“I should.”He had said a week ago, confirming my worst fear. The two words that he had uttered then strikes me again so hard that my heart bleeds.

I pull my head back to stare at him. I stare at the man who I love more than life itself. All the evidence points at the obvious yet… I refuse to believe that he would choose a piece of paper over us.

“Why are you crying?” He asks, his brows lowered.

I love his voice. It is deep and velvety and it gets even deeper when something bothers him.

I shake my head slowly, forcing a small smile to my lips. I don’t want him to see the momentary lapse of faith that flickered through my mind. For just a fleeting second, I allowed myself to entertain the possibility that Damian could choose business over me, that he could hurt me in such a way.

I can’t let him know that. I can’t bear the thought of him thinking that I have such a low opinion of him. Because in reality, my admiration for him knows no bounds. In fact, I hold him in the highest regard. So much so that sometimes I feel unworthy of him. Sometimes, I fear that he might see me as weak or unworthy of his love.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then reaches up and brushes a tear with his thumb gently. He lifts my chin. “Tell me why are you crying.”

“I just missed you.” Another tear slips. It hurts, but I smile up at him. “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to the party? When did you return from London? How was your trip—”

“River.” He conveys his impatience in the two syllables, as though he knows I’m steering the conversation away. Thankfully the song comes to an end and I step out of his arms.

“I’m sorry about… the whole thing with dad.” My voice is barely above a whisper. I take a hasty step back. “Please enjoy—”

“Where are you going?”

I blink, not sure how to reply without revealing the quiver in my voice. “I should go socialize with other guests.” I blurt then turn abruptly and leave.

???

Escaping the crowd with making excuses that they neither care about nor I remember, I slip away, leaving my father’s grand mansion behind like I did on my eighteenth birthday.

My steps carry me to the sanctuary I’ve cherished throughout my life, the treehouse.

Under the moon’s soft silvery glow, I make my way through the darkened woods.

I move with purpose, my footsteps soft against the forest terrain, the earthy scent of pine comforting me.

The distant sounds of the party fade as I approach the familiar silhouette of my treehouse.

I slip off my heels and toss them to the ground before ascending the ladder. Lowering my head, I step inside. The faint moonlight filtering through the branches is the only source of light. Instead of lighting up the candles like usual, I sit in the dark for a while.

The air inside is musty. I take a deep breath, the scent comforting, familiar. I feel my way to the far corner where an old chest lays.

With trembling hands, I rummage through the contents. My fingers graze the worn leather of a journal, its binding softened by years of handling. Memories flood back as I recall the countless nights spent pouring my heart onto its pages.

I remember making the last entry on my eighteenth birthday after Damian had left that night. I turn my head and glance at the cushions, my eyes adjusting to the darkness. Slowly, the younger version of me comes to life in front of me. With a sadsmile, I watch her lying on her stomach as she writes furiously in her journal with a smile that can light up the whole world.

I watch her stopping several times to bury her red face in the crook of her elbow as she replays her first kiss in her mind over and over.

Then just like that, she disappears and I’m alone again in the treehouse.

As I delve deeper, I uncover other treasures buried within the chest, smiling as I feel the rough texture of the rock I stole from the beach as a keepsake. The perfectly imperfect rock is from the first time Dad had taken me to the beach. He had spent his entire day me.

I remember hiding the rock under my pillow. Recall the seven-year-old me clutching it with my tiny hands every night. I’d press my lips to its rugged surface, whispering fervent prayers into the silence. I begged God to make this version of Dad last forever.

Smiling, I bring it up and press a kiss over it before putting it down.

I sift through other items before my fingers finally find what they were seeking. Lifting the framed photograph, I hold it close, even though all I see is darkness. Yet, as my fingertips graze the surface, I can feel the contours of her face, etched into my memory. In my mind’s eye, I see her smiling, her eyes alive with warmth and so much love as she cups her swollen belly.

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