FREYA SINCLAIR
The bedroom feels colder when I walk back in. Or maybe that’s just me.
I close the door softly behind me and lean against it for a moment, staring at the empty sofa again. The neatly folded blanket. The pillow still dented from where his head had rested earlier.
Rowan sleeping on the sofa.
Rowan heating milk at one in the morning.
I press my lips together. This isn’t working.
If I’m going to survive this marriage, if I’m going to make this believable I can’t behave like a reluctant participant in my own story. Logan knows nothing yet. The media knows nothing. Rowan’s mother is watching.
And Rowan…
Rowan sees too much. I can’t keep acting like a frightened contract bride. I have to at least pretend I love him. Love means warmth.Love means closeness.
Love means not l
