Page 101 of It Must Be Fate

I’m used to sharing my husband. He’s the biggest star in England, the most iconic footballer and cultural icon since David Beckham. He has millions of adoring fans of both sexes throwing themselves at his feet wherever he goes. I’m used to only getting pieces and watching others claim parts of him for themselves.

But notthis.

Never this.

The front door opens. It’s immediately followed by indecipherable muttering as Rhys greets our butler, James, and then he’s in the dining room with me.

“Honey, I’m home!” he exclaims, putting on a jovial American accent.

Hisbusiness tripmust have gone very well.

Acid swells once more in my stomach, causing painful cramps.

My back is to the doorway so I don’t get a look at him before he wraps me in a hug from behind and buries his face in my neck.

“I’m so happy to be home, love.” He inhales deeply then grumbles appreciatively. “One hit of your scent and I’m drunk. Love drunk.” I can hear the grin in his voice without turning around.

“How was New York?”

“It was great, minus the fact that I thought about you the entire time.”

If he notices how stiff I am in his arms, he doesn’t comment on it. He sounds like himself. Happy, carefree, easygoing.

My husband, exactly as I know him.

Not a liar.

“It smells amazing. Did Trudy cook?”

“No, I sent her home.” There’s no hiding the hollow note in my voice now. “I cooked tonight. Chickpea curry.”

Rhys stiffens and releases me slowly. I hear him unfold himself to his full height behind me, his hands leaving my body. Then he’s rounding the table to where his plate waits for him, getting his first look at my face when he comes to stand opposite me.

Our gazes connect and his eyes narrow slightly. He rubs his hand across his jaw thoughtfully as he takes in my tight expression and the harsh line of my lips.

“My favorite,” he comments. There’s a reason I chose to make that specific dish tonight; to remind him of what an amazing wife he has at home, even as he betrays me. “What a great welcome home.” His tone is cautious, the lightness from moments earlier now gone. “Where are the kids?”

“They’re sleeping over at Nera’s.” I take a sip from my wine glass, taking a moment to equally savor the dry red and measure my words. “I didn’t want them here for this.”

Rhys swallows thickly. His eyes narrow further, then scrape down the length of me like he’s going to find the answer to an unsolvable riddle in my body language.

“Didn’t want them here for what?” he finally asks. “What’s wrong?”

There’s genuine worry on his face, a promise that he’ll fight whatever battle I need him to etched on his features.

Thisis my husband.

This man right here.

The same man who rescued me not one month ago when I got stuck in an elevator for the second time in my life.

He and I were meeting our friends at Sinclair Royal to discuss the status of our portfolio, then heading out to lunch. Iarrived minutes before him and rode up the elevator alone to the twentieth floor.

Somewhere between the seventeenth and the eighteenth, there was a loud, screeching noise and then the cage came to an abrupt, jolting stop.

The force of the elevator coming to a sudden halt sent me sprawling to my hands and knees.

It took the length of time of pushing my hair out of my face to realize that I was stuck.

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