Page 145 of My Ruthless Husband

Present

Ihit call again and wait. Come on. Pick up. Please. My leg bounces in a restless rhythm as the silence drags on, the ringing growing louder in my ear. When it cuts off with no answer, disappointment presses down on my chest. I lower the phone slowly, staring at the name on the screen like it might magically change something if I just keep looking.

Summer.

Just seeing her name stirs something warm in me, something that makes the emptiness hurt a little less. But she’s probably busy. She’s always got her hands full—juggling jobs, racing from one thing to the next. I know that, but still, it doesn’t stop the ache that settles in deeper. I needed this. I needed her.

It’s hard. Especially when the memories creep back. They hit me out of nowhere sometimes, these jagged, painful shards ofthe past that cut me open and leave me bleeding. They hit hard, especially when I least expect them.

Summer doesn’t know about the wreckage of my past. About Damian. My marriage. But talking to her always makes it easier to bear. There’s a comfort in her voice, even when she’s just rambling on about her day or singing praises of her cute pup. She doesn’t need to know the details of my heartbreak to soothe it. Her words, her voice help quiet the storm inside me, at least for a little while.

I stare across the room, my gaze settling on Vicky as she moves between a group of teens, guiding them through the preparations for the upcoming art fest this weekend. Every few seconds, I notice her gaze flick over to me, assessing, making sure I’m okay. Always on alert, even when she is engaged in an activity.

Vicky’s become more than just someone tasked with my protection. She’s earned my trust. I know I could share anything with her, let her in on the darkest corners of my life, and she’d guard it as fiercely as she guards me.

But even with that trust, I can’t talk to her about my past. As much as I want to confide in her, I hold back. I have to. Not because I doubt her loyalty, but because I care about her too much to put her in that position.

I’ve seen how Hal operates. I know she’d never spill a word of what I tell her, but if Hal or my husband ever found out we are close, they wouldn’t hesitate to make her life hell. Interrogations. Accusations. The constant threat of being dragged into something beyond her control. She’d be caught in the crossfire, facing consequences she doesn’t deserve.

The last thing I want is for her to become a target of their wrath just because of her loyalty to me. I refuse to let her be put in a position where her silence could cost her.

I walk over to Vicky. “I’ll be downstairs,” I tell her.

Immediately, her brows knit together, and she steps forward like she’s about to follow me. But I stop her. “I’m safe, Vicky. I’m not leaving the center, I promise. Trust me?”

She hesitates before she relents. “Keep your phone on you, okay?”

Right. The phone. I glance at it. One might think, I am free. After all, I started going out. Have a phone I can use anytime. Right? Wrong. The device is being monitored, tracking my every move. The only reason I still have it is because I’ve played by Damian’s rules, only ever contacting Vicky or Summer. No outside calls, no internet access. Just a false sense of freedom in the palm of my hand.

“Ring me if you need anything. I’ll be down to check on you in a few anyway.”

I roll my eyes playfully, trying to lighten the moment. “You don’t have to check on me every five seconds, Vicky. I’m not going anywhere.” As I say it, I can’t shake the tightening in my chest by how real those words are.

I turn to leave, the forced smile slipping from my face as soon as I’m out of her sight.

Love makes you foolish. How naïve I was to believe his grand gesture on my engagement day was a token of love?

My father might have been wrong to lock me away, but in the end, wasn’t he right? Choosing Damian has brought me nothing but heartache. And that truth is hard to swallow.

In the span of a few days after my wedding, I went from being the happiest woman alive—married, glowing, utterly in love to becoming a hollow shell of a woman whose life had been reduced to waiting.

Waiting for her husband to return from yet another business trip. Waiting for more than just his fleeting attention in the bedroom. Waiting for him to follow through on those date nightsI used to plan with so much excitement, only to watch them slip by, one by one, because he never showed.

I blink rapidly, fighting the sting of tears threatening to spill over. No. Not here. Not now. I force myself to focus on helping the volunteers to manage the group gathered downstairs for today’s art session. Maybe if I dive into the task at hand, the memories will stop gnawing at me.

For the next few minutes, I busy myself by distributing the supplies to everyone. In my haste, I drop the brushes I was carrying. I bend to pick them up. Just as I am about to straighten, a small hand tugs on a strand of my curls. I glance up and see a sweet little boy, no more than three, with dark hair and wide innocent eyes staring up at me, a playful smile tugging at his lips.

Instantly the community center around me vanishes and I am back at the mansion. In front of me I see my past-self standing in front of Damian. I see myself, shyly asking him. “When do you think we’ll try for kids?”

He had insisted on the birth control shots as soon as we were married. And I wanted kids. I always adored them. And now that I was married, I didn’t want to wait. So I approached him with the subject.

Instead of the warmth I’d imagined, I got coldness. “We’re newlyweds. And you’re still too young.” His words were clinical, detached, like I was making some foolish request. And though I accepted his answer back then, I now know it wasn’t just about timing. It wasn’t about us being newly married. He simply didn’t want it.

Because after that day, he made sure to personally keep track of the shots. Now that I think back, I can’t help but conclude he simply never wanted me to have his kids. Maybe that was another one of his rejections.

I’m brought back to the present when the boy tugs at my curl again. His chubby fingers hold onto my hair like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world.

My breath catches in my throat, my heart seizing with an intensity I can’t control. The dam I’ve been desperately trying to hold back shatters.

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