Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72284 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 361(@200wpm)___ 289(@250wpm)___ 241(@300wpm)
How many times had I faked it just to make him feel better?
Sometimes, it would have been nice to make it about me. There were times I just wanted him to clear the table with one swipe of his arm and take me right there on the surface.
I tried to take control once, but he just took it right back to missionary. I also tried to spice it up and bring more things to the bed to slow down the pace and make our sex more intimate, but he found my attempts frustrating and time-wasting.
“Massage is for sports injuries, Brooke, not fucking, and who the hell would want to bring another dick into the equation, even if it’s plastic?”
Signs. All of it. The distance. The lack of sex. That feeling gnawing away in my gut in the lead-up to today.
What other signs had I missed?
I remove the diamond clip holding my veil in place and shake out my hair so it falls in loose waves down my back. I slip out of my dress and change into a pair of yoga pants and a tank top.
I hang my dress up and stare at myself in the mirror. The reflection I see isn’t a broken-hearted woman. Oh, she’s hurting, and she needs answers, but she isn’t crushed.
Suddenly remembering the money I was saving up to start my own marketing consultancy business, I quickly check the safe we keep hidden in the closet, and it’s empty. Six hundred dollars. Gone.
Asshole.
I check to see if he’s left anything behind in his haste to pack everything up while I was staying in a hotel across town, thinking I was going to get married the next day, but I find nothing.
That is until I find a scrunched-up piece of paper under the bed. Unfolding it, I see a phone number and a name written in red ink. Laura.
Sitting on the bed, I call the number.
A female picks it up on the third ring. “Yeah?”
“Hi, who am I speaking to, please?”
“Honey, you called me. I should be the one asking.”
“My name is Brooke Masters.”
There’s a pause. “Ah, you’re the fiancée.”
Alarm spirals through me, and a strange tingling sensation takes up in the base of my spine.
“You know my fiancé, Wilson?”
She scoffs. “Yeah, I know him. Probably better than you’d like.”
Nausea rises in my gut, and I grip my phone tighter. “Is he with you?”
She scoffs again. “So he’s gone and done the vanishing act with you, too, huh?”
“What does that mean?”
“It means if he’s left you, honey, then he’s done you a fucking favor.”
She hangs up, and I sit there for a moment, wondering what the hell just happened.
I call the number again, and she answers almost immediately.
“What do you mean you know him better than I’d like? Were you having an affair with him?”
“Listen, I didn’t know about you until I went looking for him, okay? When I found out he was shacked up with someone, I backed off.”
“When was this?”
“A couple of months back. I met him at his club. We hooked up a few times. When he ghosted me, I went looking for him and found out he was already spoken for. I ain’t one to step on another woman’s toes, so I chalked it up to a bad experience and moved on.”
“How many times.”
Her tone softens. “Listen, I’m sorry—”
“How many times?” I snap.
“Four, maybe five times. He used to drop in after work.”
While I usually finished at the club around six at night, Wilson usually finished work at three or four in the morning. I would be asleep when he got home and wouldn’t know if he got in late.
“When was the last time you saw him?” I ask.
“Weeks ago.”
She could be lying. He might even be with her, and this is her way of giving me a bum steer.
“You’re lying,” I whisper. Because I can’t stomach the thought that he is on the other end of this call with her laughing at me.
“No, honey, I ain’t. And if he’s ghosted you, then I’m sorry, but you’ve dodged a bullet.”
It’s the second time I’ve heard that today, and honestly, they’re preaching to the choir. I know I’ve dodged a bullet, but I need answers.
“Do you know where he might have gone?” I ask.
“No, and my advice to you is to not go looking.” She pauses, then adds, “You’re better off without him, honey. He’s not a good guy.”
She hangs up again, and this time, I don’t bother calling back. I drop my phone on the bed and let the strange sensation wash over me. Oddly, what I just learned makes me feel stronger.
Cheating jerk.
Leaving the bedroom, I overhear Chloe and Samantha in the hallway.
“She’s calm, and it’s making me nervous,” Chloe says.
“I know what you mean, it’s like the calm before the storm,” Samantha replies. “I feel like she’s going to implode any minute, and this shitstorm is going to devastate her.”