Page 207 of My Ruthless Husband

Caught off guard by the sudden suggestion, I blink in surprise. “Shopping?”

“You’ve been here a month now, River. A month,” she repeats, as though the passage of time is something I’ve forgotten. “I think it’s time you went into town. Get yourself a few things, eh?”

At my puzzled expression, she sighs. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know, dear. You’ve been wearing the same few tops and trousers you brought with you. It’s hardly appropriate for a young woman to go about like that.”

I open my mouth to argue, but she doesn’t let me. “No, no. It’s not up for discussion. You need to get out, get yourself some fresh things. It’ll do you good.”

“I’ll go this weekend,” I offer quietly, but she shakes her head.

“Not good enough. You’ll go today,” she insists. “It’s been long enough. You’ve stayed hidden here long enough, I’d say. It’s time for a change. You can’t live like this forever.”

I stare at her, unsure how to respond. Then, “But I was planning on going to the flower shop,” I say weakly, trying to shift the focus elsewhere, to something—anything—that doesn’t involve a change in my routine.

It’s easier this way—living within the confines of a set routine.

Each morning, I wake up early and begin my day. I help Mrs. Hawthorne with whatever she needs. Then, tend to the house chores—mundane, yet soothing, in its own way. Afterward, I head to the flower shop. The work is calming. Spending hours there helps me focus solely on the present. Then, finally, I return to the place that is my new home, and the cycle begins again the next morning.

This routine—this simple, predictable pattern—has become my shield. It lets me forget. Forget the life I had before, forget the person I used to be, and most importantly, forget everything I left behind.

The idea of change, of facing everything I’ve been avoiding, feels too overwhelming. I’m not sure I’m ready to shatter that illusion by stepping out of the village. Not even for a day.

Mrs. Hawthorne waves a dismissive hand. “The shop can wait. It won’t collapse if you leave it alone for a day.”

The flower shop I manage belongs to Mrs. Hawthorne. It’s a little shop tucked away in the corner of the village.

She used to run it herself. But after I arrived, I offered to work there, wanting to keep myself busy, to stay in motion. I didn’t want anything in return. I just wanted to do whatever I could to help the woman who had saved me during my darkest moments, to repay her in some way for everything she had done for me.

But Mrs. Hawthorne, being the stubborn woman she is, insisted on paying me, telling me that I was helping her too much for it to be free. And so, I accepted.

When I still look reluctant, she fixes me with a stern look. “You can either go shopping, or we start discussing exactly what brought you here in the first place.”

After a month of living with her, I’ve realized that her stern expression is always rooted in care, not criticism. Mrs. Hawthorne never once pried into my past or asked about myfamily, even though it’s something most people would do when offering a stranger a place to stay.

That night, I managed to escape the mansion and boarded the first flight out, which landed me in London. From there, I took a train on impulse, not really thinking about where it would take me. It led me to this quiet village, alone with just a bag and a mind filled with haunting memories.

My funds were nearly drained, and I had nothing left of value to sell—not even a piece of jewelry. I left my phone and jewelry behind on purpose, knowing it could be traced.

There I was—empty, penniless, and so numb I couldn’t feel anything anymore. My heart felt dead, and the thought of living seemed pointless. I was exhausted, starving, running on fumes, and barely surviving.

That was when I saw a van barreling toward someone crossing the street. Without a second thought, I rushed forward to push them out of the way. The impact sent me crashing to the ground, leaving me with a concussion and a sprained ankle, but I had saved that person.

That person was Mrs. Hawthorne. She was beyond grateful, yet guilt-ridden for what had happened. She insisted I stay with her while I recovered, and I had no reason to refuse. Once I recovered, she asked me what my plans were. She could tell I wasn’t from around here. I told her honestly that I didn’t have any plans, that I didn’t know where I was going. So, she made me an offer—shelter and food in exchange for helping with the housework. I didn’t hesitate to accept, and the rest, as they say, was history.

“So, what’s it gonna be, love?” she asks, her eyes narrowing.

Shopping or facing the wreckage of my marriage? The choice is obvious. “I’ll go after lunch.”

She gives me a smug little smile, as though she’s already won, then goes back to her task.

???

“Mrs. Hawthorne!” My voice rises in disbelief as she nonchalantly pays for the eight dresses, her expression completely unfazed by my protests. As if that wasn’t enough, she’d already spent a small fortune on sweaters, jackets, and trousers in the previous shop.

She hands over her address to arrange delivery and grabs my arm, steering me toward yet another store. I dig my heels into the ground, forcing her to stop. “You do realize I’m going to pay you back from my salary for all of this, don’t you?”

Her lips purse, and she gives me one of her trademark looks. “I told you not to fret about it, love,” she says firmly, resuming her march toward the door. “And it’s not even my money anyway,” she mutters under her breath.

I narrow my eyes. “What was that?”

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