Page 61 of Malicious Marriage
“I—Conor. His name is Conor.”
Dean doesn’t speak. He moves away from the stove and collects two mugs from the cupboard above the sink, then he moves back to his pot and slowly pours the warm hot chocolate into each. He slides one toward me, a bear mug with lots of colorful flowers and a smiling bear on a swing, then he picks up the pan and takes it to the sink. As soon as the water starts running, I let out a cautious breath I’d been holding ever since he fell silent.
Is he angry? Why doesn’t he have any questions? Should I tell him more details, like where we dropped Conor off that night, or how he genuinely sounded like he was in love with her?
None of these feel right. Dean’s shoulders bunch together as he washes out the pot rather methodically, so I wrap my hands around the cup and soak up the warmth. Maybe it was wrong to tell him. I shouldn’t trust my judgment after a night like this. Telling Dean this only opens up the chance that he’ll pull away from me, but I’m hoping it will also make him trust me. I’m telling him the truth and if that holds any weight, then maybe Ryan won’t have any sway when he recovers and comes for me again.
My phone buzzes suddenly in my pocket. Since Dean is distracted and processing, I pull it out and open a text from Bobby that makes my heart sink to the pit of my stomach.
Ryan is dead?
My mind surges with a flurry of panicked thoughts. Will Bobby get the blame? Will the police come and arrest him for hitting him with the car? What about Frankie and Thomas?
My stomach ties in knots and I stare at Bobby’s text until my eyes blur. I can’t deal with this right now. My head still spins from the accident, my whole body aches, and now my heart feels like it’s caught in someone’s fist as I dance between Ryan’s death and Dean’s distress.
Dean distracts me, though, by turning back to face me while drying his hands on a tea towel. “I know Conor,” he says quietly, his face pained. “He was Trisha’s bodyguard for years before—” He cuts himself off and shakes his head. “Thank you, Clover, for telling me.”
“It’s no problem,” I reply cautiously, trying to judge his reaction. He doesn’t look angry. If anything, he looks as pained as I expected, and that makes my heart hurt even worse.
“No, I mean it.” He finishes drying his hands and slowly folds the towel. “You’ve no idea what it means to finally have someone in my corner, someone who doesn’t lie and keep secrets or make me jump through a hundred hoops. So thank you for not keeping this from me.”
Fuck.
Fuckingfuck.
I need to tell him the truth. Right now. I need to tell him everything so he stops looking at me with those warm, sad eyes filled with trust. He needs to know that I’m just as bad, if not worse.
But I can’t. Because without him, I don’t find Hailey.
The truth curdles like hot milk in my stomach and my throat burns, so I swallow hard and offer the best smile I can. “I… what are you going to do?”
Dean moves past me and clutches my shoulder briefly, then he presses a light kiss to the top of my head that sends tingles down my neck.
“I don’t know,” he says stiffly, “But I know it won’t be pleasant.”
27
DEAN
Itake a day to process Clover’s news and calm myself down enough that anger won’t lead my reaction. It gives me time to ensure that Ryan’s death is suitably swept under the rug, pay Bobby’s hospital bills, and ensure he receives no trouble from the law about Ryan’s sudden demise. I also insist that Clover stay with me until the wedding so I can keep an eye on her and ensure that no one else harms her during the days between now and our wedding.
Don isn’t best pleased, considering he still hopes to persuade me against marrying her, but given how she brought news of Trisha to me without hesitation, it is the final reassurance I need that I’m making the right choice.
But that understanding comes with pain. Pain that the baby I’ve been preparing for, the baby I’ve been dreaming about in the quiet nights when I’m alone, the baby I’ve set up trust funds and protections for, might not actually be mine.
The revelation comes with agony but also a small voice in my head that scolds me for not catching on to this sooner. Trisha is twisted enough to lie about this, but it’s not something I can acton without concrete proof. My only choice is to speak to her face to face.
“Mr. Savoy.” Her doorman greets me with a bow. “Are you here to see Mr. Wilcox?”
“Miss.”
His brow lifts faintly. “Ah! You’re in luck. Miss Wilcox is in the drawing room.” He sweeps an arm aside to invite me, and I accept with a polite, minimal smile. “I’m afraid your security will have to wait here. Miss Wilcox is very particular about who she lets near her right now.”
Jack shoots me a look of understanding and shrugs off his jacket while walking to a small hardwood chair in the foyer. “Relax. I’ll wait right here.”
“Thank you, sir.” The doorman bows slightly then motions for me to follow.
I walk familiar halls, pass paintings I used to admire and art pieces I used to envy. In my earlier years, Wilcox Manor was a place of light and love, and a wealth of excitement. Back then, they always rolled out the red carpet for me in their attempts to sway me right into Trisha’s arms. I’m almost impressed that they hid her psychotic ways for so long, but nothing will compare to the deep, unsettling pain that erupted inside me the first time I caught her trying to snog someone else. The resulting argument was spectacular in terms of her mental gymnastics to make me the one at fault.
