Chapter 9
The mouthwatering scentsof fresh garlic bread and spaghetti bolognese hit me in the face as I stepped off the private elevator that led to Wick’s penthouse.
My heels clacked across the floors as I came around the corner of the hallway that opened up into a shared entertaining space with the living room and kitchen.
I expected to see Wick behind the large center island, seamlessly transitioning between the oven and stovetop as he worked in the global hot guy uniform of a tight white t-shirt that clung to his biceps and gray sweatpants slung low on his hips. He’d be barefoot, as usual, and I swear I’d never had a thing for a guy’s feet until I saw Wick wandering around without shoes and socks.
But Wick wasn’t in the kitchen. The lights were on, and the penthouse smelled divine, but the man responsible wasn’t there.
It was just as well.
Sniffling, I headed for my bedroom to change out of my pencil skirt and top. I’d left Saul’s jacket in the back of the SUV, and I was craving comfy, cozy things to curl up with. But first I needed a shower. Something hot and steamy to wash away the feel of unwanted hands on me.
My nerves were raw and exposed, my chest aching from the sobs I’d swallowed back. Not that I really had a reason to cry. It wasn’t like Mr. Covington had really tried anything.
I was being an overdramatic baby.
Keeping my eyes down as my thoughts whirled in my head, I didn’t see Wick until it was too late. I crashed into his chest—yes, the one covered by white cotton that looked ready to burst at the seams—and bounced backward. Only Wick’s hands on my shoulders kept me from falling.
“Alessia.” Wick’s voice was so soft, so tender, that it shattered my fragile facade.
My face crumpled as I leaned into his chest. The first sob took me by surprise, but Wick didn’t flinch away.
No, Wick picked me up like a toddler as I wrapped my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist, burying my face against his neck.
“I’ve got you, baby,” he murmured, starting to move.
I tried to swallow down my cries, but the dam had been cracked wide open, and there was no stopping the torrent of emotions now. I was drowning, and Wick was the only thing that could keep me afloat.
Wick stopped and sat down while keeping me on his lap. One strong arm banded around my back, his hand splayed against my spine. His other hand tangled in my hair, cupping the back of my head as he held me to his chest.
Time fell away, ceasing to exist as I unleashed feelings I’d been swallowing down and holding back for years. I hated that someone like Kirkland Covington was my tipping point. No man, especially not one with a name that stupid, should’ve had that much control over me.
Wick’s hand rubbed up and down my back as he let me fall apart all over him. He never spoke or tried to get me to talk, he just let me know he was there—a steady, reassuring presence that didn’t waver.
And I’d forgotten what it felt like to just have someone be there. Even if Wick was just doing it because I was his wife and he felt obligated, having someone to hold me together when I was on the verge of falling apart was exactly what my soul needed.
Then again, Wick didn’t strike me as the type of guy to do something just because, even if it was expected.
My husband really wasn’t the man I thought I’d married, and, at some point, I was going to have to figure out what that meant. But tonight, I was tired and overwhelmed, and I just really needed a hug.
With a shaky breath, I lifted my head from the very obvious wet spot on his shirt. My makeup had transferred onto the stark white cotton, streaks of orange, pink, and black creating a weird portrait as the medium of my tears melted them together.
“I ruined your shirt,” I whispered, wiping at it with my thumb. It only made the smears worse, and I felt more tears welling up.
Couldn’t I do anything right?
“It’s a shirt, sweetheart. I can buy another,” he reminded me. His hands cupped my face, his thumbs catching the last of my tears. “You’re worth a million shirts.”
“I’m sorry,” I managed to choke out, feeling the familiar burn of shame tighten around my chest.
Wick scoffed. “For what? Being human after a lecherous asshole attacked you?”
My head snapped up, stunned that he knew. “How did you… Saul.”
Wick gave a grim nod. “I’d rather it was my wife who told me she was having issues with her employer, but I suppose that would require a level of trust you’re not comfortable with. I’m sorry that I haven’t proven you can trust me.”
“Y-you’re sorry?” I stared at him. “But you didn’t do anything.”
“Exactly,” Wick mused, his dark eyes stormy. “I thought the best approach to our marriage was to give you space. But now I worry that all I’ve done is isolate you even further.”
“I don’t understand,” I murmured, shaking my head.
A hand landed on my bare thigh, and I jolted as I looked down. My pencil skirt wasn’t made for straddling anything, let alone a man as big as my husband. The skirt was rucked up nearly to my hips, baring the blue thong that covered the strip of my slit.
Embarrassment crawling up my neck, I scrambled to get off his lap.
“Stop,” he ordered.
And, like a well-trained wife, I did just that.
“Have I done anything to make you uncomfortable?” he asked.
“No,” I admitted.
His head cocked. “Why do you feel the need to hide from me?”
My cheeks were ablaze. “Because… because you can see my, you know.” I waved a hand in the general direction of my lady bits.
