Page 160 of My Ruthless Husband

I stand and walk toward the window, my legs heavy, every step takes more strength than I have left. The night outside isdark, the kind of dark that swallows everything whole, leaving nothing but cold emptiness. I press my hand to the glass, my heart aching with the cruel reality that he’s out there somewhere, and I’m stuck here, wondering what I did wrong.

I can’t even call him. I have no phone, no way to reach him, and the humiliation of asking someone downstairs is unbearable. Earlier, when Morag brought food, I refused. Not because I wasn’t hungry, but because my heart was too heavy to eat. She left with a pitying look. Going down there now would only add to my shame.

I’m alone. Completely and utterly alone in a foreign place, surrounded by strangers.

I dressed up for him tonight, wanting him to notice me, to feel the spark of something. I wanted to be the wife he’d be proud of—the wife he’d want to stay with. But now, it feels pathetic.

My chest clenches painfully. I bite down on my lip to stop the tears from spilling over. No. I can’t break down. I tell myself he might have something important to do. That’s why he left without telling me. He’s a busy man. He’s always been driven, working harder than anyone else to get where he is today.

He’s a man with responsibilities. I knew this when I married him, didn’t I? I can’t expect him to drop everything just because I’m here now.

I’ll wait. I’ll always wait for him. We’ll have dinner together when he returns.

Wrapping the robe around me, I sit by the door in a lounge chair, watching the minutes tick by.

The seconds stretch out, each one longer than the last, making me wonder if the clock’s even moving at all.

But as the clock creeps past two in the morning, I push to my feet, my legs stiff from sitting in one position for so long. My body aches, and I wince as I stretch.

I use the bathroom, brush my teeth and disrobe before slipping under the cool sheets of the four-poster bed. The bed feels too big, too empty. I curl up on my side, staring at the door, waiting... but he doesn’t come.

At some point, sleep overtakes me, exhaustion and jetlag winning out. But even in sleep, there’s no peace. I toss and turn, caught in restless dream where I’m wandering through empty halls, calling out his name, hearing nothing but the echo of my own voice.

Then suddenly, a warm hand settles on my shoulder. I mumble something but don’t open my eyes. I give a startled cry when I’m suddenly rolled onto my back and pinned beneath a heavy weight.

My eyes snap open, heart pounding. The darkness makes it hard to see but the smell of alcohol hits me. “W-what? Who are you?”

“Your husband.” There’s no mistaking that cold, rough tone, the one I’ve been aching to hear for hours. Damian. He’s finally back.

“Where were you?” I whisper, barely able to focus with him hovering over me like this. I can feel the hard line of his body pressed against me through the thin fabric of my nightgown.

His eyes burn into me, dark and unreadable in the dimness of the room. “Out,” he mutters, his tone low, almost dismissive. His hand shifts, sliding under the hem of my nightgown, his palm hot against the cool skin of my thigh.

I jump, arousal heating my skin. “With who?” I ask, my voice shaky, trying to concentrate while his touch begins to undo me.

“Hal.” He shifts, his breath hot against my skin as he answers, his lips brushing my neck, making me shiver.

“W-was it work?” My breath hitches when his fingers inch higher, and I can’t stop the way my body shudders in response once again.

He shakes his head, his hand sliding to my waist, gripping me just tight enough to make me catch my breath.

I squirm beneath him, trying to focus, but it’s impossible with the way he’s touching me. It’s the first time he is doing it so freely. In the past, he always had this restraint, never allowing us to move past kissing. But now, he is pinning me under him and is touching me with a familiarity as if we’ve done this countless of times before. “If not work, what was it about?”

He lifts his head, his hair tousled, his eyes dark but a bit less guarded than usual. “You.”

“Me?”

I reach up and frame his face in my hand. “What about me, Damian? Please talk to—” my breath catches when he turns his face and catches my finger between his lips, biting it gently. The action startles me so much, I gape at him with wide eyes.

“You’re drunk.” I think out loud.

He releases my finger then gives a lazy nod. “I was drinking.”

“With Hal?”

He nods again, burying his head back in my neck.

“Because of me?” When there’s no response, I rake my fingers through his silky hair. “Damian?”

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