Page 95 of Handsome Devil
It terrified me that I was attracted to this side of him. The side of Tate that craved me like I was a deadly, addictive drug. After all, what was obsession if not love’s wicked sister?
Don’t fall in love with him, Gia. He will never love you back.
Tate was only capable of the twisted and perverse. A relationship that allowed him a sense of complete control.
“Please don’t report him,” I choked out. I was too desperate for pride. “I’ll make sure he doesn’t act on any of his threats to you. You’ll never hear from him again. Please, he’s all I have.”
The admission ripped from me like a snatched beggar’s bag. It wasn’t lost on me that first, I did not report my own husband for murder, and now I was covering him for another crime he committed.
Dr. Stultz worked his jaw back and forth, nodding wordlessly.
I threw my arms at him in a hug, sniffling into a white lab coat that smelled like isopropyl and antiseptic.
He patted my back gently. “I know he meant well. And I know you have no one else.” His chest deflated. “I have a daughter your age. She lives down the street from us. I’m devastated for your loss, sweet child.”
We stood in the stairway for minutes, me crying, him comforting me, before I opened the door and emerged into the main entrance of the hospital.
Tate waited for me at the front desk, his hawkish gaze trained on the door I came out of.
He joined me silently, giving me the space I needed as we walked back to the car.
When Enzo and Filippo met us, he nudged them aside with his shoulder, edging them away.
“Take the day off,” he ordered. “I’ll watch over her.”
Iwas sick with longing.
It consumed me like cholera, spreading internally, taking over my body.
Outwardly, I was a symbol of success and indifference.
I worked. I exercised. I attended meetings. Counted tiles, precious gems, and solved equations, like usual.
But nothing was normal.
Gia was doing poorly. I could tell, even with my nonexistent ability to feel empathy.
She had not left her room in four days, save for a quick trip to the kitchen. Did not visit her mother at the hospital. Didn’t go into work.
She was wasting away. The catch was I had the emotional intelligence of a fucking Birkin bag. I couldn’t help her if I tried.
I paced outside her room like a caged panther, racking my brain, trying to figure out how to make her happy.
She was foolish, negligent, and a complete failure in honoring our contract. I wanted to sue her for breaking every single clause in it. This wasmytime with her,myfucking hard-earned prerogative, and she was wasting it away by being difficult and impossible.
Our marriage was by far the worst deal I’d ever struck in my entire career.
On day four, I called Calla and Dylan. They rushed to her side with cupcakes and sweet tea—fuck, refined carbs, I could’ve thought of that myself—and resurfaced after three hours holed up in her room.
“She’s grieving.” Calla wiped her pink, tear-stricken eyes, closing the door softly behind her. “You need to give her time.”
“I’ve run out of that certain ingredient, right along with my fucking patience.” I bared my teeth.
Once her mother died, Gia would leave. I had to find more leverage over her.
No, you have to stop extorting people into bending to your will.
Easier said than done. Force was the only weapon I knew how to use in a relationship,anyrelationship.
