Silas Fairchild's sarcasm left Jericho Hawthorne feeling deeply unsettled.
But beyond the annoyance, a nameless emotion surged from the depths of his heart—a feeling so intense and scalding, it was like a searing flame of anxiety that made his chest ache.
'He couldn't understand!'
'Why didn't Seraphina Quinn tell him any of this?'
'Could it be because I wronged her? Does she resent me so deeply that she'd rather endure my insults than tell me the truth, all because she wants to end this marriage as quickly as possible?'
'Just what kind of a bastard must a man be to make a woman hate him this much?'
Jericho Hawthorne couldn't wrap his head around it, so he asked Silas Fairchild, "Did I do something to wrong her?"
Silas Fairchild sneered. "'Wrong her?' You think that's all it was?"
Jericho Hawthorne swallowed hard. His voice was still grim, but now it held a raw, choked quality. "What did I do to her?"
