Chapter 4
Sheryl's POV
I stood there, watching the storm clouds gather on Rhett's face—dark, dangerous, barely contained. The three men beside him immediately rose to their feet like soldiers sensing an impending explosion. Joel stepped forward first, ever the peacemaker.
"Let's not dig up the past, Vanessa," he said softly, then turned to Rhett. "Come on, man. Cool it. We're all friends here."
But Rhett's gaze remained locked on Vanessa, his eyes cold and predatory.
My mind drifted back to two years ago, one month before our wedding. Miss Cole—I couldn't recall her first name, though the media had mentioned it countless times. The girl who was always by his side, receiving a tenderness from Rhett I'd never witnessed directed at anyone else. Until that day. The attack came without warning—and she didn't hesitate. She stepped in front of the bullet meant for him. She survived, barely, but slipped into a coma that stole her away.
After that, Rhett had her transferred to some private medical facility, hidden away from the world. And then—only then—did he fulfill his obligation to marry me. Our union was nothing but a business arrangement, meticulously planned by Kenneth and my father, Robert Ross. Rhett never objected, but he never truly accepted it either.
Our wedding? There wasn't one. Just paperwork, signatures, and a handful of witnesses. The outside world knew only that Hayes Enterprise had a new mistress, some heiress from a good family. But almost no one had seen the face of Mrs. Hayes. I was a shadow, an intruder who had taken that girl's rightful place.
"Did I hit a nerve?" I heard myself say with a bitter laugh that felt like ice in my throat. "Still so devoted to the Cole girl? Maybe we should just get divorced then."
The air froze around us.
"Sheryl Ross!" Rhett's voice dropped to that dangerous register that made his most hardened enemies flinch. "Don't you fucking go there."
Everyone around us seemed to stop breathing. I couldn't even mention her without setting him off. Well, wasn't that just perfect confirmation of what I already knew? She was the one who mattered. I was the punchline.
Joel tried to intervene: "You're both upset. Let's not say things we'll—"
But I wasn't speaking from anger. I was finally seeing clearly through the pain. For two years, I'd played the perfect wife, trying to breathe warmth into this cold arrangement. I'd kept my promise to Kenneth—to form a family with Rhett, to give this marriage a genuine chance. I'd done my part. And Rhett? He remained the elusive playboy, rarely home, his heart elsewhere.
Before we met, I thought I was just a pawn moved by family interests. But from the moment I saw him, I was drawn to him. That impeccable exterior, that commanding presence—I couldn't escape his pull. I thought maybe he just needed time to know me, that his wandering ways were just a habit. He never mistreated me, but he never let me in either. One-sided feelings, constantly unrequited, wear you down eventually. I'd endured long enough.
"If you don't want to come home," I said evenly, "then maybe we shouldn't have a home at all."
With that, I turned and walked toward my car. The late summer Boston breeze carried a hint of autumn's chill. My heels clicked against the parking lot pavement, each step marking another fracture in our marriage.
Just as I reached for the driver's door handle, a familiar hand caught my wrist. Not rough, but unyielding. Rhett pulled me aside and slid into the driver's seat himself.
"Get in the passenger side," he said, his voice returned to its usual controlled tone, as if his earlier fury had never existed.
I stood there, studying his sharp profile in the dim light, my emotions a tangled mess. Despite everything, I still felt that unwanted pull toward him. I gave a slight, bitter smile. At least he was coming home this time.
Rhett's POV
I watched her walk away, that stubborn set to her shoulders, not even a backward glance. The frustration inside me deepened with every click of her heels against the pavement. Divorce? She dared to throw that word at me? Absolutely fucking not. She couldn't even think about it.
Two years. Just two years since I finally got to call her my wife, and she was already talking about walking away. I'd waited too damn long for this marriage to let it crumble now.
Sure, I couldn't deny that my... extracurricular activities hurt her. I knew that. But wasn't I trying to make it up to her in every other way? No matter what harsh words she threw at me, no matter how many times she pushed me away or lashed out, I never pushed back. I let her vent. I took it.
In bed, I always moved at her pace, stopping the moment I sensed any discomfort. Every time she fell asleep exhausted, I was the one who carried her to the shower, who cleaned her up while she slept in my arms. All I wanted was for her to stay by my side. Could she really not see that? Or did she just hate me that much?
The pain in my chest intensified as I followed her out to the parking lot. The rhythmic clicking of her heels on the pavement pulled me back to reality. I forced my breathing to slow, my face to assume its usual mask of control. By the time I reached her, I was outwardly calm again.
I moved quickly, pulling her aside as I slid into the driver's seat. "Get in the passenger side," I said calmly.
She stared at me for a few seconds, then sighed in resignation and complied. Once she was seated, I leaned across to fasten her seatbelt, catching a whiff of her perfume—something light and sweet that always seemed to linger in the air around her.
I started the engine and floored it. The tires squealed as we shot out of the parking lot. The speedometer climbed rapidly as I pushed the car harder, letting the rush of speed blow away the emotions threatening to choke me.
"Hey!" Sheryl yelped, grabbing the door handle. "Are you trying to kill me? Slow down!"
I glanced over at her—eyes wide, hair slightly disheveled, cheeks flushed with alarm. Much better than that cold, distant look she'd given me earlier. I felt the corner of my mouth twitch upward.
"What? Can't handle a little speed, Mrs. Hayes?" I asked, deliberately emphasizing her married name while easing off the accelerator just enough to keep her from genuinely panicking.
Her glare in response was worth it. Anger was always better than indifference with Sheryl. Anger meant she still cared.
I turned my attention back to the road, my thoughts racing faster than the car. She couldn't leave me. Not now, not ever. I hadn't fought this hard, waited this long, planned this carefully just to lose her over something as trivial as my reputation with women. She was mine—the only one who ever had been, really. She just didn't know it yet.
Kenneth had seen it from the beginning. "That Ross girl," he'd said, "she's the one who'll keep you in line." The old man had been right about that much, at least. Too bad he hadn't lived to see how right he was.
I flexed my fingers on the steering wheel, forcing myself to loosen my grip. Divorce. The word itself tasted like poison. Two years wasn't nearly enough. I needed a lifetime with her, maybe even that wouldn't be enough.