Chapter 3 No.3

Julian froze. His hands stilled on his cufflinks. He turned around slowly, as if he hadn't heard me correctly.

"What did you say?"

I grabbed the handle of my suitcase. "I said, draw it yourself. I'm not your maid, Julian."

I tried to walk past him, but he shot out a hand and grabbed my forearm to stop me. His grip was tight, landing directly on the patch of skin where the fire had licked me, right beneath the edge of my sleeve.

"Ah!" I gasped, the pain sharp and blinding. I yanked my arm back, cradling it against my chest.

Julian looked at his hand, then at my wrist. I pulled up my sleeve, revealing the angry red skin, blistering at the edges of the gauze I had applied earlier. His eyes widened.

"What is that?" He reached out again, but stopped short of touching me. "How did you get that?"

"The fire," I said, stepping back. "The one you called a 'kitchen accident.'"

"I didn't know you were hurt," he said, his voice dropping. A flicker of something that looked like guilt passed over his face, but he blinked it away instantly. "Why didn't you tell me on the phone?"

"You were too busy asking about the hotel water pressure for Serena."

His jaw tightened. "Stop bringing her up. She was hysterical. I couldn't just leave her alone at the hotel."

"You could have," I said quietly. "You just didn't want to."

I turned and walked into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. I needed a minute. My leg was throbbing, the adrenaline wearing off and leaving behind a dull, aching agony.

"Evelyn! Open the door!" Julian pounded on the wood. "We're not done talking!"

I ignored him. I turned on the shower, letting the steam fill the room. I stripped off my clothes, wincing as the fabric peeled away from my skin.

I looked in the mirror. My neck, my forearm, my thigh. Patches of angry red, welts raised like brands. I looked broken.

I stepped into the shower. The water was too hot. It hit my burns like liquid fire.

I cried out, stumbling back. My foot slipped on the slick tiles.

I went down hard.

My hip slammed against the marble floor. The breath was knocked out of me. A cry of pain tore from my throat before I could stop it.

CRASH.

The bathroom door burst open. The lock splintered.

Julian stood there, chest heaving. His eyes swept over the room and landed on me, curled naked on the floor, water streaming over my burns.

For a second, nobody moved.

I saw the horror in his eyes. He was seeing the extent of the damage for the first time. The raw, physical proof of his negligence.

"Evelyn..." The word was a strangled gasp.

He was on his knees in an instant, ignoring the water soaking his expensive suit pants. He reached for a towel, wrapping it around me with trembling hands.

"Don't touch me!" I screamed, pushing at his chest.

"Stop it!" He grabbed my shoulders, pinning me, but careful-so careful-not to touch the burns on my neck. "You're hurt. You're badly hurt. Why didn't you tell me it was this bad?"

"Because you didn't ask!" I sobbed. The fight was draining out of me.

He scooped me up. He was strong, effortlessly lifting me from the wet floor. I squeezed my eyes shut, hating the fact that his arms still felt safe, even though I knew they were the most dangerous place in the world.

He carried me to the bed and laid me down gently. He ran to the cabinet and grabbed the first aid kit. His hands, usually so steady when signing billion-dollar deals, were shaking as he opened the antiseptic.

"I can do it," I said, trying to sit up.

"Stay still," he barked. But there was no anger in it anymore. Just panic.

He applied the ointment. He was clumsy, unsure of how much pressure to apply. He had never done this. I had nursed him through flu, through hangovers, through sports injuries. He had never so much as put a band-aid on me.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, his eyes fixed on my leg. "I didn't know."

"Ignorance isn't an excuse, Julian. It's a choice."

He looked up at me. His blue eyes were storm-dark. "I am your husband. I take care of you. That's the deal."

"The deal is over."

I reached for the nightstand, where the folder Sarah had given me lay. I pulled out the document.

DIVORCE SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT.

I threw it on the bed between us.

Julian looked at it. He read the title. His face went blank. The panic vanished, replaced by a cold, hard mask. The Julian Vance of the boardroom returned.

"Is this a joke?" he asked quietly.

"Does it look like a joke?"

He stood up, towering over me. "You're divorcing me? Because of a fire? Because I helped a friend?"

"Because I am alone in this marriage, Julian. I have been alone for three years."

He laughed. It was a harsh, cruel sound. He picked up the papers.

"You can't survive without me, Evelyn. You have no career. No family. No money. You think the world is kind to thirty-year-old divorcees with no resume?"

"I'll take my chances."

He stared at me, waiting for me to crack. Waiting for me to apologize and beg for forgiveness like I usually did when we fought.

When I didn't blink, his pride snapped.

He ripped the papers in half. Then in quarters.

"I'm not signing these," he said, letting the confetti rain down on the bed. "You're upset. You're traumatized. You're not thinking clearly."

"I have never been clearer."

His phone rang.

The ringtone cut through the tension like a knife. He looked at the screen.

Serena.

I looked at him. "Answer it."

"Evelyn..."

"Answer it, Julian. Show me I'm wrong."