Page 102 of Beautiful Lies

He dips his head and leaves.

I finish the last of my drink before setting the glass down and meet my father’s observant stare.

“See you when you get back.” His voice is boardroom smooth.

“See you then.” I offer a mock salute then head out the door.

Time to face my wife.

The night air bites cold against my skin as I cross the gravel drive toward the waiting limo. Don’s already by the door, holding it open.

Isla’s inside.

She sits in the back seat, her hands clasped in her lap, eyes fixed on the dark blur outside the window. She doesn’t look at me when I slide in beside her.

The door shuts, sealing us in silence.

I glance at her once, twice. There’s something off. Her posture is way too still and her jaw set, rigid with tension.

“What’s wrong, love?” I ask.

“Nothing,” she says without turning.

Nothing. The one word that usually meanseverything.

I’ve learned the hard way that when a woman saysnothing, it usually means a storm’s brewing and I’m probably the one standing in its path.

Usually, I’ve done something. But if memory serves me right, I haven’t done anything to her today. Except threaten to destroy her ex if he goes near her.

She can’t be mad at that, though. She was fine after we spoke.

So, what has her so wound up?

The silence stretches thin like a live wire between us. Don starts the car, and the soft hum of the engine fills the void where words should be.

Streetlights flicker across Isla’s face, and I get lost in her again. She’s beautiful even in anger, or whatever this is. Quiet defiance suits her. Especially when she knows I’m watching her.

Finally, I look ahead and keep my gaze there, pretending I’m unaffected.

But I feel every moment of it. The distance, the shift, the change in her breathing when I move an inch closer. The way she keeps her hands knotted together in her lap, like she’s holding herself still just to keep from coming undone.

Every now and then, she exhales like she wants to speak, then stops herself. I let her.

I’m sure this is another argument brewing, and we can’t do that in front of Don on our wedding day.

So, we ride in silence.

Me pretending I don’t care.

Her pretending she isn’t hurt.

And between us lingers the ghost of a touch that still burns hotter than anything I’ve ever felt.

It doesn’t take long to reach home. The car slows as we turn into the drive. The wrought-iron gates part soundlessly, swallowing us back into the dark.

Don pulls up to the front steps. The second the car stops, Isla’s hand is already on the door handle.

I don’t move to stop her. We’ll talk properly when we’re alone.