Architect of My Ruin (A Winter Billionaire Romance)

Three Years Ago Something is wrong. I can’t tell you how I know that, but I can feel it. It’s in the way my stomach clenches when I check my phone for the 4th time in 1 minute. In the way the hairs on my arms rise and a prickling awareness crawls up my spine like invisible fingers. “Where are they?” I whisper to myself. I’m going to kill my husband. Not literally— though after seven years of marriage and 6 months of watching said marriage die, the thought has crossed my mind. I’m definitely going to be having a few words about bringing the kids back late. My pink boots scrape against cement as I pace outside our townhouse. I’m about dialing Marcus again when the text finally comes through: Marcus: The kids are on their way now. I might run a little late. Relief surges through me, the vise around my chest loosening. See, nothing to worry about. Take that, anxiety. I look up, and there’s a sedan rolling down the street, its silver paint gleaming. Marcus’s assistant, Fernand, sits behind the wheel looking bored. And in the back seat— my girls. Raina’s face is smashed against the window, her hand slapping the glass. She’s pushing Regan out of the way, and I can hear her voice from here. “Ganny, there’s Mom!” The smile that takes over my face is involuntary. I wave at them, delighting in the way Raina throws her head back and laughs in excitement. Raina and Regan, my five year olds, my entire world. The best thing I’ve ever done. Nothing will ever change that. I believe this completely. I’m wrong. The sedan is halfway down the block when I see the other car. Black SUV with tinted windows. Going way too fast for a residential street. And it's not slowing down for the stop sign. Fernand swerves, trying to move out of the way. He isn’t quick enough. I hear it happen before I can fully understand what I'm seeing. The ear-splitting screech of brakes permeates the air, followed by a very loud crash. I hear the sound of metal crumpling, twisting like melted plastic. I hear the sound of glass shattering, exploding everywhere like soda fizz. It's quiet for a few seconds then the SUV pulls away from Fernand’s car with effort. And then, they drive off but not before I catch a glimpse of the car’s plate number. I’m still standing by that side-walk, my smile still stupidly plastered on my face. My brain hasn’t caught up to what my eyes just witnessed. But when it finally does, the sound that rips out of me is guttural at best, monstrous at worst. It isn’t human, it’s this raw howl that tears from somewhere in my own chest. It pierces my own ear but I can’t seem to stop. My feet start moving before I can register what is happening, running towards the disfigured car. I fall to my knees crawling towards my beautiful girls, sobs falling out of my lips. “No… No… No,” I cry. The car is bent completely out of shape, but I catch a glimpse of Raina and Regan. Something’s wrong. In the midst of the accident, they had found each other’s hands. The sight makes the tears come harder. My body shakes. I don’t even try to stop it. People stand across the street. Some of them come closer to where I sit in the midst of shattered glass and crumpled metal. I can’t help but note that none of them are my husband. My hands won’t stop shaking. I’ve been shaking for hours now, ever since the police came to the scene, pulled my daughters and a very wounded Fernand out of the car. I call Marcus. Voicemail. Again. Where the f**k is he? Our daughters are dead and my husband won’t answer his damn phone. In that exact moment, two male nurses wheel stretchers past me. Two small bodies covered in white sheets. One of the patient’s dainty hands falls, a little scorpion bracelet peaking out. A scorpion bracelet I’d recognize anywhere. Regan got that from her father for Christmas last year. Horror fills me. I lunge forward with a sob but a nurse catches my arm. “Mrs. Neal. You can’t—” “Those are my daughters. I need to see them. I have to—” My voice feels scratchy, hoarse. Like I’d been screaming for hours. “Raina, Regan. I… I…” A sudden bout of sorrow fills my chest and my shoulders sag. I fall to the ground. “The doctor will be with you shortly to discuss next steps.” The nurse’s words pulled my attention back to her. Next steps. Like there are steps after your children die. Like there’s a manual for this, a handbook titled _What To Do When Your Five Year Olds Get Hit by a Drunk Driver On Their Way Home From School_ The nurse guides me back to the plastic chair in the hallway. Looking around the hallway, I catch a glimpse of a huge man in a black hoodie standing near the exit. I can’t see his face, but I can tell he’s looking this way. Watching. Then he’s gone. My hands are wrapped in bandages from where I crawled through broken pieces of that car trying to reach my children. I’m staring hard at them when Marcus finally appears at the end of the hallway. He’s walking too slowly. Like he’s coming to a business meeting he’s not actually prepared for. His tie is loose, his shirt wrinkled, and his phone is glowing in his hand. There’s a mark on the side of his jaw. Blood? I stand up so fast my head spins. “Marcus.” I’m moving toward him, needing him, needing someone to hold me together because I’m falling apart into a billion pieces, “They’re gone. Our babies. T–They’re gone. The doctor told me to—” He steps back, steps away from me when I reach for him. "Marcus, what—" The phone lights up again, and this time I see the screen very clearly. Amber: When are you telling her, babe? I don’t want to hide anymore. Time does this strange thing where it stretches and compresses simultaneously. I'm reading those words—when are you telling her—while my daughters' bodies are somewhere in this hospital, and my brain can't process both realities at once. "Who is Amber?" Marcus closes his eyes, turning his head like his conversation pains him. That’s when I see that mark on his jaw again. It isn’t blood. It’s lipstick. When he opens his eyes, he still won't look at me. "Denaya, we need to talk." "Talk?" My hysterical, broken laughter makes the nurse glance over nervously. "Our daughters just died and you want to talk?" "I didn't want it to happen like this." He's looking at me now. "But I can't do this anymore. I want a divorce." The words don't land at first. They just sort of hover in the air between us, impossible and absurd. "What?" "Amber's pregnant." He says it quickly, like ripping off a bandage. "I've been trying to tell you for months, but there was never a good time, and now—" "Our children are dead." I hear myself repeating it, like if I say it enough times, he'll understand. He'll snap out of whatever insanity has possessed him. "Marcus. Raina and Regan are dead." "I know that." Finally, he looks at me. And his eyes are empty. Flat. Like he checked out of this marriage, this family, this life, long before tonight. "But that doesn't change the fact that we weren't working. We haven't been happy for years." "I was happy." My voice cracks. "I had our daughters and I was happy." "Well, I wasn't." He straightens his shoulders, and I watch him transform into someone I don't recognize. Someone who can stand in a hospital corridor with his dead children down the hall and talk about his girlfriend. "Amber and I—we're having a boy. I'm going to be a father again, and I need to focus on that. On my future." "Your future." I taste blood. I've bitten my tongue without realizing it. "What about their future? Hmm? What about—" "My lawyer will be in touch about the arrangements. For the girls. The funeral. Everything." He's backing away now. Actually backing down the hallway like I'm something dangerous. "I'm sorry, Denaya. I really am." And then Marcus Neal—my husband of seven years, father of my children, the man I loved more than anything except our daughters—turns around and walks away. Just leaves me standing there in a hospital corridor, alone, with a pain in my chest and a ringing in my ears that won’t stop. I sink back into the chair, numb. The nurse begins saying something but I can’t hear her over the sound of my life ending. They say the worst day of your life changes you. They’re right.