Chapter 8 Sharing a Bed, Not a Heart

"So, you're jealous now?" Clive never played by the script she laid out.

Every little trap she thought would catch him? He dodged them all like a pro.

Jealous? So was this him basically admitting he had something going on with his precious first love? And he still refused to divorce her? Classic jerk move - textbook gaslighting.

Paisley took a deep breath, trying to calm herself down. If not, she might just lose it and punch him right there.

"Clive, you rejected all my proposals before, so how about this - I'll pay back that money you patched into my dad's company. Deal?" Paisley tried to sound reasonable. "Please, just divorce me already. That way, your dear first love won't have to carry the mistress label. Makes sense, right?"

She kept bringing up his beloved first love just to slam reality in his face.

And what happened?

Clive acted like she hadn't said a single thing. He walked over slowly, grabbed her hand like they were some lovey-dovey couple, and said near her ear, "You've got one minute to fix your resting face. We're going home for soup."

Seriously?

Paisley thought he was absolutely nuts and had no interest in humoring him. She started walking off on her own.

But he didn't let go. In fact, the guy even started counting down. "Eight, seven... three, two..."

Paisley was fuming, but she didn't dare actually start a full-on fight with him. After all, she'd been locked up by him in a past life - she'd had quite enough of that. So, pissed off and puffed up, she followed him back inside for soup.

Naturally, once they were at the dining table with Grandpa Harrington, Paisley wore her best graceful-wife face. Played the part well, even called Clive out with a sweet passive-aggressive twist, and Grandpa totally laid into him. He got chewed out like crazy.

After they got back to the villa from the Harrington family estate, Clive moved his stuff into the master bedroom.

Said it was because real couples don't sleep separately. Before, he let her have the master because she insisted they had no romantic connection. Now? Not only was he moving in without asking, the man had a key and everything - just barged in with his stuff.

Paisley thought about switching rooms, but he shut that down fast and even threatened to follow her into whatever room she tried to escape to.

So now, here they were, sharing a bed. Didn't do anything, didn't talk. Paisley just straight-up ignored him.

If there was one upside to living with Clive, it was that the man could cook. The next morning, he went into the kitchen and made a full breakfast of all her favorites, then came to wake her.

"You're coming to the office with me today," Clive said like it was totally reasonable. "Didn't you tell Grandpa last night that I was messing around at work? As my wife, you better supervise me properly."

Paisley didn't move.

When he came back from the kitchen, she was still hiding under the covers, dead silent.

Clive didn't get worked up or anything. He just said, calm as ever, "Lobster omelette with parmesan's getting cold. If you're not getting up, I'll eat it all. Don't worry - I'll tell the housekeeper to toss you a sandwich later."

Lobster vs. sandwich? No contest.

Muttering bitterly under her breath, Paisley dragged herself out of bed, shot Clive a death glare, rushed to wash up, and then headed straight for the lobster omelette.

Clive, meanwhile, was kind of offended. He felt like he was actually jealous - of lobster omelette.

Apparently, in Paisley's eyes, he ranked lower than breakfast.