Page 73 of Cara

His brows trough inward. “No.”

“I couldn’t bring myself to knock. I shouldn’t have barged in on you like?—”

His response is curt, a little bit stunned. “Don’t speak to me like a stranger, Sophie.”

All I see is that child holding the hand of a woman Xavier has cared for before. I’m not angry… I'm scared. “That little girl. She called you?—”

“She’s mine.” He elaborates when he sees how that statement jolts me. “Isabella’s my daughter, but it happened before us. Before we even married. It’s the reason Rosa objected to our wedding. She found out she was pregnant.”

Her cry of desperation on my wedding day is not something I could forget. Even more, how she was dragged out of the aisle to argue with her father in the courtyard while Xavier thrust me into a limousine waiting at the curb. He was furious she’d made a spectacle. I felt pity for her that day. Little did I know I’d be envying her now, trying to understand how my husband, thelove of my life, has a child with someone who’s not me.

“Rosa.” My words falter, my voice betraying me. “Your… wife?”

Recognition flickers in his wild gaze, bewilderment evolving into understanding. His eyes widen in disbelief as a sharp scoff escapes his lips. “Isthiswhy you ran past me?”

Hope blossoms in the midst of my weakness. I attempt to speak, but no words emerge. Cars navigate the flooded street while my gaze remains fixated, completely surrendered to his.

His eyes sharpen, striking emeralds that gleam like jewels in the dim light as he steps towards me, each movement deliberate and commanding. “I have a wife. One. For the rest of my life,” he declares, his voice smooth yet resolute. He pulls me closer, his grip firm as he tilts my chin upward, forcing me to match his unwavering gaze.

“And I'm looking at her,” he adds, each word resonating with a weight that sends shivers down my spine.

He winces at what he sees in my eyes, the fear within them slowly dissipating as his words linger in the air. It’s been years. Nearly four excruciating years. Throughout that time, my eyes have never stopped searching for him, even in my most hopeless moments.

He realizes that I came all this way to uncover his life—the one we used to live out side by side—has completely changed. I knew it would be different, but this? I never expected this.

“We need to talk.” His eyes shift to the unpredictable roads. “Off the street.”

We have a few options to choose from. First, he could take me back to his headquarters, officially announcing the return of his long-lost wife. We could also risk the city for the night, staying in one of his many hotels, and hope his staff is discreet. Our last option? We enter this two-star motel with only one room to determine whether I’ll ever enter that estate again. I realize the answer only after we trail past the bewildered receptionist, scale the stairs, and enter the already open door of the hotel room I booked.

Xavier closes the door, twisting the lock.

The crooks of my knees lodge into the edge of the springy mattress as I watch him place my bag on the table. Our eyes continue to meet, averting when the tension bodies beyond what we can handle.

What he casts my way is electrically charged, a fierce blaze raging past control. It begs. It beckons. It shows me the depths of his soul, reminding me of all we sacrificed to reach this moment.

So many times, I’ve imagined what I’d do if I faced him again: run into his arms, sob, scream, show him how endless my love truly is. In each version, my emotions ran wild. Right now, they’re imprisoned in my body, screaming to be freed, but something holds me back.

I'm frozen, staring at him, weighed down by the pain it took to get here.

Victoria is dead.

After four years, my father is still trying to destroy me.

My husband has a child with someone else.

So easily, memories arise to torture me.

Blood rapidly spreading through my nightgown, between my thighs, my stained fingers shaking as my insides began to turn on me.

Don’t go there.

Swallowing my pride, I disappear into the bathroom, grabbing two towels. When I pass him one, he nods his thanks, patting his face, neck, and the ends of his dripping hair. His phone vibrates continuously in his pocket until he has no choice but to see who is calling.

The corner of his mouth tilts. “Um, it’s Bo.”

“Take it.” I glance at the bathroom, aware of our proximity and how filthy I am. “I'm going to wash off. I smell like plane.”

“I’ll be quick.”