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)
My mouth parts, a question forming, but I clamp it shut. What good would it do? He’s not in a talking mood, and I can’t force him to see me the way I want him to. So I stand there, smoothing out the skirt of my dress, trying to steady my breathing as he holds the box in his hand.
He snaps open the box and on a dark blue velvet bed lays an opulent necklace of diamonds and crimson stones, probably rubies. It catches the soft light of the lamp and glitters extravagantly. The sight of it steals my breath. My first instinct is to recoil. I nearly gasp aloud, but I swallow the sound.
This is not me and he knows that too. He knows only I like pretty and delicate things. Why give me something so ostentatious? Clearly, this is not for me. This is either part of the you’re nothing but a gold digger and you’ll dress like one game or it is to impress the snobs at the gala.
He watches me, eyes flat, as though waiting for my reaction to his gift. My heart is breaking. Is this just another part of his plan—to see me flustered, to remind me of how little I have compared to him? I almost shake my head, almost refuse. But then I remind myself that if I want us to move beyond this endless war, I need to try to find out what caused him to become like this. And I won’t do that by letting him provoke me into another pointless fight.
“Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted?” he asks quietly, a trace of mockery lacing his tone. “Well, now you have it.”
“Alright,” I manage, my voice strangely calm. “Thank you.”
He makes a sound, something halfway between a laugh and a scoff. Then he steps behind me. I hold my hair aside, and for a moment, the warm brush of his knuckles against my skin on the back of my neck sends a shiver through me. But it’s purely perfunctory efficiency on his part; there’s no tenderness in his touch.
Once the necklace is secured the weight of it feels like one of those slavery collars. Yet I force myself to nod and look down at the stones resting against my collarbone. They sparkle under the gentle light. In their own way, they are mesmerizingly beautiful. I’m sure Charles’s mother will approve of them.
“You can keep it after we’re done,” he says, his voice low. “Consider it a gift of my … generosity.”
I open my mouth to speak, but the words dissolve on my tongue. Yes, if I am wrong and there is no way to reach him, then he has just paid for my father’s medical bills. I just nod, not trusting my voice. His eyes linger on me for a second, then he turns away. My stomach twists. The hostile silence between us is unbearable.
I can’t let him leave it like this. Not when we’re about to face the outside world as a couple tonight, in front of everyone who matters. We will be the talk of the town tomorrow and the stories will get to my mother and cause her pain and anxiety. We can’t look like two strangers forced into the same corner.
I reach out and wrap my fingers around his forearm. He halts, eyes swinging down to my hand. His brow furrows.
I snatch my hand away. “I … I just …” I stammer, uncertain what I’m trying to say. My pulse thunders in my ears, and then I do the only thing that comes to mind. The only way I know how to communicate with him. I rise on my tiptoes and press my lips to his. A brief, soft kiss, too short to be called passionate, but enough to lay my heart bare for a moment.
For a fleeting second, I swear I feel him respond—his body stiffens and there’s a flicker of heat, of recognition. My own heart leaps at the possibility. Then, just as quickly, he pulls back. His expression is cold and unreadable, and my hope deflates like a punctured balloon.
He steps away, but I notice the faint outline in his pants, evidence that some part of him still reacts to me physically. Even so the set of his jaw, the hard line of his mouth, says everything else I need to know.
“Behave yourself tonight,” he mutters, voice clipped. “You are now the lady of the manor, not some tramp from the trailer park. I’ll see you downstairs.”
He yanks the door open and strides out, leaving me standing there, the stones glittering at my throat, my lips tingling from a kiss that tasted more of heartbreak than promise and the words that crush my soul.
CHAPTER 32
EARL
The country club is a display of charm and affluence—hardwood flooring glowing with decades of polish. Perfect for reflecting the golden glow of the old chandeliers imported from Europe, large gilded oil paintings of the founding fathers of America, and red velvet drapes to frame the tall windows.