Page 11 of His Son's Wife
A sob ripped out of my chest. The pain stabbed immediately through my ribs, sharp and unforgiving, and I almost laughed at the cruelty of it—pain that I deserved for being so fucking stupid.
Warm hands settled on my shoulders.
“Let’s get you to bed. I’ll bring your food upstairs,” he murmured, helping me to my feet.
His arm closed around my waist and I buried my face into his lapel before I could think better of it. He smelled clean. Expensive. Solid in a way that made no sense and every sense at once.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered into the fabric.“So sorry.”
He patted my arm and silently guided me back upstairs.
He didn’t tell me I had nothing to apologise for.
He didn’t say anything at all.
One step at a time. I was painfully slow and I began to panic.
Why?
I glanced up at him and before my eyes reached his face I realised I was clutching his lapel. I released his jacket instinctively—but his hand covered mine and placed it back against his chest.
The panic receded.
He wasn’t angry.
I focused on the stairs.
When we reached the bedroom he left me by the door and moved to lift the covers back, then quietly began to arrange the pillows. No fuss. No comment. As though this were simply a thing that needed doing and so he was doing it.
I didn’t think. I moved forward and sat on the edge of the bed, carefully raising my legs up. He placed the covers around my waist with the same steady unhurried hands that had guided me down the hall.
Without a word, he left.
The room settled into silence around me.
For the first time, I questioned everything Gabriel had told me about his father.
???
He arrived with a silver tray. No jacket, white sleeves rolled to his elbows. I stared at the size of his hands and the muscles shifting beneath the white shirt.
Gabriel had expected me to serve him. But nothing was ever perfect enough. Too cold. Overdone. Tasteless. Eventually he’d found fault with my appearance too. His parameters were in constant conflict—dress sexy but not too sexy, wear makeup but not too much, cook high protein meals on gym days, but those weren’t right either. Too high in fat. Not enough non-starchy vegetables. The grains were too processed.
Here was his father placing a well-balanced meal on my lap without a word of complaint.
Orange juice and water were set on the nightstand. I noticed a small ceramic bowl of pills beside them.
“Those must not be taken on an empty stomach,” he said in a tone that didn’t invite debate.“You will rest and heal. There will be some physio arranged for your rib.” A pause.“Leave Gabriel to me.”
I didn’t know what to say.
He must have thought I was stupid when I continued to stare at him.
Then he dragged a chair beside the bed.
Lifted the spoon.
Blew on it gently before he offered it to me.
