Chapter 142: This marriage isn’t real.

"Come on. Let’s go up."

I down my drink in one go and place the empty glass on the table. Eager to leave this big boob bitch, before I forget my drink on her face.

The alcohol burns its way down my throat, but I barely notice. My attention is on the staircase leading to the upper floors.

I get up and start walking, heading toward another flight of stairs as if I know where I’m going.

I don’t.

But I would rather get lost in this damn building than sit there for another second listening to that woman reminisce about her sexual adventures with my husband.

"Nerissa, wait."

I hear his footsteps behind me. He catches up and reaches for my hand, but I fling it away before he can hold it.

"Don’t."

He pauses but I don’t look at him. I keep walking, my heels clicking against the floor as I climb the stairs. I can feel his eyes on my back, but I refuse to turn around.

After a moment, he moves ahead of me and takes the lead. He climbs a few more flights before we reach an elevator. He presses the button, and we step inside.

When the doors slide shut, I stand on one side, staring at the illuminated numbers above the doors while he stands beside me with his hands in his pockets.

I can feel him looking at me but I ignore him.

The elevator carries us the remaining distance, and when the doors open, he steps out first. I follow him down a quiet corridor until we reach a large door.

He punches a code into the keypad, waits for the lock to release, and pushes it open.

"After you."

I walk inside.

His office is beautiful. Everything about the place looks expensive without being unnecessarily flashy. Dark wood dominates the room, complemented by leather furniture and carefully arranged shelves. There is a large desk near the windows, a comfortable seating area, and a private bar tucked into one corner.

The lighting is warm, the furniture immaculate, and everything seems to have its own place.

It looks and feels like him.

Expensive, beautiful and intimidating.

"Welcome to my humble abode."

I turn to look at him.

"Yeah, right. How many women have you brought and fucked in here?"

He is already heading toward his desk when my question makes him stop.

Slowly, he turns around.

"Okay. If you have a problem with me, just go on and say it."

I fold my arms across my chest.

"Fine I will. I don’t care about you fucking other women. But what I won’t take is having them approach us and disrespect me. You can fuck half the city for all I care. Just don’t throw it in my freaking face. I find it very disrespectful."

His expression hardens.

"I’m not fucking half the city, Nerissa."

"Oh, really?"

"The lady downstairs was just an honest mistake, and I regret it already."

I let out a short, humourless laugh.

"Sure. She’s a mistake?"

"Yes."

"Because from what I heard from her, you two have been fucking for a while now."

He doesn’t respond immediately.

"Not like I care cause I genuinely don’t care,"

I lie.

I care so much that I can still feel the irritation crawling beneath my skin. I care that she touched him so casually, I care that she stood in front of me and spoke about what they’d done together as though I were some irrelevant stranger.

But I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

"This marriage isn’t real after all."

My husband turns to me. He’s so still that for a moment I wonder if he’s breathing at all.

"What did you say?"

I raise my eyebrows.

"I said I heard you two have been fuc....."

"No. Not that."

He interrupts me.

"The other part."

I blink.

"Oh?"

I shrug, pretending his sudden change in expression doesn’t bother me.

"I said this marriage isn’t real. It’s just an arranged marriage."

He stares at me, then takes a slow breath.

"This marriage is as real as any other marriage can get."

"But it’s not!"

My voice rises.

"I’m choosing to believe it isn’t because if it is, that would mean you cheated on me! And I refuse to be with a cheating man. You freaking lied to me!"

He curses under his breath and drags his fingers through his hair, tugging at it in obvious frustration.

He looks away, takes a few steps across the room, then turns back toward me.

"Fuck."

I watch him approach.

"Look. Baby."

My stomach does something strange at the endearment, but I refuse to let it show.

"I’m sorry."

I blink.

Did he just say sorry?

"I don’t like apologizing," he continues, his voice lower now. "But I’m telling you this because I mean it. I am sorry."

He stops in front of me.

"I regret bringing her into our home, and I regret doing anything with her after our marriage. It wasn’t right, and it wasn’t fair to you."

His eyes remain fixed on mine.

"I broke my word with you, and I will spend the eternity of this marriage proving to you how sorry I am."

There is something almost unsettling about hearing Lysander Sanchez apologize. This is a man who walks into rooms and expects everyone to move awayy. A man who gives orders rather than explanations. Yet here he is, standing in front of me, admitting that he did something wrong.

And I hate that it makes my anger falter.

I look away.

"Okay. Still doesn’t make it real, though."

His face visibly darkens. The softness disappears from his expression so quickly that I almost take a step back.

"I dare you to say that one more time."

I lift my chin.

"And if I do?"

He moves closer.

"I’ll show you how real this marriage is."

I should probably shut up, I really should. A sensible woman would recognize the warning in his voice, accept his apology, and perhaps discuss the matter when they were both less irritated.

Unfortunately, I have never been accused of being a sensible woman and because I’m so much of a stubborn, big-headed idiot, I open my mouth again.

"This marriage isn’t real Lysander."

His jaw tightens.

I look down at my hand.

"Maybe me wearing your ring is twisting up your thoughts? Here. Take your ring. I never liked it in the first place."

I twist the band around my finger. It takes a little effort to get it past my knuckle, and I find myself becoming irritated with the ring for not coming off quickly enough. Once it’s free, I hold it out toward him.

He doesn’t move, his eyes remain on my face but he doesn’t stretch out his hands to take it.

Fine.

If he wants to be difficult, I can be difficult too.

I reach for his hand, take it, and turn his palm upward. His fingers remain still as I place the ring in the middle of it.