Page 89 of Blind Prophet

“The president doesn’t have a boss.”

“The sitting president has a list of people he owes. Depending on what those people have on him, that can be worse than a boss.”

“You’ve thought a lot about this.”

“Not really. My priority has been Zenith. Until you showed up at my gate.”

He swirls the water, and silence descends. He absentmindedly cups my breast again and brushes his thumb back and forth across my nipple. My muscles relax, and I rest my head on his shoulder once more. His heart thuds against my back, the vibration muted but recognizable and soothing.

“Oxygen, huh?” It’s a matter-of-fact statement. “For years, I thought you left because I pushed for children.”

“I can see why you would assume that. It’s the only disagreement I stood firm on. Other than that one thing, I dressed as directed, filled my calendar as requested, and smiled at dinners and events.”

“I thought you liked the access to designers.”

“I did. At first. And I appreciated the gowns for events. But you were absent, and…I became this prop. A tool for a game I wasn’t privy to. And I failed at it. I never met your expectations.”

“That’s not true.”

“I definitely never met your father’s. He wanted you to divorce me.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I overheard you talking.”

“So you left. Rather than talk to me, you said you weren’t happy, and you left?”

The words strung together haul a load of anger, but his tone is more of a person who is slowly putting together all the pieces of a puzzle.

“For the record, I wanted children—one day. But we weren’t happy. Children aren’t the solution to an unhealthy marriage.”

“We didn’t have a bad marriage.”

At that, I sit up so I can give him my aghast expression. “Come on now.”

He’s arguing in that head of his. I can see it.

“My parents, your dad, they all agreed our marriage was a mistake. You were distant. If you spoke to me, it almost always led to a fight. Mostly, you’d just look at me, silent, with god knows what going on in that head of yours. And then we’d walk out into public view, and you’d smile and pull me close and morph into this happy-go-lucky guy, and it was maddening. If I went out alone and found myself chased by photographers…you minimized my fear. Told me I wasn’t handling it right. They wouldn’t hurt me if I just smiled. That I was being silly.”God, I hate that word. A man is never silly. Only a woman.

“Why didn’t you give me a choice?”

“Like what? Move to a small town out of the public eye?”

“If that’s what it took.” He says it like it’s so simple. Like any of that was on the table. “You didn’t give me a chance. You didn’t talk to me.”

He’s right, sort of. I did, but I didn’t.

“I lacked the confidence. I possessed enough self-awareness to recognize I wasn’t in a healthy place, but not enough to believe you would choose me, that you would even hear me. I didn’t believe it mattered to you.” And for that matter, I still don’t. He wouldn’t have walked away from his father, and it would have been selfish to ask him to.

“And when I didn’t chase after you, I confirmed your beliefs.”

It’s not an apology, but he sounds apologetic.

“It was for the best.” The automatic words flow unhindered.

He rests his chin against the side of my head. “You leaving was the worst thing to happen in my life.”

My mouth forms anO, but before a thought coalesces, he’s up, sending a tidal wave of water over the edge of the tub. He wraps a towel around his waist and then holds one for me.

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