The phone rang. And rang. And rang. But there was no answer.
I stared at the screen until it went dark.
"He's either stubborn or he's hurt. Possibly both. Men are annoyingly complex when you insult their pride." Nyla chirped.
I closed my eyes. I had replayed that day at his estate more times than I could count. The way he had offered me something close to freedom. The way I had recoiled from it, clinging to a marriage already unraveling.
His methods were questionable. His alliances were not the most acceptable. But he had never lied about who he was. There was something almost comforting about that now.
Unlike my husband.
After the incident at his house—after the slap, the accusation, the pride—I had thought he would cool down. That he would call. That he would show up just to argue.
He hadn't.
Helena had not stopped digging. Against Gideon's explicit orders, she had found ways to reach me through coded messages and brief, secretive calls.
