Page 73 of My Ruthless Husband

I swallow thickly and nod. Desperate to escape, I babble out an excuse, “Skylar, I just remembered I left something important at home. I need to go get it. I’ll catch up with you guys later, okay?”

Skylar watches me for a moment longer but she eventually says, “All right, River, but call me if you need anything.”

I nod. With that, I change into my clothes and make a hasty exit, my heart heavy.

Twenty minutes later, with swollen eyes and a broken heart, I let myself into my apartment. I spend an hour in the shower just to wash off the bad feeling spreading inside of me then get into bed, feeling my soul utterly shattered. Sleep doesn’t come.

So I send him a string of messages. Then call him several times. Then wait. Every few minutes, like a hopeless fool, I reach for my phone, heart pounding with hope. Thinking, maybe, justmaybe, there’s a reply from him, a missed call that slipped past my notice. I clutch the phone in trembling hands, silently begging, praying to whatever might be listening for some sign—anything—from him.

Nothing.

What is love? I wonder again. Love has a way of pushing us to do things we never imagined ourselves doing. It can make you reckless. Can destroy your ability to think and force you to do something that you would never ever do. Like climbing mountains, and braving storms just to be near the object of your affection.

The little voice of reason in my head keeps warning me that I’m making a mistake, but the shattered pieces of my heart push me forward. They urge me to take that step, to do it. And so, I do. I do something so far out of my comfort zone, it terrifies me to my core.

The next morning, I book the earliest flight to New York. I don’t know why I’m going, or what I even expect to find when I get there. All I know is that I can’t stay here anymore, not with this ache in my chest.

I’m helpless, completely at the mercy of my love, of the man who’s torn me apart without even knowing it.

The burn in my chest has only grown worse since I boarded the plane. Every time my phone buzzes, I avoid it—Dad’s calls, Skylar’s messages—all of it. What could I even say to them? That I’m drowning in a love so consuming, so painful, that I couldn’t bear the thought of him with another woman? That I couldn’t sit still, not even for a second longer, since I saw the man who owns my heart standing next to someone else, touching her the way he’s never touched me?

Throughout the flight, I felt strangely detached, like I wasn’t fully present. My body was on autopilot. I felt like a ghost haunting my own existence.

I couldn’t help but wonder: does love really have the power to inflict this much pain? Is it supposed to make you feel as if your heart is being mercilessly torn apart, and your very soul is being crushed beneath its weight? The ache was so profound, it was as if every fiber of my being was on fire, searing with grief.

Until today, I’d only known the bittersweet ache of love—the kind that hurts so good, you smile through the pain because it reminds you that you’re still alive. But I never expected it could hurt like this.

Now I understand why Dad’s always been so empty, so alone. The way he’s never really moved on since Mom passed. I get it now. This is what it feels like to lose someone you love. If Damian and Gianna are together, then I must let him go.

The thought of never having him in my life, of not being able to see him or talk to him, feels like my heart is being ripped out. Every time I think about it, tears flood my eyes. It’s like I’m losing a piece of myself, just like Dad. And I’m scared it’s happening to me now.

I tracked down the address of the place where the gala was held last night through the internet.

I pay the taxi driver after he drops me off at The Ritz-Carlton. Overwhelmed, my heart is thumping in my chest as I enter the grand lobby.

As I walk further into the lobby, I can’t ignore the subtle, curious glances from other patrons, their eyes momentarily fixed on me before returning to their conversations.

I feel small in my plain jeans and top, utterly out of place among the well-dressed guests and the lavish elegance of the hotel. I hadn’t thought about how I looked when I left my apartment; my mind was too overwhelmed to care. My face is bare, no makeup to hide the redness of my swollen eyes. And my curls are tied in a messy ponytail.

The stares heighten my self-awareness and I grip the sling of my purse over my shoulder with both clammy hands.

I force myself to walk toward the reception desk, my heart hammering with each step. My chest feels tight, and I try desperately to mask the growing anxiety that’s threatening to take over.

My voice quivers as I inquire, “E-excuse me, I’m looking for someone. I heard he might be staying here. His name is Damian Montgomery.”

The receptionist, impeccably dressed, takes a long look at my face before sighing. She turns to her computer screen, types something then confirms, “Yes, Mr. Montgomery is staying with us.”

My heart quickens at the confirmation. When I ask for his room number, she purses her lips. “I apologize, ma’am, but I’m unable to share any information regarding our guests’ accommodations.”

I bite my lower lip, wrestling with disappointment. My voice quivers as I muster the courage to ask, “Okay, can you tell me whether he is staying alone?”

My mind fills with the image of Damian and Gianna together. In the same bed. The idea of him spending the night with her is torture.

“I’m sorry, but I can’t provide that information,” she says with a tight smile.

My heart sinks deeper as she neither confirms nor denies it. In a last-ditch effort, I gather my resolve and admit, “I know him. I’m his…” What am I? A fool, trying to claim something that was never mine. I’m the one who thinks I have any right to question him about Gianna. I’m the one who’s here to beg him for a chance to be with him. I am a… “Friend,” I finally whisper. “I’m his friend.”

Her expression remains impassive. “I understand, but I still can’t disclose any details.”

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