Sweet Retribution (Rydeville High Elite #3)(31)

“Most married couples have sex on their wedding night.” He opens his mouth, to take it back, no doubt, instantly realizing his mistake.

“Yes. But we’re not most married couples, are we?” I bark. “Because you were out screwing some whore.” I pretend to fume, while I’m secretly smiling inside. This is a good way to keep his hands off me. I’ll just start an argument any time he tries to get frisky. If I rile him up, he’ll think twice about wanting to fuck me.

I hope.

“You’re beginning to sound like a broken record, Abby.”

“And you’re beginning to sound like the stereotypical cheating husband!” I roar. “How fucking dare you say that to me! I have every right to be pissed, and you don’t get to dismiss it like that.”

He sighs, rubbing his hands down his face.

I’m fuming as I turn in my seat, faking a glare. “Who was she? I want to know who my husband spent our wedding night with.”

Now, it’s his turn to squirm uncomfortably in his seat. “She’s no one. Inconsequential.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “I still want to know who she is.”

“No.”

“No?” I pout. “I have a right to know!” I demand when I really couldn’t give two shits.

“Goddamn it, Abby.” He pounds his fists off the steering wheel. “I said drop it!”

Hmm. He doesn’t want me to know who she is.

This is interesting.

I tuck this little nugget away for future reference.

“Fine.” I sulk, glaring out the window, and Charlie drives us back to the house in complete silence.

When we walk into the house, we go our separate ways without speaking, and I lock my bedroom door, trying not to gloat as I grab my cell and head into my bathroom to call the man I love.

The following day, I insist we are having a family dinner. The funeral is tomorrow, and Charlie’s mom and sister need to be aware of the arrangements. I get why they want to bury their heads in the sand, and pretend this isn’t happening, but I need to at least try to prepare them. Tomorrow is going to be hell on Earth, and I’m already wishing I had a fast-forward button.

Normally, dinner is served at the formal dining table, but I’ve dismissed the housekeeper, and I’ve cooked a pot roast with all the trimmings and purposely set the kitchen table. Whether she likes it or not, Elizabeth Barron needs to face up to the fact it’s her husband’s funeral tomorrow, and she must put her best face forward.

I sent Charlie a text message earlier, telling him of my plans, and I got a curt acknowledgment in reply.

Suits me if he’s still sulking. The more this goes on, the longer I get to keep him out of my bed.

Elizabeth and Lillian are seated at the table, and I’m plating our food when Charlie rushes into the kitchen, looking a little flustered. “Sorry I’m late.”

“You’re not,” I say without looking at him. “I was just about to serve up.”

He stalks toward me, producing a massive bunch of flowers from behind his back. “These are for you.” He leans down and kisses my cheek. “A peace offering for last night. I’m sorry.”

Could he be any more cliché?

“Thank you.” I peck his lips briefly, taking the flowers and placing them in the sink. “I’ll put them in a vase after we’ve eaten. I don’t want our food to go cold.” I place my hands on his chest. “Go talk with your mom and sister while I finish our plates.”

Charlie and I single-handedly keep the conversation going over dinner, and it’s awkward as fuck. We run through the plans for the ceremony tomorrow, but Elizabeth just stares blankly at us the whole time. Lil doesn’t have much of an appetite, pushing food around her plate, appearing sullen and pissed off.

After dinner, I go upstairs with Elizabeth to find something suitable for her to wear tomorrow. She crawls onto the unmade bed the instant we enter her room, and I walk into her closet alone, wondering how she’s ever going to bounce back from this.

Charles and Elizabeth lived for one another, and I don’t know if she knows how to cope without him.

I find several black dresses that will work, walking out into her bedroom with them on the hangers. “What about either of these?” I ask, holding up the two most appropriate ones.

“Whatever,” she mumbles from her place on the bed, not even looking up. She’s curled into a fetal position on top of the disheveled covers, and my heart aches for her.

I return the dresses to her closet, picking one and leaving it out for the morning. I choose matching shoes and a purse before stepping out of the closet and walking toward my fake mother-in-law. Perching on the side of her bed, I brush knotty hair back off her face, caressing her cheek with a feather-light touch. Elizabeth Barron is a beautiful woman, and she usually takes pride in her appearance. But it’s clear it’s been days since she’s showered, and she’s a bit of a hot mess with her red-rimmed eyes, puffy cheeks, and blotchy skin.

Not that I blame her.

She’s heartbroken. Taking care of herself is bottom of her list of priorities.

I lie down beside her. “I’m so sorry, Elizabeth.” I take her hands in mine. “I can’t begin to imagine how much pain you are in.”

Her bloodshot eyes lock on mine. “It’s never getting any better, is it?” she whispers.