Page 135 of The Christmas Trap

That’s it? He walked out like it doesn’t matter to him that we’re not sharing a bed anymore. That he doesn’t care I’ll no longer be in his arms at night? That he’ll no longer do to my body the wicked things which brought me,and him,so much pleasure. Like it doesn’t matter to him that we’ll no longer be husband and wife in the true sense of the word.

I manage to keep the emotions off my face.

No sense in letting him see how much his words have affected me.

Everything in this room reminds me of him, but I can’t let that affect me. I need to see this through. I must hope that, at some point, he’s going to acknowledge his feelings for me.

Until then, I need to put up a front. And make sure he doesn’t realize how much I miss him.

I roll my shoulders, shake out my hands, and take a few deep breaths. It doesn’t really help, but it’s a relief to keep moving. To keep my thoughts on what I must do next.

Twenty minutes later, I walk into the home office on the first floor.

I haven’t yet given up my apartment. But while we were away Brody asked a team to move my clothes, my shoes, and of course, all of my cosmetics and books into his place.

Yep, he had them working through Christmas to do so.

He hasn’t given me a tour of the house, but it’s not so big that I can get lost in it. It’s not tiny either. There are four bedrooms on the second floor, including the master bedroom.

For a few seconds I mourn the loss of my apartment. I took such pains to decorate it too. Not that he’d mind if I changed the décor in this town house to suit my tastes.

In fact, he’d welcome it.

Too bad, he isn’t as open with revealing his feelings for me.

On the first floor, an open-plan living room flows into the kitchen, which in turn opens onto a deck that faces Primrose Hill.

There’s also a gym and an office/library, which is where I meet him.

He’s seated behind the big desk. Wearing his slacks and button-down, his stance is all business.

I notice the bookshelf lining one wall and can’t resist walking over. My fingers trail across the spines of the books, until I spot a familiar title.

“No way.” I pull it free. “You read romance novels?”

I turn to him, stunned.

He seems uncomfortable, then adjusts his glasses. “I'm terrible at talking about my feelings. I figured I’d try learning from the experts. Hence—” he nods at the book in my hand.

I arch a brow. “And do you think it's helped?”

A faint crease forms between his brows before he smooths it away. “The jury’s still out.”

At least, he’s honest about his inability to speak about his feelings. That’s a start, right? I slip the book back onto the shelf, my heart tugging a little, then cross to his desk.

Once I take the seat opposite him, he nods to the device in front of me. "I emailed the CEO Delegation of Authority Document. It formalizes your powers, like spending limits, sign-off rights, hiring/firing, etc. You’ll also find the board communications & strategy briefs, annual and quarterly performance reports with the KPI dashboards, operational plans, legal and compliance overviews, and the org chart."

I’ve been privy to a lot of company information as his EA, but what he’s sent me is akin to handing the literal keys to his kingdom. He’s sent me everything I need to run the business.

"You sure you want me to take over as CEO?” I feel pulled to ask him again.

He places the tips of his fingers together. "As sure as I was that I wanted to marry you."

His reference to our wedding is like a fist to my solar plexus, and I'm not sure I keep the hurt off my face.

It was only yesterday that he tied me up and fucked me. But with the width of the desk between us, it feels in the past. When his eyes heat, and he sucks his lip inward, I know he’s recalling how he made me do his bidding. How I sucked him off. How he took me with such assurance. How he made me his.

Then he blinks, and the possessiveness is replaced by a clinical detachment.