But I didn’t give a shit about architecture when I swung that sledgehammer.
I wasn’t remodeling. I was breaking things.
Destruction—I craved it.
Had fantasized about it for years. Blow after blow, I shattered plaster. Splintered wood.
Satisfaction surged through me, though it was brief, shallow. I was nowhere near calm in the aftermath.
Nothing had ever appeased me for over two decades.
Until now that I have Aurora. That my revenge began to take shape.
I tap my fingers against the glass and metal dining table as I wait.
My gaze sweeps across the room. Over the thick, gray rug beneath the black leather sofas, the matching coffee table.
What would Aurora think of all this? What does she make of me?
I don’t care.
I shouldn’t.
She isn’t here to think. Or wonder.
She’s here to pay for what was done to my family.
The fact that Aurora didn’t take an active part in ruining my family is inconsequential.
The fact that I enjoy fucking my new wife will not save her from me.
I smooth down my black T-shirt, adjusting the ache straining against my jeans. The shower I took in the guestroom did nothing to ease me. I walked out on her hard, and I’m still hard now. Painfully so.
Dammit. I can’t afford to lose control. She’ll be here any minute, and if she spots this weakness, she’ll try to manipulate me.
Breathe.
Inhaling deeply, I let air filter into my lungs. I place both hands flat on the table. The cool glass grounds me. Anchors me.
This is what power looks like.
Restraint. Patience.
Two things Aurora is severely lacking.
I’ve never claimed to be a perfect man myself. But the more time I spend with her, the more flawed I feel. Every crack in my resolve is proof of it. She makes me doubt. She makes me second-guess. And that’s what I hate most.
Deep. Fucking. Breath.
A few more of those and I’ll be back in my body. Back in control.
Fuck it, Iamin control.
I’m also alone.
Aurora should be here by now.
Breakfast has been sitting here for a while. Pancakes. Toast. Eggs, cheese, vegetables. A few slices of pie within reach.