The corner of his mouth kicked up. “I’m quite the fan of your… you know.”
I winced, realizing how childish I sounded.
“Alessia, I need you to stop and truly consider my words. Are you embarrassed that I can see your underwear? Or are you trying to hide because you don’t like me seeing you emotional?”
Was it possible to die of humiliation? Because I was pretty sure that was where I was headed.
He tapped the outside of my leg. “Answer me, wife.”
Blowing out a breath, I considered his question and really sifted through my emotions. “I’m embarrassed that I fell apart.” Why did saying that make me feel more vulnerable than I felt during our wedding night?
“Why?” The question was gentle and patient as he stared at me in earnest.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“I think you do,” he countered, not relenting. “I’d imagine it’s the same reason Saul had to tell me what happened today. The reason why I first met you when you were crying all alone.”
My hands twisted together between us, one of my joints popping before Wick covered my hands with one of his. “Sia, stop. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
I blinked up at him. “You called me Sia.”
His brow furrowed. “Should I not?—”
“No,” I cut him off. “I like it. My parents and grandparents called me that.” Other than when I’d told Mr. Devane to call me by that name, I’d resigned myself to never hearing it again, even if that was part of the problem.
With a soft sigh, I looked down. “I had really bad anxiety as a kid. The therapist I saw said it was because my little sister died, and then my parents died… There was always a reason, but it didn’t change the fact that I was the weird, shy kid who would hyperventilate when I got overwhelmed.”
“I wish I could have been there for you then,” Wick murmured, shaking his head.
“After one really bad panic attack in the middle of a dinner with investors, my Nonna and I had a talk. She told me that there was nothing wrong with having anxiety. That she’d had it growing up, but her anxiety was because her family struggled to put food on the table or the war that was going on.”
My grandparents had faced real life, catastrophic events that made their anxiety make sense. I’d been thirteen and humiliated when I had one of my attacks when Papa’s investor started teasing me about how pretty I was, saying if I was a few years older, he would set me up with his son.
It was innocent, but I hated the attention. I wanted to disappear into the background, and I tumbled into a panic attack whenever someone shone a spotlight in my direction.
“After that, I told myself I’d learn how to handle it. And I did.” Mostly.
“What do you mean handle it, baby?” Wick asked, his voice low and rumbly.
I shrugged again. “I learned how to pretend so I didn’t embarrass them in front of their friends. In my head, I created two kinds of personalities. When I was Sia, I could hide in my room and fall apart. But when I was out in public, I was Alessia. And Alessia could be poised and polite and… perfect.”
“Fuck,” Wick muttered. “And your grandparents let you believe that shit?”
I glared at him. “My grandparents were my world.”
He winced. “I get that, baby, but… Do you hear what you’re saying? You had to create a perfect personality to make them happy?”
I shook my head. “It wasn’t to make them happy. It was so I could go to events and not be a basket case. And, yes, I realize I sound like a freak?—”
“Creating a mental space to protect yourself doesn’t make you a freak,” he cut me off vehemently. “I’m not saying that what you did was wrong, but it was wrong that your grandparents didn’t see you going through mental gymnastics to fit into their world.”
“You don’t understand.” I tried to push away and get up, but his hands gripped my waist and held me still. “Let go.”
“Why?” he challenged. “So you can go hide in your room and try to ignore the fact that you’re human? That you have feelings?”
“My grandparents gave up their lives to raise me,” I snapped. “They never once made me feel like a burden, and I didn’t want to complicate their lives.”
“So you hid everything,” Wick finished for me. “You shoved down your own emotions, probably compartmentalizing all of your own worries and fears to make it seem like you were fine.”
“People die every day of hunger. From wars and disease.” I bit my lower lip. “Falling apart because I can’t handle a compliment, or get embarrassed by someone, seems so stupid in comparison.”
“Fucking hell, baby.” Wick’s jaw clenched. “Yes, bad shit happens to people every day and it sucks, but that doesn’t minimalize your own emotions. And it sure as fuck doesn’t give men like Covington free reign to harass you.”
“He didn’t hurt me.”
Wick’s hand cradled my jaw, lifting my gaze to meet his. “He made you uncomfortable. He intimidated you. And if that wasn’t enough? He put his fucking hands on you.”
The ferocity in my husband’s eyes made my breath catch. He wasn’t just angry, he was livid.
For me.
“But I’m okay.” The compulsion to smooth things over was second-nature. But for the first time in a long time, I realized it wasn’t my job to make things okay or to make excuses for men like Kirkland Covington.
“I’m not,” Wick retorted. “And I’ll be damned if Covington is okay after tonight, too.”
“Meaning what?” My eyes rounded.
My husband eyed me, a muscle fluttering in his jaw.
“What did you do?” I demanded.
His lips twisted into a smug smile. “What I should’ve done when I found out you intended to keep working while we were married. I bought the company and fired your boss. Problem solved, baby.”