Page 6 of Best Kept Vows (Savannah’s Best #6)

Ophelia

I jerked awake, disoriented, as an overhead light pierced my eyes.

Sebastian stood in the guest room by the bed, his expression dark and rigid, his jaw tight with barely restrained anger.

“What are you doing in here, Lia?”

I glanced around, realizing I was still fully dressed, a crumpled blouse clutched in my hand. “I was looking for something professional to wear for an interview tomorrow, and I guess I dozed off.”

“In the guest room?” He sounded incredulous. “Are you sleeping here now?”

“What?” I sat up. I picked up some of the clothes I’d been checking out on the bed and showed them to him. “I fell asleep sorting my clothes.”

“You don’t sleep here. You sleep in our bedroom,” he growled like I didn’t say anything, like he wasn’t seeing me at all.

I got out of bed, the day laying heavy on my shoulders, my muscles burning because I fell asleep awkwardly. “Why does that even matter, Sebastian?”

I was tired. Exhausted .

I can’t do this anymore , I thought bleakly.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he demanded, taking the steps so he could be toe-to-toe with me, and in my personal space.

I looked up at him.

My handsome husband with his Gregory Peck cheekbones and blue-blue eyes. When was the last time he looked at me…just me with love and affection? When was the last time he sat next to me on a couch, his arm around me, my head resting on his shoulder as we watched some nonsense on television?

Three years ago.

He’d checked out of our family and our marriage, and now he was making demands on me? Well, he could go fuck himself.

“It’s not like we do much beyond sleep in our bed, and most of the time, you come in after I’ve fallen asleep and leave before I wake up. So, how the hell does it matter where I sleep?”

He flinched as if I’d physically struck him.

I didn’t swear—at least not out loud. In my head, I was a full-blown sailor.

So, when I said hell , the way his eyes widened and he physically took a step back, like I’d just dropped the filthiest word in the English language, was almost comical.

He looked genuinely horrified as if I’d uttered a profanity obscene enough to scorch the wallpaper.

Bud, if you hear what I say in my head, you’d run far, far away from me.

His eyes narrowed, anger simmering dangerously close to the surface. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.” A strange courage surged within me. “When’s the last time you…touched me?” I almost said fucked me, and maybe I should have. Perhaps it was time for me to find out who the hell I was so I could be that person instead of Sebastian Boone’s Savannah society wife.

His voice hardened. “Don’t turn this around on me. You’re the one hiding away in here, acting like a martyr.”

What was he talking about? Had he been drinking?

“A martyr ?” I snapped, my voice rising. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“This is you sulking, isn’t it, because I didn’t come to your silly little ceremony?” He was so far gone, I could see it in his eyes, in his demeanor, he was riding on temper.

Still, that silly little ceremony comment cut deep. I realized, at that moment, there weren’t any fresh wounds left on my soul—because I was the wound. Raw. Exposed. So, when he said things meant to make me feel small, old scars didn’t just ache—they ripped open, bleeding all over again.

I pursed my lips and looked down at the floor, at my bare feet. I’d taken my heels off by the kitchen when I came in and hadn’t bothered to find my house slippers.

I finally looked up at him. “Why are you picking a fight with me, Sebastian?”

His nostrils flared. “I am not.”

I swallowed. “ She called you Seb.”

I could all but hear his teeth grind. “I already told her not to do that again. She didn’t mean anything by it—just a slip. No need to blow it out of proportion.”

How interesting that neither of us needed to address who she was because we both knew, which meant he knew the second she used that shortened name I’d react, and yet he hadn’t called, hadn’t reached out to put my mind at ease. Oh no, he’d shown up late in the evening and picked a fight.

That’s when the epiphany struck. He felt guilty .

About what?

My body began to shiver. My heart hammered, adrenaline racing through me. “Are you…are you having an affair with Jane?”

His face flushed deep crimson. “For Christ’s sake, Lia! How can you even ask me that? After all these years, you think I’d betray you like that?”

I knew Sebastian inside out, and right now, he was feeling tremendous guilt. My breath shuddered.

“You are, aren’t you?”

“Are you out of your fucking mind?”

“Stop swearing at me.” I stepped forward, all five feet three inches of me against his six feet three inches. “I know you . You look guilty. God! Is that why you’ve been ignoring me? Is that why?—”

“Stop it! I’m not having an affair.” He put his hands on my shoulders. “If you say you know me so fucking well, you’d know I’d never do that.”

