Page 77 of Cursing My Cheating Husband

“Here, I can show you on the portal for my health insurance.” He stabbed at the phone screen as he hastily typed in his passcode and handed the phone over to me. “My insurance has all the records. Look, here… Dr. DeMille, every Monday and Thursday at noon.”

I snatched the phone from his hands, scrolled, and sure enough, there it was, plain as day.

Months of twice-weekly therapy sessions.

The phone felt heavy in my hands. I had been so certain it was a lie. I could not have been more certain! How could I have been wrong?

“This doesn’t…” I shook my head. “You could have faked this. You could have actually gone and just sat there, not engaged, and made a joke of it.”

“I’m not making a joke of it. Every session I show up and I try to work as hard as I can.”

“Work hard at getting Ms. DeMille off, maybe? I know your dick isn’t working, but your tongue is.”

“No, I promise you. It’s not anything like that.”

“Then why haven’t I heard about it until now?” I demanded, tossing his phone back onto the counter. “If this were legit, you would use it to score points with me.”

“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. I knew I had to do it for real. If I were doing it just so you would see me doing it… I don’t want to manipulate people like that anymore.”

His eyes were so soulful as he said it. Those stupid fucking soulful eyes. Exactly what lured me in with him in the first place.

“Why should I believe that? Why should I believe anything you say?”

“You shouldn’t.”

That stopped me.

“You’re right,” he continued, and his voice was so fucking calm, so measured, that I wanted to throw something at him. “You have no reason to trust me. I destroyed that. I know it’s way too late to matter to you, but I am trying to fix what’s broken in me.”

He seemed so sincere.

But he had always seemed sincere, hadn’t he?

“Twice a week.” I made it sound like an accusation. “What, once wasn’t enough? Needed extra credit?”

He hesitated briefly before forging ahead. “I asked for three times, actually.”

I blinked.

“Dr. DeMille said no. She said three times a week creates its own problems. Too much therapeutic dependence, not enough time to process between sessions. But she said two could be helpful, especially when the problems are acute. I wanted to be as aggressive as I could about treating my issues.”

I felt like my brain was going to explode. None of this computed with the Maddox I knew. Not even servant Maddox of recent months.

I paced, agitation overwhelming me. Nothing here made sense.

And then, it suddenly hit me. I saw what was really going on. Cackling manic laughter erupted from me, and I hated how crazed it sounded. “I just got it! I see the plan now!”

Maddox stared at me, his eyes a convincing imitation of vulnerability and yearning.

“I can’t believe it took me this long. This was pretty clever, actually. Do all this stuff—the therapy, the charity—but don’t tell me directly. Plant it with people like Ryder and Duke, so it gets back to me. And because I discovered it ‘accidentally,’ that’ll make it believable.” I was waving my hands around like a crazy person as the pieces of his scheme fell into place. “That’s how you fool me. That’s how you get me to believe this is real!”

“Callie—”

“The charity work.” I spun to face him. “How disgusting was that, huh? Having to be around homeless people and pretend to give a shit about them? Did you do a full-body rubdown with sanitizer after?”

“Please!” The word riped out of him as the devastation he’d been trying to hide cracked across his face, naked and raw. “I’m sorry, Callie, I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t you dare apologize to me!”