He Wanted Me To Hate Him

Someone took my coffee. I didn't have to look up to know who it was. Warm hands slid around my waist from behind, and the mug disappeared from my fingers before I could stop it. "Kian." I turned around. "That's mine." "It's ours." He took a slow sip, his eyes on me over the rim. "Everything in this house is ours. That's what the vows said." "The vows did not say that." "They implied it." He was barefoot, his hair still messy from sleep, wearing the gray T-shirt he'd pulled from the laundry basket. Even half awake, Kian Mercer looked like a man who owned the room he stood in. The funny part was that he never seemed to notice. I reached for the mug. He lifted it out of my reach. "Give it back," I said. "Make me." "I'm not tall enough, and you know it." "I know." He grinned. "It's my favorite thing about this arrangement." I laughed, and the sound filled the kitchen. Morning light spilled across the marble counter. The windows were open a little, and I could smell rain from last night, fresh and clean. Kian finally handed the mug back. Then he leaned down and kissed my forehead, slow and warm, the way he did when he wanted me to feel safe. It worked. It always worked. "Better?" he asked. "No. You drank half of it." "Then I'll make you another." "You don't know how I like it." "Two sugars, too much milk, and you pretend you don't take sugar." He tapped my nose. "I know everything about you, Zara." I smiled at him, but something small and quiet moved in my chest. I pushed it away. Because he was right. He did know everything about me. And lately, I'd started to wonder if I could say the same about him. I looked down, and that was when he noticed. "Wait." He tugged at the sleeve of my shirt. "That's mine." "No, it isn't." "It's my white one. The good one." "I found it in the closet." "In *my* side of the closet." "It looked lonely." He laughed, shaking his head. "You have a whole wardrobe of your own, and you keep going after my shirts." "Yours are softer." "They're the same fabric." "They *feel* softer." I pulled the cuffs over my hands. "They smell like you." His laughter faded. Just a little. His eyes dropped to my mouth, then came back to my face, and the air between us changed. "Careful," he said quietly. "Why?" "Because I'm trying to get to work on time." "That sounds like a you problem." "It's going to be a *you* problem if you keep looking at me like that." My face heated. He stepped closer, and my back touched the counter. His hand came up and brushed a strand of hair behind my ear, and for a moment neither of us spoke. We had come home from our trip only three days ago. Four days of sea air, late dinners, and nothing on our schedule but each other. He had held my hand through the whole flight home. I thought, *This is it. This is the good season. We made it.* Then his phone buzzed on the counter. Kian didn't move at first. The buzz came again. He glanced down, and I watched it happen. The warmth left his face. It didn't fade slowly. It simply vanished, like a door closing. "Who is it?" I asked. He picked up the phone and read the screen. His jaw tightened. "Kian?" "Work." "This early?" "It's nothing." He typed something quickly, then turned the screen face down on the counter. "Just a problem I need to deal with." "What kind of problem?" "The boring kind." He tried to smile. It almost worked. "Eat your breakfast." "I haven't made breakfast." "Then I'll make it." He moved to the fridge and pulled out eggs and fruit like nothing had happened. I watched his back for a moment. His shoulders were stiff. He cracked the first egg too hard, and a piece of shell fell into the bowl. "You're tense," I said. "I'm fine." "You've said that a lot this month." "Because it's true." He fished the shell out with his fingers. "The company is busy. My father's people want numbers by the end of the quarter. It's the same pressure as always." "You didn't used to take calls outside." He paused for half a second. "What?" "Last week. At the restaurant. You walked out onto the street to answer your phone." "It was loud inside." "It was a quiet restaurant." Kian turned and looked at me. Really looked. For a second I thought he might say something real. Then he crossed the kitchen and took my face in both hands. "Zara. Listen to me. Whatever is going on at work, I'm handling it. I don't want you carrying any of it. Okay?" "I'm your wife. I'm allowed to carry some of it." "I know." His thumb moved over my cheekbone. "But not this." *Not this.* I wanted to ask what *this* was. The question sat on my tongue. But he was looking at me so gently, and I was tired of fighting with shadows. I decided to believe him, the way I always did. "Fine," I said. "But you owe me a real breakfast." "Deal." "With the good toast." "I'll toast it myself." "And you're not allowed to steal my coffee again." He smiled against my forehead. "That one I can't promise." --- By evening, the rain had returned. I was curled up on the couch with a book I wasn't reading when Kian came down the stairs. He'd changed into a dark jacket. His hair was damp, and he was fixing his cuffs, which he only did when he was nervous. "You're going out," I said. "I have to." He picked up his keys from the table. "Something came up. A meeting." "At seven o'clock at night?" "The client's flying out in the morning. It's the only time he can do it." "You didn't mention it earlier." "I didn't know earlier." He came around the couch and crouched in front of me. "I'll be back before midnight. Maybe sooner." "Maybe." "Zara." "I'm not upset," I said. "I'm just saying. This is the third *unexpected* meeting this month." "I know how it looks." "How does it look?" He didn't answer that. Instead, he put his hand against my cheek, and I let myself lean into it because I couldn't help it. "I love you," he said. "I know." "Say it back." "You're leaving. I'm punishing you." "That's fair." His mouth curved. "Say it anyway." "I love you," I said. "Come home on time." He kissed me. It was soft and slow, the kind of kiss that should have steadied me. But halfway through it, I felt something different. His mind wasn't in the room. His lips were on mine, but he was somewhere else, somewhere far away that I couldn't reach. When he pulled back, his eyes weren't quite meeting mine. "Lock the door behind me," he said. "Why?" "Because it's raining. And it's late." "That doesn't make any sense." "Humor me." He stood, and I watched him go. At the door he reached into his jacket and checked something in the inside pocket. A phone. Not the one he'd had on the kitchen counter that morning. This one was smaller and black. I had never seen it before in my life. He slipped it back into his jacket, and then he was gone. The door clicked shut. I stayed on the couch for a long time, staring at the place where he'd been standing. *A second phone.