Eight Years Of His Cold Betrayal

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led, tears streaming down my face, not from the pain of my injuries, but from the horrifying sight of him h

h that! Put it down! That's... that's my mother's. It's all I have left

fleeting moment, a flicker of something unreadable crossed his eyes – surprise, perhaps,

ly suppressed whatever nascent emotion had threatened to surface. The box still clutched in his hand, he nodde

d in a bathrobe, the cool night air biting at my skin, but the coldness in my heart was far more profound. He had touched me. Truly touch

stepped inside, I saw Aida, kneeling rigidly on the polished marble floor, her face streaked with tears, clutchi

s? How dare you poison Damian's mind against his own wife?" She raised her cane, bringing it down with a s

r face. "I didn't do anything! Jillian is just jealous! She

filled with a familiar mix of concern and pity. He t

ache. I had known this would happen

an Ramsey! Don't you dare defend her! Have you forgotten your wife? Have you forgotte

ectly still, his gaze still fixed o

between Hildegarde and Damian. "Hildegarde, please," I said,

ning in surprise. A flicker of something unread

llapsed, falling to the floor in a dramatic heap, her

ove! Are you alright?" He scooped her up, his face etched with frantic concern,

emer," she muttered, shaking her head. "She's always been good at this." She turned t

, indifferent emptiness. It didn't matter what they did anymore. All I wanted was my freedom, my

ep breath, the words catching in my throat. "Cristopher... my brother... he's gone." I omitted the grue

e, holding me tightly as I sobbed silently against her shoulder. "Oh, my poor child. My poor

Stay here, Jillian," she pleaded, her voice soft. "You do

degarde. I need to get back to

ttled over her face. I knew she would

eflection of my heart. I made my way to my room, pulling out Cristopher' s smal

ood there, his eyes wild, his hair disheveled. Before I could react, he l

me, in eight years of marriage. Not on our wedding night, not in any moment of shared joy or sorrow

my being recoiled. I wanted to escape, to pu

inally breaking free. I stumbled back, my eyes wide wit

glazed, a strange, frantic hunger in their

red, desperate. He lunged again, grabb

he first time, I felt no revulsion from him. No coldness. Only a strange, unsettling heat. A desperate hung

he heavy ceramic vase on my bedside table. With a surge of adr

ed sound, and stumbled back, his hands flying to his head. Blood immedia

devoid of any sympathy. "Aida. She clearly wanted yo