Heat crawls up my cheeks at the wicked reminder of that unfortunate incident, sending me into a fit of coughs. Clarissa winks, faking gag sounds and I scowl. Embarrassment claws at my throat, I clamp a hand over my mouth and watch with tear-stained eyes as she retreats with the phone plugged to her ear, unable to give the perfect comeback.
The trembling of her shoulders tells me she is laughing at my discomfort, I shake my head, wiping the snort from my nose. This bestie of mine never disappoints but I don’t regret giving her every single, unrequired detail about my first and only experience.
Genuine laughter escapes me as a wave of memories washes over me, I clutch my sides, she promised to show me the right way. Feeling refreshed and excited at the thought of our class, I cast a look at myself in the rearview mirror and wiggle my brows. Laughter truly is the best medicine when you are not thinking of a husband who won’t talk to you.
Today is our one month anniversary but it feels like we have been together for longer than this, I bite my lip, we can’t even get a full month of peace. One brouhaha to another.
Staring straight ahead, everything around me blurs and my heart thumps as my parent’s faint laughter echoes in my head. Images of Pa in our kitchen, helping Ma dice onions while she stirs minced meat play in my mind and butterflies flutter in my belly. This was not how I envisioned marriage life, I didn’t expect white picket fence or a giant house but I never bargained for the unforgivable silence of my partner. Not on this special day.
On instinct, my eyes wander to the handbag Clarissa left on the driver’s seat, I spare a glance in the direction she went and my lips split into a grin. With her back to me, I am encouraged to rummage her bag for my phone while keeping my gaze on her.
She will be upset, a tad disappointed but the most she will do is give me a lecture about taking care of my mental health. Also, remind me to stay close to things or people that feel like sunlight and Instagram doesn’t feel like that, neither does stalking Brandon.
Rubbing my legs together, my chest heaves, I didn’t know he owns active social media accounts with constant updates until this week. It is hard to picture him with fans, lying in bed while liking posts or commenting under people’s pictures but my six thousand followers pale in comparison to his massive following on Twitter and Instagram.
None of his accounts has any pictures of us nor his dates in Paris. A part of me still clings to the hope the dates with those women are official meetings, a required step in the success of his current project. He would have posted them if they were an item.
I let out a sigh. Nothing is certain when it comes to Brandon, he will do and undo.
The captions of his posts sound unlike him, someone must be in charge of his Instagram account. I purse my lips, I can’t use that to determine the state of our marriage but the fact he hasn’t sent the divorce papers fans the flames of hope within me. He needs time.
Guilt prickles my conscience when Clarissa’s gaze meets mine from her position behind a row of cars, I return her wave with less fervour, stiffening when my hand closes over my phone. My chest deflates when she looks the other way, I unlock this delicate iPhone and the knots in my stomach tighten at the sight of my screensaver. I miss him.
Don’t do it, I tell myself as my fingers swipe right on my screen, locating the Instagram app. But I am already tapping on the link in the bio of Bee’s page, the most popular gossip site in Manchester. Like their name implies, they are forever busy with bringing their audience the best and most juicy content at the expense of heartbroken wives.
Brandon’s name and picture are splashed on their front page, it has been the norm for a while now. Too long a while for my comfort. He has a hand on the lower back of his partner, her face is barely visible since they captured them as they were about to enter into the black limousine. My mouth runs dry at another picture of him standing alone while adjusting his sleeves and I rub my legs together at his lips puckered into a frown.
YOU ARE READING
Mr Reluctant Billionaire || BWWM
Romance"I cannot love you, Elna." Grinding my waist against his groin, I cup his face and say, "Then fuck me." * * * When Elna's father first suggests an arranged marriage between her and Brandon Stark--the hot British billionaire--she is reluctant to go...
