Chapter 4 Upset Stomach
Armando told Tom to take Elizabeth back to Emerald Park first.
Elizabeth slid into the back seat, her gaze drifting to the cafe's front window. Outside, Armando stood with Sherry in his arms, his head bent toward hers as if offering comfort.
Her lips curved faintly, a smile tinged with both bitterness and release.
The moment she'd asked Mindy to arrange a meeting with Sherry the night before, she had known Mindy would run straight to Armando with the news.
And she'd been right.
It was all part of the plan.
At a red light, Tom glanced sideways at her. "Ms. Penrose, you're smart enough to know better. Why provoke Mr. Johnson like that?"
They'd worked together for five years. Tom had seen how much effort she'd poured into caring for Armando—how she'd taken evening cooking classes just to learn dishes that suited his stomach, how she'd perfected recipes that could rival a Michelin chef's.
Elizabeth tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, resting her elbow on the window ledge, her eyes bright. She had never felt more clear-headed.
Armando didn't love her. Why keep chasing something that wasn't there?
She tilted her head and winked playfully. "I know what I'm doing."
Elizabeth's smile was soundless but certain. Her mood was strangely light.
They fell silent.
At Emerald Park, security guards stood posted outside. There was no escaping—not without Armando's orders. Tom dropped her off and left.
By midnight, the television still hummed in the background, filling the living room with pointless noise. Elizabeth had fallen asleep on the couch.
Armando stood over her, gaze sharp from above. Sleeping, she looked softer—none of the bright, cool defiance she carried by day.
He frowned and bent down.
Elizabeth woke to fingers gripping her chin, the pressure sharp enough to hurt. Her foggy mind snapped alert. She opened her eyes to find his face, cold and distant.
The faint scent of Sherry's perfume clung to him. Her stomach turned.
The room was dim, lit only by a small lamp and the flicker of the TV. Half his face was shadowed. His voice was low and icy. "Elizabeth, who gave you the nerve to run your mouth to Sherry?"
She lowered her gaze, silent. At a moment like this, anything she said would be wrong.
"Cat got your tongue? Speak."
His grip tightened, forcing her chin up, her neck arched in a vulnerable curve.
Her eyes met his without flinching. The pain in her jaw sent tears to the corners of her eyes, but her voice stayed calm. "I told her the truth. We are legally married. Was that a lie?"
His fingers dug in harder. "Elizabeth, it's just a piece of paper. Did you forget the marriage agreement? You signed it for money, nothing more."
Her lashes fluttered. So that was what he thought—cheap. Worthless.
She bit her lip and let out a short laugh. "Mutual benefit."
His expression twisted with disdain. "Ms. Penrose, you have quite the tongue. Taking my money to keep another man—only you could pull that off."
Her brows knit. "What other man?"
He laughed without humor, his hand sliding from her chin to the delicate line of her throat. She shivered.
"You've got a fine body," he murmured, voice dropping lower. "No wonder Michael tried to lure you away with a fat paycheck."
He tugged at her blouse.
Elizabeth's hands shot up, pressing against his. Her eyes burned red as she glared at him.
His own gaze was cool, detached. Her voice was sharp, mocking. "So that's the depth of your love for Sherry."
His mouth curved faintly, unreadable. He withdrew his hand. "Don't flatter yourself. I'm not interested in your body. If I hadn't been drunk and feverish that night, we wouldn't have touched."
Two months ago—their first time. He had no memory of it, no sense of wanting her. Maybe she'd taken advantage while he was out of his mind.
His tone made it sound like a mistake. An inconvenience.
Elizabeth drew a slow, tight breath. Then she rose, hooked an arm around his neck, and leaned in with a low chuckle. "Funny... you seemed very interested that night. Again and again."
Her free hand slid deliberately along his belt.
His eyes went dark, his expression hardening. He tore her hand away and stepped back. "Elizabeth, stop. If it weren't for my grandmother's fondness for you, I wouldn't hesitate to hand you over to Michael."
The words landed like a blow. He could say it so easily—prove that these years meant nothing to him.
"Tomorrow, you'll visit her at the hospital. And watch your mouth."
He straightened his clothes, eyes cold, and walked out with quick, clipped steps.
At the hospital, Bronte's face lit up when she saw them enter together. "Elizabeth, come sit with me."
She looked at Armando, her eyes warm. "Armando, I dreamed of a great-grandchild last night. Such a tiny thing... so precious."
Armando smiled faintly, even teasing. "We'll do our best, Grandma."
Bronte's cancer had spread. She had no more than a year or two left. Armando rarely denied her anything.
"You've been married two years now. Still no news?"
Elizabeth kept her head down, feigning shyness.
"Don't be nervous, dear. I'm just talking. The right time will come. You're both still young." Bronte's voice softened.
Elizabeth nodded. "I understand, Grandma."
Suddenly, her stomach lurched. Her face went pale as she rushed to the restroom.
Bronte's eyes widened at the sound of retching. She gripped Armando's hand. "She's not... pregnant, is she?"
His gaze darkened. A faint smile touched his lips. "No, Grandma. Just a stomach upset."