Page 112 of The Wrong Husband
He looks at me warily. "Does that make us less in your eyes?"
I’m about to protest, then sigh. "I guess, I’m more cynical of wealth and influence since I grew up with it. But being out in the world, without the benefit of my parents’ money, has taught me to be more appreciative of it. And the kind of influence it can buy, too," I add as a grudging afterthought.
Which is not being charitable, because it’s thanks to the Davenports’ reach that the issue with the ER was brought to the attention of the most powerful man in the country.
“Or maybe, like most people, I value what I work for more than what’s handed to me?” I raise a hand.
He tilts his head. “I don’t disagree. I prefer to think about how best to use the wealth I already have—for something greater than myself.”
He says it slowly, carefully. And I believe him.
“It’s what I admire about you. It’s why I said yes to marrying you,” I murmur, because it’s safer than admitting I’m developing feelings for him.
Something flickers in his gaze—not quite surprise, but something sharper. Like my words struck a nerve he wasn’t ready to expose.
Then he nods.
A sharp action, that makes me wish I could be honest with him. That I could tell him that, perhaps, this marriage is real for me too.
But that doesn’t change the fact that I walked into it with strategy first and emotion second.
Or… Is that a lie I’m telling myself?
A shield I’ve trained myself to raise.
Because admitting I feel more would mean letting him in.
And if I do that—if I let him matter, if I tell him all my secrets—then he could break me in ways I swore I’d never let happen.
The insight confuses me.
He thanks the wedding official, then the two silent witnesses he provided, before leading me out of the room.
He doesn’t say anything, but I feel it—the anger, the disappointment. Radiating off him like static. A quiet, invisible wall I don’t know how to breach.
I stay quiet as he walks me down the stairs of the heritage building and down the promenade that lines the waterfront. The newly signed marriage certificate, tucked into an envelope, still warm from the registrar’s desk, is in the inner pocket of his jacket.
The sun hangs high over the Rock, lighting up the stone buildings that line one side of the street with a golden glow. We pass a farmer’s market in progress; the smell of freshly baked bread and cheese, mixed with herbs and flowers, washes over us. A mix of locals and tourists, marked by their uniform of straw hats and Hawaiian shirts, walk in between the shops.
An older couple stops to admire us. The woman smiles and says, "Congratulations," as we pass.
"Thank you." I smile back.
Connor, however, stays focused on wherever he’s taking me, which I assume is to the yacht. Palm trees sway above us, the market giving way to a stretch of quaint boutiques and wine bars which function as coffee shops by day.
More admiring eyes follow us, and a couple of teenagers glide by on their skateboards. One of them catcalls. When I look in hisdirection, he throws me a cheeky look, followed by an admiring glance. I laugh and wave at him. He throws me a kiss.
Before I can respond, Connor grabs me around my waist and hauls me closer. I look up to find him glaring at the boy, who laughs, then faces forward and pushes off, following his friend.
"He was a kid," I point out.
Connor doesn’t reply.
"He was merely being flirtatious."
Connor grunts back.
My steps slow, forcing him to adjust his speed, else he’d have to drag me around. He glances down his patrician nose, a look of bored inquisitiveness on his features.
