Page 53 of Release Me
Oh, and Zara. If she ever gets a boyfriend, I’ll be the first to interrogate him. Hopefully, that’s a long way off.
In the meantime, at least if I’m at my parents’ holiday home in Wicklow, I can’t do something stupid like turn up at Rebekka’s place.
Every cloud has a silver lining, as they say.
Chapter Twenty-Two
REBEKKA
I spent the days between Christmas and New Year sorting out the issues with the author who was threatening to defect, and fixing the marketing campaign that was going wildly off-track. Both seem to be fairly back on track now, thank God for small mercies. Throwing myself straight back into work was the only way I could get Rian and the events of Christmas out of my head.
Who am I kidding?
They’re there no matter what I do. Images of Rian’s head buried between my legs, his big black eyes boring into mine, are burnt into my brain forever—both a blessing and a curse.
Anthony returned from his trip to Dubai. He must have felt some sliver of remorse because he brought me back a limited-edition Givenchy gold plated handbag and a bottle of the new Tom Ford perfume. Neither of them makes up for the way he treats me, but after letting his best friend—our best man—into my bed, am I any better?
What should I buy him for letting Rian go down on me?
Aftershave?
New golf clubs?
A watch?
This is so fucked up it’s not even funny.
I am beyond grateful Rian and I didn’t actually have sex. What happened between us was bad enough. Okay, there was nothing bad about it. It was fucking sensational. I’ve been missing out my entire life. Kind of cruel of him to show me at this stage. But as the saying goes, better to have loved and lost than never loved at all… and turns out, I fucking love oral. The way he did it anyway…
Stop it, Rebekka.
Stop it now.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and my husband has actually said we’re going out tonight—as a tradition, we always go to the Shelbourne for dinner. He likes to be seen there. He likesusto be seen there. Apparently it’s a strong way to start the financial year… Who said romance was dead?
Anthony hasn’t come near me since he got home three days ago–apart from shoving his guilt gifts at me, but the press are still under the illusion we’re one of these mythical power couples. One wrong snap in Dubai with his PA would put paid to that. But still, dinner out is better than crying into yet another bottle of Bollinger, right?
I pad barefoot down the wide spacious corridor in search of coffee. It’s barely six a.m., but I’ve been struggling to sleep the past few nights, even with the meditations. Guilt is an awful thing. Guilt and pining. I wonder if my husband struggles to sleep? If the way he’s prancing around the kitchen is anything to go by, obviously not.
His head whips up as he hears me approach. ‘Rebekka.’
‘You’re up early,’ I comment dryly. It’s impossible to summon any warmth for the man I married. I can do neutral at a stretch, but not warmth. I can’t even fake it these days. Not the last eighteen months anyway.
‘I, er…’ His eyes stray to his overnight bag by the front door. ‘I’m going away for a couple of days.’ I can smell his aftershave from here, and not in a good way. I take in his navy chinos, pale pink shirt and navy sports jacket. Eugh.
I scoff. ‘Don’t tell me. Business.’
His face screws into a scowl. ‘Let’s not pretend you don’t enjoy the fruits of my labour,’ he snaps, sweeping a hand around our opulent kitchen.
Rage rips through me. I’m so over his bullshit. I can’t imagine putting up with it for another week, let alone a lifetime. ‘Let’s not pretend you’re not fucking your PA and calling it work. I don’t give a flying fuck, but don’t insult my intelligence, you asshole.’
His defence mechanism kicks in with full force. ‘Maybe if you were a better fuck, I wouldn’t have to.’
Ouch. I force out a laugh, refusing to let him see how much his comment hurt me. ‘So, it’s my fault you can’t keep your tiny dick in your pants?’
‘Maybe it is,’ he spits.
I don’t like the way his dark eyes are roving over my bare legs—I threw on the same shorts and sweater I wore on Christmas Day. In fact, I’ve barely worn anything else since. He prowls towards me. I take a step back. I don’tthinkhe’d hurt me, but what do I know? Three years of marriage and I know him no better than I did when I said “I do”.
