I couldn't stand at his office door and let his staff, his colleagues, or God forbid, him see me crumble. Neither could I walk in, fling the door open, and confront him. For two very real reasons: first, the sight would kill me. And second—what claim did I have?
I wasn't his wife. Not really. I was just the contract bride, a body with a signature.
I spun on my heel, heart pounding, vision blurring, only to slam into something solid. "Hey!" Sam's voice barked, his broad frame blocking my escape. He frowned down at me, his eyes catching the shine of unshed tears.
"Hi, Sam. I have to go," I blurted, before my throat gave out on me. I didn't wait for his reply. I darted past him and fled the building. The tears stung.
Martin was waiting by the curb, leaning casually against the sedan. His stance straightened immediately when he saw me rushing toward him, his eyes narrowing at my blotchy face. "Mrs. Numero," he said, "everything alright?"
