Chapter 88 Something Is Wrong
Two Weeks Later
Iva’s P.O.V.
Something is wrong.
I don’t know exactly when it started. Maybe a week ago. Maybe longer. But now it’s impossible to ignore.
Will comes home late.
Not just late.
Too late.
And he leaves before I even wake up.
One day, Will was the protective husband who stayed home to rub my back, and the next, he started drifting away like a ship lost in a fog
At first, I thought it was just the club expansion. The new wing needed attention. Paperwork, renovations, events. I told myself I was overthinking.
But Will has handled chaos before.
And he never handled it without me.
Now, when I ask, he won't look me in the eye.
“I’m busy, Iva.”
That’s it.
Busy.
The word feels like a wall being built between us, and I don’t know how to break it down.
Three nights ago, I planned a surprise.
I wore the dress he once said made me look dangerously irresistible. I lit candles in the bedroom. I even cooked his favourite dinner myself instead of asking the house staff.
I waited.
Nine o’clock.
Ten.
Eleven.
Midnight.
I must have fallen asleep sitting up against the headboard because when I opened my eyes, the candles had burned out and the sky outside the window was turning pale.
He never showed up.
He didn't even call.
I just received a text in the morning.
He: I crashed at the club.
He’s never done this. Never.
I know something is wrong. I know him. He’s hiding something, burying it under the excuse of work, but every time I push, he pulls further away.
Now it’s another night. He finally came home around 2 o’clock. I pretended to be asleep.
I felt the mattress dip as he lay down beside me. Even in the dark, even in silence, I could feel the distance. It’s unbearable.
Before, whenever he used to come home late at night, he would always kiss me and fall asleep hugging me. Even if I was asleep, I would know he was there.
I turn toward him slowly. His eyes are closed. He’s asleep.
Or maybe pretending to be.
I can’t take this anymore. I have to do something. He has to tell me why he’s doing this to me, to us, and to himself. Why is he creating distance between us and pushing me away? What is the real problem? Tonight, I’ll make him talk.
As I crawl over him and straddle his waist, he jolts awake instantly. I pin his arms down, forcing him to face me.
His eyes widen in shock. “What the— Iva?” He grips my waist in reflex, but not the way they used to. Not possessive. Just startled.
It hurts me. What happened to us? To our love? To the man he used to be?
"You have to talk to me, Will,” as I demand, my voice trembles with anger and desperation. "Tell me what happened. Tell me why you’re treating me like a stranger in my own home."
His jaw tightens and he snaps, “I said I'm just busy, Iva. Can't you just get it?”
“I don’t get it.” My eyes become moist. “Because you’ve been busy before. And you’ve never shut me out like this.”
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “You’re overthinking. I have a business to run. It keeps me busy.”
God! I’m just fed up with this word.
I lose my temper and yell at him, “Business doesn't keep you from coming home for three days. Business doesn't make you stop looking at your wife!"
He stays silent, his eyes unreadable. I’m damn sure, he’s hiding something.
I soften my voice, brushing my fingers on his face gently. “I’m your wife. If something’s wrong, I deserve to know.”
“Iva, not tonight.” He removes my hand from his face and looks away.
“Talk to me.” As I reach for him again, he pushes me away.
It isn’t a gentle nudge. It’s a forceful shove to get me off him. I sprawl back onto the mattress and my elbow hits the nightstand with a dull thud, making me hiss in pain.
It hurts me like hell.
The physical pain is nothing. It’s the way he did it. The way he looked irritated. Like I’m a problem.
He has never laid a hand on me in anger. Never.
Something inside me cracks.
“Fine.” I swallow the lump in my throat, scrambling off the bed. “If you don't want to talk, if you hate being near me that much, I'm going to the guest room.”
I wait for a second. I wait for him to realise what he’s done. I wait for him to grab my wrist and pull me back, to apologise, to tell me he is just stressed.
But he doesn’t move. He doesn’t even call my name. I wait for it. Just one word. “Iva.”
Nothing.
He just rolls back over and pulls the duvet up.
I walk out, tears rolling down my cheeks. My heart is breaking.
The man who once couldn’t sleep without wrapping himself around me now turns his back like I’m nothing more than an inconvenience.
The man who used to read my silences now refuses to hear my words.
I reach the guest room and lock the door
I feel so empty. Like I don’t belong anywhere in this house anymore.
I slide down against the door and press my hand to my mouth to muffle the sob that escapes.
What changed?
When did I become someone he could push away?
I replay the moment again and again, the shove, the irritation in his eyes, the indifference when I said I’d leave. That’s what hurts the most.
Not the push.
Not the argument.
The indifference.
I crawl into the bed and curl into myself, staring at the space beside me.
What did I do wrong? Is it because of the baby? The thought hits me like ice. Two weeks ago, when my period came, I cried in the shower so he wouldn’t see. He held me that night and told me it would happen when it’s meant to.
But what if he’s tired of waiting? What if he doesn’t want this as badly as I do? What if… he changed his mind? The questions won’t stop.
I keep looking at the door, waiting for it to open. Waiting for his footsteps. Waiting for him to come and pull me into his arms like he always does after a fight.
He always comes. Because he always chooses me.
He’ll realise he hurt me. He’ll knock softly. He’ll pull me back into his arms and tell me I’m being dramatic.
I wait.
One hour.
Two.
Nothing.
My tears dry on my cheeks. Maybe he’s stressed. Maybe something really is wrong. Maybe he thinks he’s protecting me from something.
Or maybe…
Maybe I’m losing him.
The thought suffocates me.
Eventually, because of exhaustion, I fall asleep, but it’s restless. Even in my dreams, I’m searching for him, reaching for him, and waking up with empty hands.
When I finally wake up, the other side of the bed is still empty.
He didn’t come.
And for the first time since we got married, I feel alone.