Total pages in book: 98
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 90778 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 454(@200wpm)___ 363(@250wpm)___ 303(@300wpm)
“Very nice,” I say, my voice carefully even. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Nora replies with a smile. “Well, I’ll be downstairs. I’ll send up a tray with refreshments, but please ring if you require anything else.”
“Thank you, Nora.”
She seems to want to say more, but instead, she nods and excuses herself, leaving me alone.
I want to call him, to confront him, to demand answers, but I don’t even have his number. All I have are the old text messages on my phone, the ones I’ve read and reread so many times the words are seared into my memory.
I scroll through them now, my thumb lingering over the screen. Each message feels like a ghost, haunting me with fragments of who we used to be.
Then I sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the room. It’s strange, feeling both relief and unease at the same time. Relief that I don’t have to immediately share a room with Earl, but unease at the strangeness of my situation. He couldn’t even bear to kiss me in the church. This marriage isn’t meant to be real. Not in the way marriages are supposed to be.
I remind myself why I’m here. My father is getting the treatment he needs. That’s what matters. Everything else is just noise. I can handle this. I have to.
Lying back against the pillows, I close my eyes, the painted image of myself on that throne flickering in the darkness behind my lids. And then I realize what this marriage is supposed to be.
It is supposed to be revenge.
CHAPTER 7
EARL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bqIxCtEveG8
-beneath your beautiful-
“I’m the drunk, but sometimes you’re the one who acts like you’re not in your right mind,” my father grumbles.
The sharp citrus scent of mandarins fills the air as I peel another one, the sticky juice coating my fingers. My father’s eyes track every movement, his gaze heavy, and I can feel the weight of his unspoken thoughts pressing down on me.
“You know you caused a scandal, right?” my father asks, his voice carrying that undercurrent of sardonic humor he never seems to lose.
I glance at him, my expression unreadable. “For someone in seclusion, you seem remarkably informed.”
His lips twitch into a bitter smile. “It’s a small town, Earl. People talk. Especially when you do something this asinine.”
I place the peeled mandarin in front of him and sit back, leaning against the faded armrest of the chair. The room smells faintly of stale whiskey and the faint antiseptic tang that clings to places like this. His hands hover over the fruit for a moment before he picks it up and bites it like one would an apple, his eyes never leaving mine. Juices run down his chin. I’ll never understand why he can’t eat oranges like the rest of humanity.
“What’s really going on in that head of yours?” he asks, his tone turning sharper. “What are your actual intentions? Why did you marry the girl you once told me you hated?”
My chest tightens, but I keep my expression unreadable. When I don’t respond, he leans forward, his voice lowering, weighted with something between curiosity and accusation. “She came to see me, you know. After you left. Tried to find out where you were, why you disappeared.”
My fingers dig into the armrest, but I keep my face blank. The memories of those days when I left this god-forsaken town feel distant, like something from another life, but the edge of it is still sharp enough to cut.
“I chased her off,” he admits, a nasty chuckle escaping his throat. “Told her I didn’t know where you were, and I didn’t. Hell, I still don’t know why you ran off like that or where you went. Supposedly, you loved her so much back then. So why’d you suddenly leave?”
The room feels stifling, the air thick with the unspoken tension hanging between us. I stare at the far wall, willing myself not to react, not to let him know how I really feel inside—just how hurt I’d been, just how much I’d loved her. Back then, I would have cut off my right arm and handed it to her on a platter if she’d asked. And to this day, it stuns me how naive I was, how completely smitten I was over someone who didn’t deserve it.
“You always do this,” he mutters bitterly, more to himself than to me. “Keep everything locked up tight. Like you think no one can see what’s going on in that damn head of yours. But I see it, Earl. I know a thing or two about ghosts, and seeing how impulsive you’ve been, I can tell they’re eating you alive. Don’t let them.”
I finally look at him, meeting his gaze head-on. His eyes are bloodshot, but there’s a clarity there that surprises me. For a moment, I wonder if he’s right. Have I spent so long holding onto the hurt she caused that I’ve lost the ability to think rationally?