Chapter 58
Now, an hour later, he sat by the riverbank with a cigarette dangling from his fingers, watching the water drift lazily past. The tension in his chest hadn’t eased. His mind kept circling back to her pale face, her frightened eyes, the way she curled into herself every night as though she needed protection—from him.
The longer he thought about it, the angrier he became.
She’s punishing me.
Punishing him for what? For touching his own wife? For doing what every man does on his wedding night? How the hell was he supposed to have known it would go so badly? He’d been tender with her. Careful, even. And yet, here he was, being treated like a monster.
The phone in his pocket buzzed. He yanked it out and dialed the only person who might be stupid enough to pick up: Daniel.
His best friend answered on the third ring.
"What's up, man?" Daniel's voice crackled through the line. "You sound like hell."
"I feel like hell." Graham exhaled, flicking ash into the grass. "Isla and I… it's a mess."
A pause. "How bad?"
"She won’t look at me. Won’t talk to me. Won’t let me touch her. Every time I try, she flinches." His jaw clenched. "Like I’m a goddamn predator."
There was silence on the other end. Graham waited, chewing the inside of his cheek, already regretting the call.
Finally, Daniel said, "Hey…you remember my aunt Pamela?"
"What?"
"My aunt Pamela. The one with the stupid little dog? Pomeranian named Princess?"
"No," Graham bit out.
"Come on, man. Short, round woman. Always wore that hideous green shawl to every event? Brought that damn dog everywhere—even weddings."
Graham pinched the bridge of his nose. "What the hell does this have to do with anything?"
"Well, Princess got knocked up by some street mutt. Had a litter of six ugly little furballs. Aunt Pamela's been hounding me to take them off her hands." Daniel chuckled. "Maybe you want one? Or all of them? You could use the distraction."
Graham stared at the phone.
"Did you even hear what I just told you?" he hissed.
Daniel snorted. "Yeah, yeah. So you're not getting laid. Big deal. Marriage, man—it’s a long game. She’ll come around."
The call ended mid-laugh as Graham stabbed his thumb against the red button so hard the phone nearly slipped from his grip.
He closed his eyes and let his head fall back, inhaling the crisp afternoon air. The rage that had simmered all morning surged hotter. His hands itched to break something—anything. Preferably Daniel’s nose.
The sun had dipped low in the sky by the time he pushed himself to his feet. He stuffed the phone into his coat pocket and started walking back toward the manor, the crunch of gravel beneath his shoes the only sound.
His mind churned as he walked. He needed to fix this. To fix her.
But how could he do that when every attempt only seemed to push her further away?
By the time he reached the wrought-iron gates of Thornfield, the evening air had turned cold. The manor loomed ahead, its windows glowing faintly. Isla was in there. Hiding from him. Shaking at the thought of him lying beside her.
He exhaled slowly.
This time, he vowed, he wouldn't let her make him feel like a monster.
He was done being punished for something neither of them could change.
The unfamiliar car parked in front of the house barely registered in Graham’s mind as he trudged up the steps. His thoughts were elsewhere—circling the endless tension between him and Isla like vultures over a carcass. Maybe a trip would help. Somewhere far from the suffocating walls of Thornfield Manor. Paris? The Amalfi Coast? Or maybe a quiet cabin in the Alps where they could strip away the layers of misunderstanding and start fresh.
The idea lit a faint spark of hope in his chest. He could already imagine it: Isla’s guarded eyes softening, the tension in her shoulders easing as she finally let him in. For weeks now, she'd treated him like a stranger—or worse, a threat. But maybe...just maybe, this trip would help her see him as the man she'd married.
He stepped through the door, shrugging off his coat—and froze.
Laughter. Soft, genuine laughter.
Isla’s laughter.
The sound hit him like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t heard her laugh in weeks. And now she was doing it here, in their home, with… someone else.
His eyes zeroed in on the source.
A man stood beside her near the grand staircase, leaning in far too close. His hand rested lightly on Isla's arm, his mouth tilted in a familiar smirk Graham hadn’t seen in years. Isla's cheeks flushed as she smiled up at him, oblivious to the storm brewing across the room.
The man turned, meeting Graham's stare with a lazy grin. Recognition crashed over him like ice water.
Marco.
His cousin. The one person Graham despised more than anyone else in the world. Marco, who'd always been quick with a lie and quicker with a woman. The same Marco whose fingers Graham had broken one summer after catching him sneaking around with his childhood sweetheart.
And now, here he was. In Graham's home. Touching his wife.
Graham's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. His vision tunneled. He didn't hear the words Marco said as he swaggered forward, hand outstretched like they were old friends. He didn’t feel the cup of cocoa still clutched in his hand crack and spill over his wrist. All he saw was Isla.
Her eyes met his, and her smile faltered. The warmth vanished from her face, replaced by guilt and something else—fear.
The floor beneath Graham seemed to shift.
She was afraid of him. After everything…after him giving her space, after him walking on eggshells every damned day…she still looked at him like he was the villain. Yet here she was, flushed and laughing for Marco.
His throat burned. His chest tightened with the weight of something raw and ugly.
"Marco," Graham said, voice like cracked ice.
His cousin stopped mid-sentence, hand still on Isla’s arm. He chuckled. "Ah, there he is. I was just catching up with Isla. She's been delightful company." His gaze flicked to Isla with an insolent smirk.
But Graham wasn’t looking at him, he was looking at only and only at his wife. He had been waiting….waiting like a fool. When what he should have actually done was to take control of the situation! Take control of her!
How foolish! But now he knew what he needed to do! Knew exactly how this situation was going to get better…..If she wanted to act like a child, maybe she should be treated like one. Today, he would teach her a lesson she wouldn’t forget. Her bottom would be reddened and sore, her pride stripped bare as she lay draped over his knees, powerless beneath his touch. He would remind her, with every deliberate stroke, exactly who she belonged to—that her sweetest smiles and most carefree laughter were his to claim. Only his. And by the time he was done, she would know it, feel it in every aching breath and every lingering tremble.