Cannot Wait For Him Turning Back novel Chapter 8

For countless years, I had endeavored to bridge the chasm between Matthew and me, pouring my heart and soul into our relationship. Yet, in a single night, he obliterated everything I had painstakingly built. The weight of that realization settled heavily on my chest.

I forced a smile, a fragile facade meant to shield my dignity from the storm of emotions swirling within me. It was a thin veil, but it was all I had left.

With a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped through, deliberately choosing not to glance back.

“Come in and sit,” I offered, my voice steady despite the turmoil inside.

Matthew’s eyes flickered with a spark of excitement as he hurried in behind me, his eagerness palpable.

“Two sugars, no milk,” I recalled, my mind racing back to countless mornings spent together.

As I poured the rich, dark coffee into a cup, I placed it carefully in front of him, watching as steam curled upward. I sank into the opposite couch, the distance between us feeling both necessary and suffocating.

His voice, slightly raspy, broke the silence. “You remembered.”

A faint smile graced my lips, but I remained silent, letting the moment hang in the air between us.

“You’ve seen the divorce agreement, haven’t you?” he continued, his tone shifting to something more serious. “I don’t want half of your assets. I only want custody of Tyler.”

His words hung heavily in the air, and I could see the tension in his shoulders. For a fleeting moment, he seemed frozen, grappling with the implications of what he had just said. Then, lifting his gaze to meet mine, he added, “Whitney, I don’t agree to the divorce.”

I nodded, a sense of resignation washing over me. I had anticipated this reaction.

“That’s fine,” I replied, my voice steady. “I can wait. After three years of separation, it’ll be over anyway.”

The sound of his coffee cup hitting the table resonated like a gunshot, reverberating through the silence of the room.

“Whitney, do you really want to leave me? Don’t forget, seven years ago, you were the one who climbed into my bed.”

His words struck me like a physical blow, tightening my chest with an ache I couldn’t ignore. I stared at him, disbelief etched on my face. In that moment, everything fell into place.

“Hah! So that’s how you’ve always perceived it,” I said, a bitter laugh escaping my lips. “No wonder your attitude shifted the morning after. I thought you simply stopped caring once you got what you wanted. Turns out, you never viewed it any differently.”

Disappointment flickered in his eyes, but there was something else—relief, perhaps?

I lowered my gaze, tracing the rim of the coffee cup with my fingers, the porcelain cool against my skin. “Matthew, did it ever occur to you that maybe I was the one who was hurt?” I asked softly, my voice barely above a whisper.

He stared at me, his expression a mix of confusion and shock. “What do you mean?”

The memories of that night flooded back, vivid and painful.

He had been intoxicated, lost in a haze of alcohol. I had guided him to the suite we had booked, gently washing him up and leaving a glass of water by the nightstand. I had been ready to slip away, to leave him to sleep off his drunken stupor.

But then, in a sudden, desperate move, he had seized my hand, pulling me down onto the bed with a force that shocked me.

I had fought back, screaming, but my cries had fallen on deaf ears.

I had harbored feelings for him for four long years, but I had never imagined our first intimate encounter would unfold in such a chaotic manner.

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