Oh, Isla, my mind hisses at me, how can you be so naïve?
A complete one-eighty of his feelings over the course of no more than ten minutes?
You’re smarter than that.
All of it was a charade that was solely intended to humiliate me and mock my obvious lingering desire for him. Rather than slapping my face again, he hit me over the head with exactly how little he cares for me. And now, he’s with the people of the press, likely spewing the same lie I came up with for Lord and Lady Kenderson solely for the purpose of saving his own reputation.
I turn away from the window and slump in the seat.
Evil asshole. Cold-hearted monster. Godless man.
All of it simply underscores exactly what I already know.
Malachi… my Malachi… is gone.
Mi amado… mi alma… mi vida… mi amor.
He’s been gone a long, long time.
I have to remember that like it’s tattooed across my chest, scratching out every beautiful, perfect, loving thing that he’d previously etched into both my heart and my soul.
I did not marry Malachi Sterling. I married the Duke of Corwick. And they’re not the same man.
Not even close.
AFTER TAKING A LONG, hot bath, I climb into bed, exhausted from dismay and the stress of the ongoing realization that this is just my life now. I fully intend to sleep late into the afternoon and then do nothing but read and write tomorrow. This is the true beauty of books—romance books in particular. Sometimes, that escape is a veritable lifeline when your actual life is so shitty that you can’t even comprehend it.
My readers email me from time to time thanking me for the escape they find in my books. Some of them are stuck in the hospital for an ailment that keeps them there for long periods of time, and they tell me they’d go insane if it weren’t for my stories that have swept them away and distracted them. Some of them are single moms who work two or three jobs, and the only vacation they could ever hope for is to be whisked away to the settings I’ve written. Sometimes they tell me they’re trapped in loveless marriages with men who would sooner stick their hand in a hornet’s nest before laying a finger on them, and the heroes I’ve written manage to make them feel the love they’re missing.
And I guess I’m not all that different from them, now. At the very least, this wretched marriage is going to help me write for those women, because I know in the depths of my soul exactly how they feel.
It’s pushing ten at night, and I’m just on the cusp of sleep when my phone buzzes on the nightstand, lighting up the dark room. I reach for it and squint at the bright light as I swipe on the screen.
It’s a message from Malachi with a link attached.
Malachi Sterling: Correction, Duchess. The people of Corwick love ME. They always have. They always will. And causing a petty scene will only make them see you as the petulant child that you are.
I probably shouldn’t open the link because I know it can’t be anything but another effort to emotionally beat me down, but I do anyway.
A browser unfolds on the screen to video hosted by one of Corwick’s major news networks.
DUKE MALACHI SPEAKS ON BATTERED APPEARANCE OF DUCHESS ISLA AS SEEN AT A GALLARNEY EVENT
In the video, Malachi stands on the red carpet with a noble expression, dark eyebrows lifted placidly.
“The Duchess and I sincerely appreciate the concern expressed for her by not only members of the press, but also our friends in attendance at this party,” he says with an air of solid authority, but also a hint of the warmth I once knew in him. “In an effort to avoid contributing to speculation as a result of silence, I’d like to offer a candid explanation as to her startling appearance. Yesterday, she had a small accident at our home in Cashlaire Palace. While preparing to enjoy a dinner in one of the courtyards, the Duchess tripped on the stairs and injured her face. It was frightfully upsetting for both of us, and she received medical treatment onsite at Cashlaire. Given that the dinner this evening was our first official engagement as Duke and Duchess, she was still very eager and excited to attend. We were advised that covering the injury with make-up might inhibit the healing process and cause her additional discomfort, and she chose to go without. It was neither her nor my intention to startle anyone with the appearance of her face, rather we were simply looking forward to an evening with our friends. Unfortunately, it became clear that the stir it caused overwhelmed the Duchess, and she requested to return home this evening, where she is now resting. We sincerely appreciate the concern expressed by all, and look forward to the life we’ve just embarked upon to serve the good people of Corwick, hand in hand.”
With that, Malachi steps through the parting crowd of paparazzi to march back inside, and the video ends.
Agitation hums in my chest, and my hands begin to shake as I punch out a reply.
Isla Reyes: Maybe the people of Corwick think I’m a petulant child, but I know the truth about you. You are a liar, and a phony, and a spineless wife beater, and I definitely WASN’T thinking about you when I got myself off earlier. But you’re free to think of me and everything you destroyed when you’re dying alone as a decrepit old man in this cold, empty palace.
I power off the phone before tossing it back onto the nightstand.
Malachi will die alone in this palace. Because I won’t be here. I don’t know how I’m going to get myself out of this marriage, but I’ve got nothing but a lot of time on my hands to figure it out.
FIVE
MALACHI
Present
I DEFINITELY WASN’T THINKING about you when I got myself off earlier.
The single text reply Isla sent to me two nights ago is like a new and powerful addiction. I can’t stop reading it.
When I got myself off earlier.
My mind has produced about a thousand pictures of what she looked like doing that.
After all, she’s done that while I watched her before.
Isla and I were wildly sexual as teens exploring that new side of our relationship. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for me and wouldn’t let me do to her. Add to that the fact that, once I started college, all we had was FaceTime for the majority of the year and subsequently had to get by with only watching each other through the screens of our phones.
It was never nearly enough to watch her as her fingers went to work on the swollen, glistening lips of her glorious pussy while I fisted my throbbing cock and came in my palm, but it was something. All the other beautiful, sexy photos she’d send in the middle of the night so I’d wake up with a fun surprise on my phone were never enough, but they were something, too. The flirty correspondence satiated us enough to get us through the weeks between her visits or my visits, during which we spent the vast majority of our time in bed.
And now, all I’ve got is yet another mental picture of her, this one of the utterly fucking delicious adult version of her splayed out on the large, queenly bed in her chamber while she reaches between her thighs and bucks her hips against her hand. For the past two days, it has kept me up late and roused me early with an aching erection that I need serious fucking relief from, but the relief evades me.
I can’t get myself off despite all the mental pictures her message evokes because all I can really think of is the last message she sent me eleven years ago. The one she used to expose herself as the backstabbing whore that she became.