Page 65 of The Wrong Husband

It’s my day off. I should’ve resisted. Instead, I spent an embarrassing amount of time figuring out what to wear, then settled on a dress. Not yoga pants. Not scrubs.An actual dress.

One I didn’t even know I wanted to wear until I put it on and saw the woman staring back at me in the mirror. My cheeks are flushed with excitement. I’m looking forward to going out with him. He knows how to get to me, that’s clear.

I may not have forgiven him for the surveillance stunt. But I’ll give him this—he’s using the intel well. He’s trying. Hard.

I’m not ready to reward him for it. But it’s clear, he’s succeeding in getting me to thaw toward him.

I walk into the kitchen later than usual, and freeze.

Drew is there.

Seated at the breakfast nook, hunched over a cup of coffee. His hair’s a mess, his T-shirt wrinkled, dark circles smudged under his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

“Rough night?” I ask, careful to keep my tone neutral.

He grunts. Sips the coffee. Grimaces.

“You really shouldn’t drink that before trying to sleep.”

No reply. Typical. Drew prefers his guilt trips to be passive-aggressive. Silent in person, pointed via his text messages.

Just when I think I’m beginning to heal, he finds a way to drag me back down.

I sigh and walk around him, setting up my French press while he continues his silent sulk. My coffee method versus his percolator—a small, petty act of separation.

“Have you found a new place yet?” I ask, voice low.

He frowns. Pretends not to hear me.

“You said you’d move out within a month, and that was a week ago,” I say, fingers knotting together. “You need to leave when the three weeks are up.”

His jaw tightens. “Are you doubting that I won’t? I don’t want to stay on a minute more than is necessary. Things have been crazy in the ER. I haven’t had the time to look for a new place.”

When he glances at me, he looks so knackered, my heart softens.

“I know it’s been crazy, more than usual, maybe. I’m sorry to push things?—”

“Then don’t,” he snaps.

My stomach lurches.No, no. I can’t allow him run roughshod over me.I gave him a month to find a place. That’s more than enough time. But apartments in London are never easy to come by. I feel myself beginning to vacillate and clamp down on the feeling.No. Stay firm. You have to. You need him gone so you can move on with your life. You can’t let him dictate how you live. Not anymore.

“We agreed.” I set my jaw. “You have three weeks to leave.”

His grip on the mug goes white-knuckled. He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t argue. Just drains the rest of his coffee and storms off without a word.

I sag against the counter. Only then, do I realize how tight my body is, braced for a fight that never came. My hands tremble as I reach for the kettle. I set it back down.

Forget the coffee. I’m done.

Purse in hand, I step outside, closing the door on that heaviness. On Drew.

And right on cue, the now-familiar Aston Martin eases to a stop by the curb.

My pulse spikes.

The moment I see Connor, everything inside me realigns. He’s leaned back in the driver’s seat, one hand on the wheel, sunglasses pushed up on his head. The slow, assessing sweep of his gaze over my body sends a thrill cascading through my bloodstream.

The look he gives me? Possessive. Proud. Like I belong to him, and the whole damn world should know it.