Imogene Scott
People do crazy crazy things for love. But what most people don't do, is let their husband get with other women just because they think he'll someday realize they're the only one for him.
As I say this, I feel totally stupid. I'm sitting in the lounge of Haven's hotels and Suites and I can't help but feel uneasy. I'm waiting for my husband to walk out with one of his many flings or at least get his room number.
I've always known about Damien's affairs for the past five years. Our marriage has been like that. He married me because I was pregnant with his child but after losing the baby, he completely changed.
Then the multiple affairs began and we both made a deal not to meddle in each other's lives. I was hurt, but one part of me has always reassured me that one day, he's going to get tired of the affairs and love me properly. That one day, he'll realize he's never going to find a woman like me in any of those occasionally flings.
Unfortunately, I think he just did.
He's been seeing this blonde woman for over five months. A blonde woman whose identity he has succeeded in hiding so far. Most of his flings usually don't last this long. He even stopped coming home too, claiming to be busy at the office.
To top it off, yesterday was our five years marriage anniversary and we were supposed to fly out to Los Vegas last night. But my husband left me waiting and only dropped a text claiming he had to fly out to Seattle for a business meeting. My intel however, told me he isn't in Seattle but at this very hotel with that woman.
My face begins to heat up again and I drag in a laboured breath. I should at least get home first before wallowing in self pity again. I brought this upon my self. My stupidity has led me thus far.
"Ma'am, can I help you with anything?" a concierge says, walking across the lobby to where I am sitting.
I'm in a short floral dress and hat with a pair of sunglasses. He probably thinks I'm a tourist, wondering why a woman is wearing sunglasses indoors. But can't help it, my eyes are all puffy from crying myself to sleep last night, hence the glasses.
I put on my best fake smile. Most people can tell it's fake from the way my lips always twitch, but this good looking concierge seems clueless.
"Damien Shaw. Can I get his room number?" I ask politely.
He gives me a long hard look. "I'm afraid not, Ma'am."
I open my purse and pull out a wad of dollar bills. Considering the fact that the grand opening of my first art gallery is in two days and this money is supposed to go into the payment for the studio's lighting, I'm not supposed to be throwing wads of dollar notes around. I shouldn't even be here, I should be preparing for the grand opening.
I'm finally pursuing my own dreams after spending five years of helping Damien pursue his.
"How about now?"
"Room 2672." the concierge says almost immediately, taking the wad of notes from me.
By the time I get to the fifth floor, I'm already starting to regret my decision. Shit, did I just give five thousand bucks to that man just to get a room number?
Five thousand bucks shouldn't be a problem if you're the wife of Damien Shaw, the CEO of IMU. But I have decided not to spend Damien's money and start out my own business on my own without his help.
Ding!
The elevator door opens when I finally arrive on the floor I'm headed. My feet go cold. I'm not sure what I'll find but I at least know what to expect. I take a deep breath and propel my legs forward.
My heart aches. How did my marriage even get to this point? I have been overlooking the signs and hoping on something that's never going to happen. I have been so stupid.
Standing by the door of room 2672, my fingers tremble as I raise my hand to the door, hesitating for just a moment before I force myself to knock. Three sharp raps that seem to drain all the warmth from my hand.
I wait for a response. A few seconds later, the door swings open revealing Damien in a white robe.
He's stunning as ever, looking the same as the man I fell in love with five years ago. The man I knew didn't love me but I still married anyway.
Maybe because I haven't been constantly see him these past few days, but he suddenly looks like he belongs in an Armani photoshoot. Or modeling Calvin Klein underwear.
Those sharp, deep-set gray eyes, sculpted cheekbones and full, firm lips are being wasted. He's tall, too, easily six-three or six-four with broad shoulders. And the robe he's wearing fails to hide the power of his body. What woman wouldn't want this man for herself? What the hell have you done to yourself, Imogene?
My breath seizes for a moment as I meet Damien's cold gaze. This is definitely the rule number one of meddling—showing up to places uninvited.
"What are you doing here, Imogene?" his voice is sharp and condescending.
He leans against the door like he's blocking the way. My heart churns, why's he trying so hard to hide this woman? Has he finally given his heart to her?
"You told me you were in Seattle! You missed our anniversary dinner, Damien." I say, my voice steady.
It's the opposite of the storm brewing inside me. I can feel the tears welling up again, but I blink them away, refusing to let them fall. Not here. Not now.
Shit, I thought I already exhausted all the tears in me last night.
"I just got back this morning." he replies, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. "Why are you here?"
The last part of my heart breaks. Lies, more lies. He's here with his woman right now, and we both know it. I don't know how I've been able to bear this for years but there's only so much I can take.
This woman has to go!
I try to peer over Damien's shoulder into the room, but he shifts, blocking my view. But with surge of strength fueled by all the emotions I have kept to myself for half a decade, I shove the door open, forcing Damien to stumble back. I storm into the room, my breath coming in quick, shallow gasps.
My eyes darts around. It's empty. The bed is neatly made, the curtains are drawn, and there is no sign of anyone else. For a moment, confusion clouds my anger. Have I been wrong? Have my suspicions twisted reality into something worse than it is?
But then, just as I'm about to turn back to Damien, I hear it. The sound of running water, the faint click of a bathroom door unlocking.
I freeze, my heart plummeting into a cold, heavy knot in my chest. I don't want to turn around, don't want to see what I've always known was coming. But I can't stop myself either. Slowly, almost mechanically, I turn my head toward the bathroom.
The door opens, and there she is. My stepsister.