* There were a hundred reasons for it. A work phone. A private line for the company. Something to do with his father's people. I told myself that. I told myself again. Then I got up, grabbed my coat, and left the book on the cushion. --- I'd never followed my husband before. It felt wrong the moment I started the car. My hands were shaking on the wheel. I kept my distance, three cars behind, my wipers fighting the rain. Every time his taillights turned, I turned too, feeling like a stranger inside my own life. *Turn around,* I told myself. *Go home. Trust him.* I didn't turn around. He didn't drive toward the office. He didn't drive toward any restaurant, or any building I recognized from his work. He crossed the river, then headed toward the old part of the city, where the hotels were tall and expensive and no one asked questions. He pulled up outside the Black Orchid. I parked half a block away and watched him through the rain. He handed his keys to the valet, adjusted his jacket, and walked inside without looking back. I sat there with my heart pounding. *It's a meeting,* I thought. *Clients meet in hotels. People do it all the time.* But no client had ever made my husband kiss me like he was saying goodbye. I got out of the car. The lobby was all gold light and black marble. Soft music played somewhere. Kian was already crossing the floor toward the elevators, and I ducked behind a tall arrangement of white flowers, my coat dripping onto the floor. He got into the elevator alone. The doors closed. I watched the numbers climb. Eleven. Twelve. Fourteen. It stopped at the top floor. I waited until the next elevator opened, then stepped inside and pressed the same button. My reflection stared back at me from the polished doors. My hair was wet, my face pale, my eyes wide. I looked like a woman who already knew the answer and was begging not to hear it. The doors opened onto a quiet hallway with dark carpet and gold lights. Every door looked the same. Except one. At the far end, a suite door stood slightly open. I walked toward it slowly. The carpet swallowed my footsteps. As I got closer, I heard voices, low and unsteady. I stopped just outside, my back against the wall, and I looked through the gap. Kian stood in the middle of the room with his jacket still on. In front of him was a woman. She was beautiful in a way that felt effortless. Dark hair fell past her shoulders, and she wore a long cream coat, damp from the rain. She was crying, not loudly, but with her whole body, her arms wrapped around herself as if she were trying to hold something together. I'd never seen her before. But I knew her name before anyone spoke it. "Arielle," Kian said, softly. "Look at me." *Arielle.* The name hit me like cold water. Arielle Knox. Knox. The word sat in my mind like a locked door. It was the one family my mother never discussed. When I was a girl, I once asked about them at the dinner table, and my mother had set down her fork and said, "We don't speak that name in this house." She had never explained. I had never asked again. And now a woman with that name stood in a hotel suite with my husband. "I can't do this anymore," Arielle whispered. Her voice cracked. "Every day I think it's going to come out. Every day I think she'll find out." "She won't." "You don't know that." "Arielle." "She can never know what happened that night." My breath stopped. *She.* I waited for Kian to ask who she meant. To say something that made it make sense. He took a step closer. "She won't," he said. "Not if I can stop it." The floor tilted under me. *She.* There was only one *she* in his life. One wife. One woman he had promised, over and over, to protect. Me. They were talking about me. Whatever they'd done, whatever *that night* was, they were hiding it from me. My husband and a woman from the family my mother wouldn't name, standing close together in a private suite, speaking in whispers. I pressed my hand against my mouth. Arielle wiped her face with the back of her hand. "I'm so tired, Kian." "I know." "I don't know how much longer I can pretend." "You don't have to pretend with me." His voice was gentle. It was the same voice he used with me when I woke from a bad dream. The same voice from this morning, in the kitchen. *Not this,* he'd said. *Not this.* Now I understood. Then Kian lifted his hand and reached for her. I didn't wait to see where it landed. Something inside me cracked. I stepped back from the door, one step and then another, my legs moving without permission. My shoulder bumped the wall. The sound was small, but it felt like thunder. Neither of them turned. Not yet. I ran. I didn't run far. I made it to the corner of the hallway and pressed myself against the wall, shaking, my breath coming in short, ragged pulls. My eyes burned. I couldn't make a sound. If I did, he would hear me. And if he heard me, I would have to look at his face and know. Behind me, the suite door stayed open a little, the way I'd found it. *Breathe,* I told myself. *Just breathe.* My phone vibrated in my pocket. I nearly screamed. I pulled it out with trembling fingers, expecting Kian's name, an apology, an explanation. Anything. It wasn't Kian. The screen showed a number I didn't recognize. **UNKNOWN NUMBER** I opened the message. **DON'T TRUST THE WOMAN INSIDE.** My blood went cold. Before I could breathe, the phone buzzed again. A second message appeared beneath the first. **AND DON'T TRUST YOUR HUSBAND EITHER.**