My Ex and My Next Mistake

ChapterFOUR

Emily

The next 24 hours blurred into a fairytale. The wedding was breathtaking in its simplicity. The media feasted on our story. The billionaire and the rising political strategist—an unstoppable duo. It was all so unreal.

My fresh start. My perfect life.

Or so I thought.

Tudor stood behind the glass wall of our newly acquired mansion. I still remember the day he surprised me with it.

He had told me he had a small surprise for me, and boom—it turned out to be a mansion with glass walls. This was what he considered small? I often wonder how a billionaire’s mind works. The memory made my lips curl into a sweet smile. He had gifted me an entire mansion and a BMW as a wedding present. Gosh, that guy! I squealed internally. He’s such a romantic.

The night we got married was also the night we moved in. Although we only shared that night together, Tudor had some important business in the big city and left the very next day, spending about two weeks away. Now, tonight marks the second night we’re spending here, and I couldn’t be happier.

I took a moment to admire him—his magnificence, his gorgeousness. Sometimes, I can’t believe I’m married to someone this perfect. Some would argue it’s too good to be true. Sometimes, I feel that way too. Drop-dead handsome, ridiculously rich, kind, respectful, and caring. He’s the goal, the dream, the prize. He is perfect. And I think he knows it.

Tudor has never given me a reason to doubt him, never made me question his love. What more could a woman ask for?

He held a glass of scotch in his right hand, his left hand resting lightly against the glass wall. His arm flexed just enough to make his muscles pop. God, he’s a gym rat, and his body is tea. Just the way I like it. He wore a tight shirt that revealed just a hint of his perfectly shaped calves, while his black fitted top hugged every inch of his muscles. I imagined him lifting me effortlessly, just like he used to. My head tilted slightly as I shut my eyes and bit my lip, thinking of all the wicked things I wanted him to do to me tonight.

His curly dark hair framed his sharp jawline, silhouetted against the dim light. My fingers twitched at the thought of running through those curls, massaging his scalp—seductively, of course.

I stepped closer, careful not to let him notice me just yet. My skimpy red lingerie clung to my curves, accentuating my hourglass figure and exposing just enough of my breasts—exactly the way he liked it. My robe slid down my arms, barely hanging on. Tonight is going to be epic, I thought.

Since our wedding night, we hadn’t had s*x. It had been over two weeks—two agonizing weeks. Tudor had left for an impromptu business trip right after we got married. But now, he was back, and I finally had him to myself.

Closing the distance, I slid my hands around his waist from behind.

But the moment I touched him, I was met with a reaction so jarring it knocked the breath out of me.

Tudor jerked away violently.

“What the f**k do you think you’re doing?”

My heart stopped.

Tudor had never spoken to me like that before.

My lips parted in shock. My eyes darted left, right—searching his face, searching for an explanation, for something familiar. My hands hovered mid-air, frozen.

I swallowed hard. “What do you—”

“What is wrong with you, Anne?” he snapped before I could finish.

I stared at him, stunned. My mind scrambled to make sense of what was happening.

“I—” I took a deep breath. “Baby, we haven’t had s*x since you left for your work trip. It’s been two weeks, and I’m your wife! I need this. We need this.”

I reached for his chest, desperate for some kind of connection, but he pulled away again—sharply.

“You’re my wife,” he said, his voice tight, “which is exactly why you should understand how difficult things are for me right now. My company is going through hell.”

He downed the rest of his scotch in one swift motion, then set the glass on the table. Without another word, he walked past me.

“I’m tired,” he muttered, his tone lower this time, almost resigned. “I need rest. Okay?”

I stood there, speechless.

Something twisted inside me. This isn’t happening.

He didn’t look back. Didn’t care that I was still standing there, humiliated, confused. He simply peeled off his shirt, his body bare, then collapsed onto the bed.

I swallowed hard.

Reaching for the glass of scotch he left behind, I downed it in one gulp, the burn searing down my throat—anything to distract me from the ache in my chest.

Maybe he really is tired. Maybe his company is under a lot of pressure. Maybe his family is giving him hell.

I forced myself to understand.

Shaking off my disappointment, I let my robe slip to the floor and moved toward the bed.

But before I could slide in beside him, his voice—cold, sharp—cut through the silence.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I blinked. What?

I hesitated. “Getting into bed.”

He turned his head, and for the first time, really looked at me.

“I don’t share my bed.”

I let out a hollow laugh, sure I must have misheard. “But I’m your wife, Tudor. What’s gotten into you?”

His expression didn’t change.

And then, with a voice that sent ice through my veins, he said,

“Even if you were the last woman on Earth, I wouldn’t share a bed with you. Now get your s**t and leave my room.”