“I don’t know what to think anymore.” I stared at him, unwilling to back away this time. “You’re never here , Sebastian.” I waved a hand around to indicate our home, and pulled away from his touch. “What else am I supposed to think?”

“You just insulted our marriage and me, Lia. I can’t believe that your insecurities have pushed you so fucking low that you’d think I’d cheat on you.”

With that, he stormed off, slamming the guestroom door behind him. I stayed unmoving for a moment, trembling from head to toe. After a while, I slowly headed to the kitchen.

When I entered, the scent of the half-prepared meal hit me.

Anger surged anew, fierce and blinding.

How dare he? How dare he dismiss my feelings as though they meant nothing, as though I meant nothing?

If I was having doubts about him, wasn’t it his damn job to help me feel better? Oh, no, Mr. Arrogant I’m So Insulted just walked the fuck away.

I wanted to cry. I wanted to go down on my knees and wail, grieve for a marriage that was over, and there was nothing I could do about it.

Whether Sebastian was having an affair or not, one thing was clear—he wasn’t with me anymore.

And if he wasn’t, how did it matter who he was with?

Marriage vows meant nothing if there was no marriage—regardless of the legalities .

I turned on the oven, finishing the honey-mustard pork tenderloin with baby carrots and potatoes I’d started earlier.

I’d planned to have dinner ready by the time Sebastian got home, but since I didn’t know precisely when that would be—and didn’t feel like texting him—I’d completely forgotten about it until now.

When he came into the kitchen where we usually ate, leaving the formal dining room for…well, formal events, I went about plating our food.

I could smell his shower gel, and his hair was still wet from the shower.

He’d changed into sweatpants and a T-shirt.

He looked like my Sebastian, casual and at home, but this man, who called something significant that happened to me today a silly little ceremony, wasn’t mine. He was probably Jane’s.

“Would you like some wine?” I asked.

“Yes, thank you.”

He took our plates to the table. I opened a bottle of steel-cask unoaked chardonnay from Willamette that I’d recently bought from Ganem’s wine shop in the historic downtown a couple of days ago when I was planning our celebratory dinner.

I thought we’d go out for lunch, so it would be nice to have a meal at home, just Sebastian and me. Instead, we sat in strained silence, forks scraping porcelain, a lifetime of intimacy reduced to the awkwardness of two strangers forced to share an umbrella in a Georgia thunderstorm.

“This is very good, thank you, Lia.”

I hummed my acknowledgment instead of saying, “ Where’s your phone, Sebastian?” because he usually had his eyes glued to it during the few times we managed to eat together.

I had so much bitterness lodged in my throat that I was sure I’d say words I’d regret later.

Sebastian exhaled heavily, and I heard his knife and fork clatter onto the plate. “Lia, baby?”

I looked at him.

“I’m sorry for losing my temper earlier,” he said coolly, formally, so it didn’t sound like an apology at all—because it wasn’t; these were mere words he was speaking to make himself feel righteous. “But asking me if I’m having an affair is insulting.”

There it was— the proof in the pudding , as they said.

He wasn’t apologizing. He was telling me I was wrong—wrong for how I felt, wrong for daring to suggest he might be having an affair.

He wanted me to apologize, to beg forgiveness for bruising his ego.

The gall. He acted like I had insulted him, all while casually invalidating every emotion I had, as if my hurt was just another inconvenience.

Did he not realize how often he disrespected me?

How each forgotten milestone was not just neglected—but was a quiet, cutting cruelty that he inflicted without a second thought?

Silly little ceremony!

I finished eating, which wasn’t difficult to do since I’d barely put any food on my plate. But there just wasn’t enough space in my stomach after being filled with rage and regret.

He set his knife and fork down on the plate he’d cleaned.

He had no problem eating. My husband liked food, he liked my cooking, he always said so.

But he was fine eating at the Olde Pink House today with that woman while I had waited and waited and waited until my eyes hurt for him to acknowledge my victory, my success… .

“Tell me about this interview you have,” he demanded softly, unaware or perhaps uncaring of my inner turmoil. “Where is it?”

“Savannah Lace.”

“How did that come about?”

“Betsy Rhodes was at the graduation ceremony.” It was petty, but it felt good to see him raise his eyebrows.

“And?”