Total pages in book: 100
Estimated words: 91937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91937 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 306(@300wpm)
I stand, not wanting to do this with him looking down at me. No matter how weak my knees feel, I’m going to stand with my head held high. “I was waiting up for you,” I say, which probably shocks him also.
“You didn’t have to wait up for me.” He shrugs off his jacket, and I notice his buttons are not even buttoned properly. “Unless you were wanting something?”
I didn’t think I would feel my skin crawl, but with his words and his smirk, not only does my skin crawl but it also feels like there are bugs all over me. My stomach lurches, and I have to swallow down the bile forcing its way up. “I think I’m good.” He stops mid-step. “From the looks of it”—I point at his shirt and only then does he look down to see the collar all misplaced—“I don’t think you got the energy?”
“I mean…” He puts his hands on his hips as if he’s some fucking Romeo, but news flash, he’s not. “If I have to perform my husbandly duties, I would.”
I stare at him as he looks me up and down. “I think I’ll pass,” I retort, and he shrugs.
“Don’t say I didn’t try.” He chuckles and then sees that my face is like stone. “So then why are you lurking in the dark?” he asks, and I make sure I stare at him in his eyes when I say the words I’ve been dying to say for the past seven years.
“I’m leaving you.” I make sure my voice is loud and clear. His face gives me nothing. “I want a divorce.” I wait for it, counting in my head. One. Two. Three. Four. He makes it up to ten before he throws his head back and laughs like I just told him a joke. “Glad this isn’t tearing you up.”
“You’re hilarious.” He claps his hands together, clearly thinking I’m joking.
“I’m glad you find this amusing.” My tone is monotone, and he must sense that this is different.
“That isn’t funny.” He finally stops. The laughter escapes from his face, and in its place is the ugliness that is Winston Cartwright. “But nice try.” He turns and walks out of the room before I speak up again.
“I’m not joking with you,” I reiterate to his retreating back, and I see his shirt isn’t even tucked in properly. “I’m leaving, Winston.”
He turns his body, now tight, as his face gets even tighter—and I wonder what it was that I saw in him—the scowl sits on his face. “The fuck you say,” he sneers, the venom rolling off him. This is the man I’ve grown to live with. The one I’ve tried to make myself see the good in. The man who showed me he’s a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
“I’m leaving,” I state firmly. “It’s over.” His eyes go into slits. “Way past time, don’t you think?” He stares at me before he turns and walks over to the bar cart we have in the corner of the room. A cart we had to have since his parents had it in their house. A cart that is filled with crystal decanters, all restocked of course, because heaven forbid it goes empty. He picks up the one that holds the scotch, exactly like his daddy. He takes a short glass, pulling out the rounded heavy stopper before pouring himself two fingers’ worth of whiskey.
He places the stopper back into the top, then picks up his glass and looks into it before taking it all in one shot. “You aren’t leaving.” He snaps his jaw tight, his teeth clenched together. His eyes never meet mine. Instead, he’s just looking into the now empty glass. As if he has a say in this.
“It’s happening.” I pick up the papers that are on the couch beside me. “It’s already happened.” I hold up the papers.
“We are not getting a fucking divorce.” He literally hisses through his clenched teeth. If I didn’t know any better, I would think he was actually devastated about losing me, but I know better.
“Why?” I ask, wondering if maybe the man I fell in love with is in there somewhere. “Why do you even want to be married to me?” I wait for him to answer. “It’s for show.” I know what he’s thinking. “To make your parents happy so they can boast how amazing you are.” I about roll my eyes since we both know what a fucking sham it is. “So they can paint a picture of what a perfect family looks like.” I swallow down the lump in my throat because, once upon a time, I was fooled also. “So you can parade us in town as if you are the best husband and, even more of a lie, the best father.” I mention our seven-year-old son, Wyatt. “You think people are dumb?” I ask, and again, all he does is stare at me. “While you go around parading us, you also parade all the women you are with.”