His son . . . his wife . . . or his money.
Gabi didn’t know which room Hunter slept in, but it wasn’t hers. She woke the next morning with bloodshot eyes and a headache to kill all others. She’d managed to come to a conclusion somewhere around two in the morning.
The bed she made was her own. She’d chosen Alonzo and all his false advertising. She’d decided to marry Hunter instead of bringing her troubles to the doorstep of her family. She’d consciously and quite willingly begun a physical relationship with her temporary husband. The emotional attachment wasn’t something she had expected, but somewhere between fall and winter, her heart started to crack and Hunter took hold.
He said he couldn’t be trusted and didn’t deserve her. He freely admitted he was using her, and yet she’d hoped that something had changed inside him as it had her.
How had Lori put it? To come out of this marriage whole, she’d have to find the cold and detached part of her that had entered into it.
Only as she showered and attempted to hide the circles under her eyes, the image in the mirror was of a broken woman, not a cold one.
She squared her shoulders and added one layer at a time. Moisturizer, something to block the circles . . . a layer of armor disguised as foundation. A blush of confidence she was going to have to fake until it felt natural. Her eyes, the best asset she had, were going to have to pop today. An uplifting swirl of liner and a thick coat of mascara were equivalent to a clown painting on a smile. The dark plum lipstick completed her cosmetic arsenal. She piled her hair on her head with a teasing strand or two lying on her neck.
Hunter liked it down . . .
She’d wear it up.
Gabi stepped into the walk-in closet and dropped her robe. Every inch of clothing had a job other than what the tailor intended. Her underclothing made her smile; even more when she knew Hunter would like them but never see them.
The sexual part of them was over.
The knit top hugged her breasts and slimmed over her waist before sitting low on her hips. The silk pants felt like a layer of soft skin, and the three-inch heels offered the right amount of sex appeal she desired.
The entire routine took an hour of her morning and reminded her of how strong she was. No more tears.
No more trust.
No more mistakes.
She moved into the kitchen to find Andrew sitting with a morning paper. He jumped to his feet when she walked in. “Good morning, Mrs. Blackwell.”
The need to remind Andrew to call her by her first name stuck in the back of her throat. Cold and detached.
“Good morning, Andrew.”
“I’ve made coffee, or would you prefer tea?”
“Coffee’s fine.”
He was around the counter and pulling a cup from a cupboard before she could stop him.
She accepted the cup and took a sip before muttering her thanks.
“Hunter asked me to tell you that he’d gone to the office.”
She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was after nine. “Fine.”
She heard footsteps and then the familiar call of her new name. “Mornin’, Mrs. B.”
“Good morning, Solomon.”
He headed straight toward the coffeepot and hummed his approval as he gulped the brew.
“I’ve been perfecting my pancake skills, if you’d like some,” Andrew said.
“I’m fine with this,” she told him.
His smile flattened.
The sound of the buzzer of the gate interrupted the silence that followed.
Andrew answered and let in whoever rang.
Gabi sipped her coffee and contemplated her day, her life, as the men in the house regarded her in strained silence.
Andrew pulled her out of her thoughts after he opened the front door.
Gabi set her coffee aside and found the valet standing at the door, his hands behind his back.
A deliveryman, one with an armload of flowers, stood with a mocking grin. “Special delivery,” he said as he thrust the bouquet into her arms.
Her nose flared, her eyes swelled with unshed emotion. “Who sent them?” As if she didn’t know.
“A Mr. Blackwell.”
She didn’t trust too many coherent words to pass her lips. “Andrew,” she lifted her free hand. “Can you—”
“I have it, Mrs. Blackwell.”
Andrew dug into his pocket and tipped the man before shutting the door.
They were beautiful. Much like the ones Hunter had sent her the first time they’d met.
I can’t do this again.
Gabi plucked the card from the flowers and enjoyed the fragrant blooms for the time it took to cross into the kitchen. Once there, she opened the door to the garbage receptacle, and dropped the flowers inside.
She knew, without a doubt, that every move she made would be reported to her husband.
As much as it killed her to throw away perfectly lovely flowers, it was the crossing to the fireplace and the strike of the match that gutted her.