Page 98 of Accidental Groom
He winces slightly, pushing his glasses up his nose. “I hadn’t gotten to that part yet.”
I slam the screen down, shutting my laptop with far too much force. My heart feels like it’s about to beat out of my goddamn chest, and I stare at my hands on the desk, my veins protruding and my nails digging into the wood.
I feel like I’m dying.
“Get out,” I murmur.
He leaves before I can get a full breath in.
She didn’t tell me. We’ve lived under the same roof for months. I shared the ugliest pieces of myself with her, and I told her about Geraldine. She knows what that cost me.
And she kept this buried.
And now she’s down there,with him.
Was it guilt? Shame? Was it easier to lie?
Did she divorce him well in advance because she knew she’d have to marry a Highcourt at some point and just kept the relationship going privately?
I pick up my phone with shaking fingers, staring at the text thread again. My thumb hovers, wanting to call her, wanting to scream, wanting to text her a million different things.
But I lock the screen.
I thought the worst was behind us — that the mess with George, the fallout from the wedding, the lingering shadow of Geraldine’s death had all been enough.
But apparently not.
Chapter 35
Elena
Ross’s apartment is nicer than I remembered. He’d moved in a year or so ago, just into one of those renovated brick-and-beam buildings that probably used to be a warehouse and now served as apartments. He’s kept the furniture minimal but nice — a charcoal gray couch, a battered leather armchair that actually looks fantastic, a dining table that looks like it belongs in a country house. It’s eclectic, but cool.
But I’ve barely left the guest room since I got here.
It’s quiet, tucked into the far end of the apartment, with blackout curtains and a reading nook built into the window that I’ve avoided because it’s too similar to the ones back at Highcourt Hall. The bed’s too soft, but I haven’t complained. I work in there, read in there, sleep in there. I let time pass like I’m not part of it, drifting from one task to the next, pretending I don’t feel my phone vibrating every few hours.
Last night, Ross came into my room with a bowl of dill-pickle-flavored chips and sat cross-legged on the bed beside me until I finally looked at him. He didn’t say anything. Just passed me the bowl and grabbed the remote, turned on Great British Bake Off, and waited.
When the show ended and I still hadn’t said a word, he’d said, “You can’t hide in here forever.”
I didn’t answer.
“Elena,” he’d pressed. “I know the last few months have been a lot. But you have to stop pretending that you don’t have decisions to make.”
“I’m not pretending,” I’d muttered. “I’m avoiding.”
“Well, it’s not working. You’re still miserable and you’re only getting more pregnant.”
“It’s been two days.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He’d nudged my foot with his own. “He loves you. You know that. You’ve got to figure it out. You’re allowed to be scared, but you’re not allowed to disappear on him completely.”
He’d been right.
So this morning, I finally pick up my phone.
Harry hasn’t called since yesterday afternoon. That’s what gets to me more than anything — not the texts, not the silence, but that the panic seems to have evaporated, and now I have no idea what’s waiting for me on the other end.
