Page 45 of Reckless Love

“And a naïve one. No matter what you give them, they’ll always want more. That’s been the problem with unions for years now. More is more is more. This one will be no different.”

“I haven’t had any problems with my workers.”

“That just means you’re not listening to them either.” He gives me a smug smile.

Our dinner arrives, and we eat in silence. He probably believes he’s convinced me to scurry back to my oblivious corner, content with whatever scraps of information he feeds me. Normally, I probably would. If I’m honest, that’s exactly what I’ve done in the past—a brief flare of interest followed by cool indifference. Can’t change. Won’t change. The same for both of us.

I don’t know what’s beginning to happen to me. The only thing I’ve seen with any clarity for a long time is Landon and my role as his mom. The opaque shroud that covered me, kept me from seeing the truth of my circumstances, has been opened, and I’m slowly crawling my way out.

I can’t hide from any of these truths anymore.

What’s more—I don’t think I want to.

I might be done fighting for tonight, but I fear this is only the start of whatever has begun to move and shift inside me, threatening to reform into a shape that doesn’t fit this man or this life.

“Come on,” Raul says, pushing back his chair. “I’ve seen some people we should say hello to.”

Reluctantly, I stand up, downing the last of my drink and depositing my napkin on the table. Small talk as we work the restaurant for lucrative relationships is the last thing I’m interested in, but it’s not worth a public fight. Not yet.

So I trail him around from table to table, smiling and networking.

The closer we get to the top of the restaurant, the more my skin warms with awareness, as though I’m standing too close to the fire, daring it to burn me.

“Ah, wonderful,” Raul says when we’re near Stephen and Datu.

Not wonderful. I hang back, already cringing at the exchange that’s about to happen. At some point, Raul puts bills in his hand, and he shakes Datu’s first, thanking him for the excellent work.

Seeing the money he gave Datu, Stephen doesn’t take Raul’s hand when he offers it.

“I don’t need anything further from you and Mrs. Santos,” Stephen says, focused on Raul.

“Mrs. Santos,” Raul crows, glancing at me over his shoulder. He releases a deep sigh. “I wish she’d taken my name. She was still full of fight back then. Keeping the Tucker name was a sticking point for her.”

“Nothing wrong with being proud of where you come from,” Stephen says. “I hope you enjoyed your evening.”

“Our anniversary,” Raul says. “Six years. Feels like a lifetime.”

Stephen finally looks at me, and the time we spent in the house together means I can almost read him again. Even with a shuttered gaze, it feels like he’s holding back a comment, some savage insult that would knock Raul back.

I want him to say it. In another life, I’d have called him out, challenged him to vocalize what he’s thinking.

But he won’t say it because he thinks of me as Mrs. Santos now, and I won’t coax a response out of him because I’m no longer Ava Tucker either, not really. I’m neither person and yet somehow still both.

Datu and Raul are speaking, and I know Stephen and I shouldn’t be staring at each other this long. My stomach dips when Raul’s hand lands on the small of my back.

“The real celebrating happens at home,” Raul says, winking at Stephen and Datu before leading me out of the restaurant. My skin crawls at his touch, at the implication that he’ll get to caress even more.

For the first time in my life, the thought of being with someone sexually makes me feel dirty, and to know that it’s my husband making me feel that way is a special kind of fucked up.

At the house, I immediately feign a headache, take some aspirin I don’t need, and ignore Raul’s loud, impatient sighs of dissatisfaction.

In our en suite, I turn on the fancy, oversized shower, strip down, and then I sink to the floor, the jets pounding against my body. I stare at the water rushing across the tiles around me, and the tears I refuse to let anyone else see flow. What the fuck is happening?

I don’t know how much longer I can keep living this life.

Leaving might be awful, but is it really worse than this?

I cover my face, and I sob into my hands.