The moment I slipped into the back seat of the waiting car, my hands were trembling.
“Drive,” I ordered, barely above a whisper, but the driver hesitated.
“Mrs—”
“Now.”
Something in my tone must have convinced him, because he stepped on the gas, and the warehouse disappeared into the night behind us.
I exhaled shakily, trying to collect myself, but my mind was spinning.
James.
What had I just witnessed?
There lying in that dimly lit warehouse, the manner of which the man talked about me as fate, me as problem, no wife, no person but a thing to be solved.
I pressed my hands into my lap, calming the breath pace.
I had been living the ideal wife life, my smile and acceptance of the uncertainty masking each worry, the idea swirling in my mind that maybe—just maybe—James was still wh
