Total pages in book: 37
Estimated words: 36268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 181(@200wpm)___ 145(@250wpm)___ 121(@300wpm)
“Sienah.” Her name comes out rough, desperate, torn from somewhere deep in my chest.
But my wife doesn’t even look at me this time.
“I’m s-sorry about the vase.” She’s addressing Shayla, and it’s the stutter that kills me. The way her voice sounds hollow, empty. Like I’ve finally broken something that can’t be fixed. “I’ll pay for it.”
She sounds numb. Finally, utterly numb.
Because I’ve hurt her beyond redemption.
The urge to tear Myca away from me, to cross the room and shake Sienah until she understands, until she believes me, is overwhelming. My muscles bunch with the need to move, to act, to do something other than stand here while she falls apart.
I take a step forward. “Sienah—”
She looks at me then.
No, fuck, no.
She’s looking at me like I no longer exist. Like the last ten years never happened and I’m just another man in a room full of people who don’t matter. The light that’s always been there when she looks at me...
That soft, warm glow of love I’ve taken for granted...
It’s gone.
Extinguished.
By me.
My heart hammers against my ribs so hard I’m surprised they don’t crack. This is wrong. This is all wrong. She’s looking at me like she’s already gone, like she’s already figured out how to stop loving me, and the possibility makes me want to—
To what? Beg? Plead? Fall to my knees and explain that Myca means nothing, that the limo was business, that I’ve been slowly losing my mind without her?
That I can’t breathe when she looks at me like that?
That I don’t know how to exist in a world where Sienah doesn’t love me?
Fear eats me alive as I imagine for the first time what it truly means to live without my wife.
And I realize it’s a life I’m incapable of surviving.
Eight Years Ago
ANOTHER CHAMPIONSHIP. Another trophy. Another blonde reporter with too much lipstick and not enough clothes.
“That was quite a finish, Aivan.” She leaned forward, making sure the camera caught her assets along with his face. “How does it feel to dominate the track so...thoroughly?”
He forced the smile he’d perfected for these moments. The one that made sponsors write checks and fans scream his name. Behind her, the paddock buzzed with celebration, champagne foam still sticky on his racing suit, the acrid smell of burnt rubber mixing with motor oil and victory. “It feels like victory should feel.”
“And will you be celebrating tonight?” Her hand brushed his arm, fingernails painted the same red as the Ferrari logo, leaving brief crescents in his firesuit. “Perhaps I could get an...exclusive?”
“My wife and I have plans.”
Where the hell was Sienah? She usually appeared right about now, some excuse on her lips to extract him from these situations. Two years married and she’d perfected the art of the rescue.
He scanned the paddock over the reporter’s shoulder. Mechanics wheeled tired cars back to the garage, journalists clustered like vultures around other drivers, but still no sign of her dark hair, her quiet presence that somehow made all this noise bearable.
“Your wife is a lucky woman.” The reporter’s smile turned seductive. “Though I wonder if she knows just how lucky. Maybe you need someone who understands what a champion really needs—”
“Interview’s over.”
He walked away without another word, pulling out his phone. The device was slick with champagne residue, making his fingers slip on the screen. Sienah wasn’t answering. Not like her. She always answered.
Eusebio materialized at his elbow, bringing the familiar scent of cigarettes and gunpowder he never quite washed off. “Problem, signore?”
“Find my wife.”
THE ROOM WOULDN’T STOP spinning.
This was bad. This was so, so bad. She’d had one drink. Just one, because the crew member had insisted—“It’s non-alcoholic champagne, Mrs. Cannizzaro! For the victory toast!”—and she hadn’t wanted to seem rude during Aivan’s moment of triumph.
But it wasn’t non-alcoholic. Or something else was in it. The chemical sweetness under the bubbles should have warned her, but by then it was too late.
The bar’s neon lights hurt her eyes, bleeding colors that shouldn’t exist. Bass from the music thrummed through the floor, vibrating up through her unstable heels and making her stomach lurch. Everything smelled like spilled beer and designer cologne and her own fear-sweat.
“You okay, beautiful?”
A man slid onto the barstool beside her. Dark hair slicked with too much product, suit that screamed new money, predator eyes that made her skin crawl even through the fog.
“I’m married.” She held up her ring, except her hand wouldn’t stay still. The diamond caught the bar lights, fracturing them into tiny rainbows that made her dizzy. “Super married. Tremendously married. To a champion.”
“Is that so?” His smile made her want to run, but her legs were made of water. “Where’s this champion husband of yours?”
“With some...some blonde person. Being interviewed.” The words came out slurred, her tongue too thick for her mouth. “She had very big interviews. Two of them. Right in his face.”