Page 169 of The Wrong Husband
My assistant’s voice seems to detonate. Sharp, clear, devastating.
Her back is ramrod straight; fury carved into every line of her petite frame. Her shoulders are drawn so tightly, they could slice through steel. And her tush—that wicked, perfect curve I’ve tried damned hard not to fixate on every time she walks into my office—trembles with suppressed rage.
I clench my fists at my sides. I want to palm those full, trembling cheeks—yes, the ones I’ve admired far too long under the guise of professional detachment—and anchor her to something steady. Something safe. Something like me.
I want to march over, haul her into my arms, and press her up against my chest until every hard, angry breath she takes syncs with mine.
The bastard she’s talking to stands there, eyes downcast, wearing the dumb, apologetic expression of a man who doesn’tdeserve to breathe the same air as her. I want to rip his head off. Want to put myself between them like a damn human shield.
I’m lurking at the entrance to her office, which adjoins mine. I listen in on her conversation because, apparently, she also turns me into someone who lacks basic courtesy. Because where Lark Monroe is concerned, I can’t help but get involved.
She’s going to be furious I didn't even afford her the privacy of not watching her personal life implode. Because I am the only person who can save her from the disappointment that’s so palpable, it shimmers off her like rays of light bouncing off a windshield.
I’ve made her exasperated. I’ve pushed her to the edge with impossible deadlines, outrageous demands, tight turnarounds. I’ve gotten my twisted kicks watching her struggle, fluster, then pull off the impossible with a silent glare and a twitch of those arched brows.
But this isn’t one of those moments.
This isn’t a game.
This is personal.
To hear someone else be the reason she sounds so upset draws a line of fire through my veins. No one gets to draw such extreme emotion from her but me.
I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate the man standing in front of her, breaking her heart in the most humiliating way possible.
"You’ve turned me into a living cliché.” Her voice cracks, raw with betrayal.
Something primal snarls awake inside me.
Because Lark is my employee. She’s mine to protect. Mine to comfort.Mine.I’m done pretending otherwise.
I stalk inside her office. The two are so caught up in their drama, they don’t notice me.
"You have some nerve, telling me that you’re in love with my bridesmaid and want to marry her instead of me. Ugh!" She digs her fingers through the hair piled up on top of her head.
The pencil she stabbed through the rich blonde mass to hold it up slides to the ground. Her hair comes tumbling down. I freeze.
She was about to get married?
My personal assistant, who I speak to more times a day than anyone else—yes, it's largely by email, but still, I type out her name more than anyone else’s—was on the verge of getting hitched? How was I not aware?
If she gets married, who'll take care of the day-to-day operations of my business?
Yes, that’s a selfish thought, but I'm a CEO. My company takes priority. And she’s invaluable to my company. Ergo, she’s invaluable to me. Only because I care about the bottom line of my business, of course.
I take another step forward.
I’m aware of the exact moment Lark notices me, for her entire body snaps to attention. Her spine turns even more rigid. I’ve noticed how on edge she gets around me.
At first, I thought it was because I overwhelmed her—because the weight of my presence, my authority, was too much for her.
But I see it now. It’s not intimidation. It’s awareness. Acute. Unavoidable. Electric.
That hum I keep brushing off—the one I feel every time we share air—isn’t about her being unnerved by the control I carry.
It’s the current between us. Chemistry, sharp as static electricity.
She feels it just as much as I do. And it’s not fear I see in her eyes—it’s recognition. Of me. Of this.
