Beautiful Revenge (A Good Wife #1) - Sienna Blake Page 0,72

crying.

She nudges my arm. “Go to him. Tell him the truth.”

“What truth?”

Emily gives me a look. “Really, Leni? You need me to figure that out?”

It rises to the surface of my murky mass of emotions.

I love him. No matter what he’s done.

Because of what he’s done. I love him.

I wring my hands. “Even if I did want to go talk to him, I don’t know where he…” I trail off as Emily pushes a piece of paper in my hands. A piece of paper with an address on it.

69

____________

Dimitri

Two days since I ran into Alena. Two days and I can still feel her bumping against my chest. I can still smell her scent.

She looked so beautiful, like always. But there had been something different about her.

I hadn’t known she was here in London. I had been shocked, but recovered quickly, making sure to remain calm, pleasant, to show her that I had no lingering hatred for her. Our conversation had been going well.

She had asked me for a dinner recommendation. I wasn’t so foolish to not understand what that meant. She wanted me to ask her to dinner. For a moment, my heart had leapt with joy. Then I realised what was different about her.

She looked free. She looked genuinely happy. Without me.

The realisation stabbed me deep in my solar plexus, taking away all of my breath. I knew she was better off without me. There…there was proof. Suddenly it hurt to be near her. I’m not sure what excuse I made—if I made any—before I scrambled away.

A knock on the door to my bedroom breaks through my thoughts. I shift in my chair.

“Come in, Javier,” I call.

The door opens. A figure too small to be Javier walks in.

“Alena,” I choke on her name. I leap to my feet, brushing my shirt down and running my hands through my hair.

She is as lovely as the day I first laid eyes on her. Not poverty, nor sickness, nor hatred of me could ever diminish her beauty. She’s let her hair go wild and natural again, like I always loved. Her eyes sparkle like the sun off the sea.

“I hope you don’t mind. Javier let me in.” She takes a step towards me and I swear I can feel the air pressurise against my skin.

You could never be an intrusion. “Not at all,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. Unsurprised. As if The One That Got Away strolling into my bedroom was an everyday occurrence. “Please, take a seat. I can call for tea or something stronger if you like?”

I might need something stronger.

Shit. I should have kicked her out, not invited her for a drink. I wasn’t sure I could stop from falling deeper in love with her. My love was already hopeless.

She ignores my offer for a chair or a drink. “I wanted to talk to you about my manuscript.” Her eyes are on me, openness in them, gratitude…

I notice the pages in her hand.

Her manuscript.

That look in her eyes.

“You know,” I say, my voice growing hard.

“Javier didn’t tell me,” she says quickly.

“Then how—?”

“It doesn’t matter. What matters is why you didn’t tell me?”

I stiffen. That’s why she’s here. “I didn’t blackmail anyone into taking it. I just had Javier show it to publishers. They loved it. It’s a great manuscript, Alena.”

“You…you read it?”

I give her a single curt nod. Because I’m too busy trying not to fall further in love with her to speak properly.

“Well, thank you. Except there is something wrong with it.”

“Wrong? No, I read it all and—”

“The ending.” She steps closer. “The ending is all wrong.”

“Oh?” I can’t help myself, I inch closer to her. She has always been the flame that I will be eternally drawn to. She is my northern star. My way home.

“Yes,” she takes another step towards me and another. “I don’t think they should go to America.”

“No?” I mirror her movements, my heart hammering louder the closer we get.

“I think, that’s what they thought they wanted. They’ve both made mistakes. They’ve both been silly and stubborn. And…and afraid of saying what they really feel. I think they want to stay here, to live here in England together, happy and in love. With Emily.” We’re almost toe to toe now.

“You mean Emma,” I correct her, because the girl in the novel is named Emma. I think I’m correcting her. I’m falling into her eyes, losing myself in her again.

“Here,” she pushes the papers into my hands, “you should read my