Page 60 of The Thinnest Air

“You better have a damn good explanation for this.” I see red. Nothing but red. I’ve never felt so betrayed by him. What else has he done that I don’t know about?

This envelope contained a letter from my biological father’s attorney regarding the trust I was to access on my twenty-sixth birthday.

I’d never told Andrew about the trust.

I’d never told anyone about it.

Greer and my mother were the only two who ever knew, and that’s how I intended to keep it.

A woman worth five million could be a dangerous commodity in the wrong hands. I may be young, but I’m not naive.

“I thought it was from a divorce attorney,” he said. “I didn’t want to be blindsided.”

Rolling my eyes, I offer an incredulous laugh. “Seriously, Andrew? That’s your excuse?”

“Yes.” He looks earnest. And he sounds earnest. But I’m not buying it.

“This is a huge invasion of privacy,” I say.

“I’m sorry, Meredith. I am.”

He could easily bring up the trust fund, blowing up at me for keeping that from him, but he doesn’t, and I’m not sure why. Perhaps five million is a drop in the bucket for him, not worth getting bent out of shape over?

I rise from the table, not in the mood to be within such close proximity to him anymore. But he follows, reaching for my arm. I jerk it away, heading toward the stairs.

“Where are you going?”

“I need to think.” I realize the hypocritical nature of my frustration. I’m angry at him for hiding something from me when that’s all I’ve been doing to him this entire time. Still, I feel betrayed. I need to be alone with my thoughts. I need to process this and what it means for the future of our marriage.

Maybe everyone was right. Maybe we have no business being together. A marriage built on a foundation of secrets can’t possibly survive.

“I’m sorry.” He apologizes again, which is a big deal because Andrew Price rarely mutters apologies. He’s following me so closely I feel the warmth of his body, the intensity of his energy along my backside.

Stopping halfway up the stairs, I turn to face him. “Please. I need to be alone.”

“No, we’re going to talk this out.” He reaches for my arm again, his hand gripping my wrist and pulling so tight it almost brings me to my knees.

Jerking my hand back, I rub the throbbing, red skin and hold it close to my chest. “Don’t ever touch me like that again.”

For the first time, I sense vulnerability in his gaze, and I wonder if he truly is afraid to lose me. He may be richer than sin, but knowing I’m coming into some money of my own means he can’t keep me on his leash forever, and that uncertainty rattles him.

Andrew likes taking care of me. He likes that I need him.

And now that he knows I won’t, he’s losing the upper hand, and that terrifies him.

A year and a half of marriage, and I’m just now beginning to see the extent of this successful, charming, powerful man’s insecurities. They run deeper than I ever imagined.

“You should sleep in the guesthouse tonight,” I tell him before turning my back. I climb the stairs, head to our suite, and lock the door behind me.

Holding my breath, I press my ear to the door, listening for footsteps, inhalations, anything that tells me he’s testing his limits with me.

But the other side is silent.

Peeling off my clothes, I draw the hottest bath I can stand, and when I emerge, I peer out the window facing the back of the house. The guesthouse is lit, his shadow moving behind curtains.

It feels weird to have the upper hand. The control.

Climbing into bed, I hold my phone against my chest, my body sinking into the mattress with the weight of the world.