Chapter 96 #14: I'm Your Husband!
The silence after my mistake is not quiet. It is loud, ruthless and unforgiving, as what I just said hangs in the air between us.
Vincent pulls back slowly, his fingers slipping out of me with deliberate care, as if he needs the seconds to process what he just heard. His face is blank for a heartbeat, then something raw and furious moves across it.
“What,” he begins, his voice very low and very controlled, “did you just say?”
I sit up on the desk, yanking my skirt down, still panting from my orgasm. "Vincent–"
"Don't." He stands, wiping his hand on his thigh like he needs to erase the evidence of what we just did. "Don't even try to explain that away."
I slide off the desk, legs unsteady, reaching for him. "It was a mistake. I was lost in the moment–"
"A mistake?" He laughs bitterly, stepping out of my reach. "You moaned your ex husband’s name.... while I was trying to make love to you."
I swallow, heat rising in my cheeks, shame mixing with defensiveness. "I know how it sounds. But it doesn't mean what you think. I love you. I've built this life with you."
He rounds on me, eyes blazing. "Love? You love me so much you picture him when we're together? You think about him fucking you while I'm the one touching you? That's what you call love?"
I flinch slightly, but I don't back down. “Listen, it’s really not what you think. I've never touched him. I haven't seen him outside of business meetings. I haven't crossed that line."
"You crossed it in your head," he snaps. "That's bad enough. And don't fucking pretend this is the first time. I saw the way you looked at him at the gala. I saw how flushed you were when you came back from the terrace. Did you think I didn't notice?"
I cross my arms, trying to steady myself. "I came back flushed because it was hot in there, because the champagne went to my head. Not because I was out there screwing my ex-husband on the balcony."
"Don't play semantics with me, Nora." He paces to the window, then back, running a hand through his hair. "It’s obvious you still want him. You still crave all that Red Room shit you pretend you've moved past. And I'm what? The safe choice? The stable husband who doesn't make you beg?"
His words sting because they aren't entirely wrong. I hate that. "You knew who I was when you married me. You knew my history and you said it didn't matter."
"It matters when I'm the one getting compared to him every time we fuck!" He stops in front of me, voice dropping to something dangerously quiet. "From this moment on, you don't see him. You don't meet with him. You don't take his calls. If the deal requires contact, you route it through me or through legal. I won't have him in our lives anymore."
“You can’t be serious.”
His gaze holds mine. “Try me.”
I stare at him incredulously. "You don't get to ban me from seeing people, Vincent. I'm not your property."
"I'm your husband!” he yells.
I stare at him, too stunned to speak. In the five years we’ve been married, Vincent hasn’t raised his voice at me. Not once.
He takes a single step closer. "This isn't negotiable, Nora. No more private meetings. No more late-night calls. Nothing. If you can't agree to that, then maybe we need to rethink this entire arrangement."
The threat hangs there, heavy and ugly. I feel the walls closing in, the control I thought I'd claimed slipping through my fingers. Vincent's possessiveness used to feel like security, like someone who wanted me enough to fight for me. Now it feels like chains, different from David's dominance but just as binding. David never had to ban me from anything. He commanded, he claimed, but he trusted my submission. He never needed to lock doors to keep me.
Before I can respond, the door creaks open.
Lucy stands there in her pyjamas, rubbing one eye with her fist, hair mussed from sleep. "Mommy? Daddy? Why are you yelling?"
Vincent freezes. I move first, dropping to my knees in front of her, forcing my voice to sound steady. "Hey, baby. We're not yelling. We were just talking a little loud because we're both tired. Grown-up stuff. Nothing to worry about."
She frowns, looking between us. "You sounded mad."
I smooth her hair back, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Sometimes grown-ups get frustrated, but we always figure it out. I promise. Now go back to bed, okay? It's late."
Lucy hesitates, then nods slowly. "I don't feel so good."
I press a hand to her forehead immediately, and alarm bells go off in my head. "Vincent, she's burning up."
He crosses the room in two strides, hand joining mine on her skin. "Jesus..."
Lucy whimpers, leaning into me. "My head hurts, Mommy."
I scoop her up, her small body hot against my chest. "We're going to the hospital right now. Vincent, get the car keys and her blanket. Move."
We don't speak as we rush out. Vincent drives while I sit in the back with Lucy cradled against me, stroking her hair and whispering reassurances. She curls into my side, eyes glassy, and I feel a helpless ache in my chest.
The emergency room is quiet for once, but the night shift staff are efficient. They take her temperature – 103.8 – and draw blood, then run a few quick tests. The doctor, a kind-faced woman in her forties, examines her gently.
"It's likely viral," she says after checking Lucy's ears and throat. "Pretty common this time of year. We'll run a few more panels to rule out anything bacterial, but she's stable. You can take her home, keep her hydrated, give her acetaminophen for the fever. I'll call as soon as I have results."
Vincent nods, relief etched in every line of his face. "Thank you."
I carry Lucy out, her head on my shoulder, small arms around my neck. In the car, she falls asleep almost immediately, the fever making her limp and heavy. Vincent drives in silence, the earlier argument suspended by the shared worry. When we get home, we settle her in our bed between us, monitoring her temperature every hour. She sleeps fitfully, but eventually, the fever starts to come down with medicine and cool cloths.
By three in the morning, her breathing evens out, and Vincent finally exhales. "She's going to be okay."
I nod, too exhausted to speak, my hand resting on her back. Vincent reaches across her to touch my arm. "I'm sorry about earlier. I was angry and scared. I shouldn't have–"
"Later," I whisper. "Not now."
He nods, and we sit in the dim light, watching our daughter sleep.
Morning comes too soon. Lucy's fever has broken, leaving her pale but chatty, asking for cartoons and toast. I leave them in the living room with breakfast and head to my study to check emails, needing a moment to breathe.
My phone buzzes with a text.
From David.
《Meeting tomorrow, 10am sharp in my office. We need to discuss the Singapore closing terms before the final wire transfer. Bring the updated projections.》
I stare at the screen, my pulse kicking up again. The timing couldn't be worse. Vincent's ban still rings in my ears, but this isn't optional. This is the deal that could make or break Calder's next phase. And I won't let it slip us by.
I type back quickly.
《I'll be there.》
I hit send before I can second-guess it. Then I delete the thread, my heart pounding, but already bracing for the fallout when Vincent finds out.