Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67905 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 340(@200wpm)___ 272(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“Yeah, it’s good.” I’d had about half of it and felt full.
He went back to eating his dinner and didn’t ask me any more questions.
I didn’t have the same energy I used to when I started conversations with him after he came home from work. All the ambition had been zapped out of my body.
“Sometimes I wonder if you should still be working.” He cut into his steak and sectioned off a big bite.
He’d never said anything like that to me before. Never seemed to care that I had a job or what I did with my money. “Why do you say that?”
“You don’t need to work. And you’ve always wanted to paint.”
“But I’m not good at painting.”
“Can’t you get better?” he asked. “Quit your job and go back to school.”
“I don’t know.”
“Just an idea.” He took a bite of his meat and chewed, scanning the restaurant behind me.
“Do you not want me to work?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But that seems to be what you want.”
“If I said yes, would you stop working?” His eyes focused on me again.
“I—I guess it depends on why,” I said. “Because I like having a job. I like having something to do with my day. I know you aren’t working much right now, but normally, you’re pretty busy.” I suspected my being out of the house every day had a different impact on him because he’d been home a lot, spending time with me to prove that he was in this marriage until death.
After a long stare, he turned back to his steak and cut into it again. The conversation seemed to be over to him because he didn’t ask anything else.
“Can I ask you something?”
“Anything.” He placed the bite in his mouth and chewed, his eyes on me.
It’d been on my mind ever since Theo had mentioned it. Like a ringing in the ears after being at a loud concert. “Did you ask for an open marriage…because you’d already been with someone?”
He paused mid-chew, his eyes reacting with a subtle look of shock.
I had been hurt by his request but had appreciated his honesty. But what if he hadn’t been as honest as I assumed? What if he really was just covering his own ass or masking his guilt?
He chewed again, finishing the bite and swallowing. “What?”
“My question was pretty clear—”
“That’s not why, Astrid.” Anger flashed in his tone. “And I’m not sure why you would even ask that. Why are you asking now instead of months ago when this discussion began?” Suspicion moved into his gaze, but he didn’t give voice to it.
“Maybe cheating made you want to cheat more—”
“I’m probably going to regret saying this, but I’m gonna say it anyway.” He set his fork down, his appetite gone. “You know what I do for a living. I’m gone for days at a time. Unless you’re secretly a master spy, you’re never going to know what I’m doing when we aren’t together. So if I had another wife and a family in Milan, you would never know about it. There’s no incentive for me to ask for an open marriage if I’m fucking around without getting caught.”
“Unless you feel guilty.”
He stared, his blue eyes slowly turning hostile. “I kill people for a living, Astrid. I’m incapable of feeling guilt.” He’d been patient and quiet for the past week after I’d returned to the house. Giving me affection when he could and space when I preferred it. But now, he’d erupted like a volcano that had been forced into dormancy. “If I wanted the bachelor life, I wouldn’t be married. But I am married—because I love you.”
My eyes flicked away.
“Are these your thoughts, or did someone put them there?”
Good thing my heart was invisible behind my skin and bones. Otherwise, he would have seen it flip.
“Because I don’t think you came to this conclusion on your own.”
I kept my eyes on the wineglass and did my best to feel nothing, to show nothing.
“Astrid.”
My eyes lifted in obedience.
“Are you in this marriage or not?” he snapped.
“I am—”
“Because I’m here fighting for it with my life, and you have one foot out the door.”
“That’s not true.”
“Then why are you talking to him?”
“I’m not.” I lied like my life depended on it, scared of the consequences of the truth.
Bolton knew I was honest to the point of obnoxiousness, so he seemed to believe my words like scripture. He grabbed his glass and took a drink, his eyes elsewhere as he looked across the restaurant, anywhere else but me.
“I’m sorry I brought it up.” I didn’t realize how gentle and kind Bolton had been to me until I encountered the angry side of him.
He took another drink of his wine before he motioned for the check. “You should be.”
He hadn’t finished his dinner, and neither had I.
It was a quiet day at the art gallery.