of stinging antiseptic and gauze. I was also told that I’d need to get a few stitches above my eye.
As the doctor began to stitch me up, I realized that I had been a giant, unfair shit when it came to Emzee.
Our fake marriage had always had an expiration date attached to it. That was the deal. But I hadn’t thought much about what would happen to Emzee after it was all over. I had safety nets and fallback plans. I even had a fucking fallback wife—Claudia—if I wanted one.
What did Emzee have?
She’d accused me before of cockblocking her future, which I hadn’t agreed with at the time. Now I could see that in a way, she was right. Despite the fact that things had shifted over the course of our relationship (fake or not), that both of us had changed, I was still acting like it was a given that Emzee saw me as her superior. Her hero. That whatever I needed, whatever I wanted, I could get from her with minimal effort on my part.
I expected her to be happy just to get crumbs of my attention and affection, the way she had been in high school. I’d even spent half a day flirting with Claudia right in front of her, like a total jackass, not realizing until later what it must have felt like for Emzee to have to see me and my ex together. I’d been so focused on my own shit that I hadn’t stopped to consider the consequences of what I was doing to Emzee and how it was going to affect her—not just now, but even after our marriage was over.
During the last seven years, I couldn’t remember a time where I hadn’t somehow held her back. Over and over I had proven that I wasn’t listening, that I was only focused on myself and my needs.
Well. I was done with all of that now.
It was time to stop standing in her way.
Emzee
Chapter 23
Back in the hotel room, I was so angry I could barely see straight.
Thanks to Ford, we’d been officially kicked out by the manager, so now we were packing up. I had no idea if Ford was flying back to Chicago right away or not, but my plan was to head to the hotel across the street, where my brother had luckily secured me a last-minute reservation. I’d texted with him and Luka earlier, giving them the least embarrassing version of the “my jealous husband got in a fistfight with Andrew Apellido” story I could manage. They’d been pretty understanding, but I was still humiliated.
As I stormed out of the bathroom with my toiletry case, I shot Ford a glare. He was brooding, barely speaking or even looking in my direction as he zipped up his laptop bag and set it on his suitcase. He’d been that way since we got back from Urgent Care.
I was sick and tired of it.
It was bad enough that I felt guilty for spending the day with Andrew, even though we’d done nothing wrong. Having Ford sulk around like he thought I owed him an apology was just icing on the cake. I wasn’t the one responsible for our current plight.
We’d just spent several long hours at a walk-in clinic, where poor Andrew got stitches in his lip, a splint for a broken finger, and was checked for a concussion. The whole time I’d been sitting with him, I couldn’t stop apologizing for what had happened. Ford had really gone off the deep end—he should be grateful Andrew wasn’t pressing charges.
Part of me couldn’t deny that there was something hot (in a primal, caveman-like way) about Ford trying to defend my honor…but that didn’t change the fact that the violence had been completely unnecessary. And stupidly bloody. I had already rejected Andrew’s kiss, which my husband would have known if he hadn’t just flung open the door, jumped to conclusions, and sucker punched the guy in the face. If he had stopped for one moment and given me a chance to explain, we could have avoided the whole thing.
So yeah. Ford was the one at fault. I didn’t need him acting like I was the guilty party.
What the hell was he even doing in New York to begin with? Did he really not trust me at a business conference with my brothers? The irony was, I never would have left Chicago, wouldn’t have even come to this convention, wouldn’t have run into Andrew at