Page 126 of The Wrong Groom

Alexis

Not for the first time in the week since I left Gabriel’s house, I wake up in a cold sweat, tangled in my sheets.

It’s been difficult to sleep since he ended things. Every time I close my eyes, I see his face. The way his jaw tightened when he spoke, the mask that settled over his features, shutting me out as I begged for answers.

The first night in this apartment, I thought it must have been a mistake. I was on high alert, awake late into the night as I waited for a knock on the door. I assumed that Gabriel would turn up eventually and explain himself to me. Apologize. Take me back.

I stayed up until two in the morning, sitting upright on the mattress. The place came furnished, another gesture of care from the man who claims to want me out of his life. Still, it felt empty, dark, compared to the house I had just left. I felt like sleep would never come, and when it did, it was restless, uneasy.

I was prepared for the same involuntary vigil the next day. The same waiting, the same hope that maybe I’d hear his voice outside my door, or see his name flash across my phone screen.

At around two o’clock, the knock finally came, but it wasn’t Gabriel outside the apartment door. It was a lawyer who had come by on his request—to serve me the divorce papers.

I signed them. I was numb, hurt. I didn’t want to draw out the pain. Didn’t see any benefit to arguing when Gabriel had so clearly made up his mind.

Still, signing those papers felt like stabbing my own heart. It’s been six days since, and I haven’t been able to sleep soundly or feel a moment’s happiness. None of my usual escapes have worked. I can’t lose myself in a book. The romances in those pages, the steamy sex and passionate declarations of love, do nothing but depress me.

I glance over at the alarm clock on the otherwise bare side table. It’s five in the morning. I don’t need to be up for another two hours, but I know I’m not going to be able to get back to sleep.

I sit up, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. My pulse throbs in my temples, and my forehead is slick with sweat, but I feel cold, clammy. I reach shakily for a glass of water on the nightstand and gulp it down, but it doesn’t help.

I feel completely lost. I don’t know how I let this happen, how I let myself get hurt. Gabriel warned me from the very beginning that he could never love me.

I was an idiot for losing sight of that. For giving my heart to a man who told me outright that he couldn’t give me his. I should’ve listened, should’ve protected myself. But I didn’t.

My knees are unsteady as I drag myself out of bed. I feel like I’m wading through waist-high water as I make my way to the bathroom. My stomach churns, and I feel faintly nauseous.

Flipping on the lights, I stare at my reflection above the sink for a few seconds. I barely recognize myself. My hair is dull, lacking its usual shine. The waves have lost all definition, and the dry strands fall limply over my shoulders. There are bags beneath my puffy, red-rimmed eyes.

The light feels harsh, and my head aches as I card my hands through my damaged hair listlessly. A voice in the back of my mind is trying to keep me going. Come on, Alexis. Shower. Use a little conditioner. Take care of yourself, then head to the warehouse. It’ll make you feel better.

It would be more motivating if that voice didn’t sound like Gabriel’s.

With a groan, I force myself to lurch toward the shower. I run the water and turn the temperature up until steam fills the bathroom, fogging the mirror and softening the light. Hiding my reflection from myself.

I step under the hot water. Some of the tension leaves my shoulders, and I exhale, tilting my head to wet my hair. My body aches in a way that seems deeper than physical, but this is better than nothing.

I grab the bottle of shampoo from the corner shelf and squeeze a generous amount into my palm. The scent is familiar, soothing in its own way, and I lather it through my hair. As the suds swirl down the drain, that voice sneaks into my mind again. That’s it. Keep going.

The steam aerates the fragrance of my conditioner. Vanilla and the sweet scent of honey waft through the bathroom, delicate and soothing.

There. Isn’t that better?

It is, and it isn’t. The shower has woken me up, yes, but my stomach is still agitated. The nausea hasn’t faded. And, of course, there’s that ever-present ache in my chest, which feels untouchable, permanent.

I rinse the conditioner, step out of the shower, and run a comb through my hair while I shiver in front of the sink. Then I shamble back to the bedroom to get dressed. I pull clothes out of one of my suitcases, still open on the floor and unemptied. I haven’t had the heart to fill the closet or the dresser. This place isn’t enough of a home yet.

As I throw on something simple and comfortable, a knit cardigan and a skirt, I wonder bleakly if it’ll ever feel like home. If a day will come when I walk out into the kitchen, make myself coffee, and feel that same sense of peace that Gabriel’s house made me feel. I can’t imagine it. I’ve never been able to find it anywhere else.

I call a car to take me to the Fashion For All warehouse. At this point, it’s the only place in the world that feels like it’s truly mine. This work, my passion project, is the only thing left that makes sense. I’ve spent as much time here as I possibly can over the past week.

The driver winds through the streets of Los Angeles. The city is just beginning to wake up as the sun crests the Santa Ana Mountains. The sky is a warm, vibrant orange. The dawn’s light catches the haze that hangs in the air, a remnant of a wildfire raging a few hundred miles to the north of us. I rest my head against the window and watch the day start to unfold, but even the sunrise can’t shake the numbness.

In my lap, my phone vibrates. An early call from my mother. She’s called at least ten times so far this week. I have another six missed calls from my father, and five missed calls from Vérité’s offices.

I toss my phone into the empty seat beside me and let it ring. I don’t want to face them. Not yet. I’m not ready for their scorn, their disappointment.

I’ve failed at the one task they set out for me: to be a good wife. To marry into the Thorne family. The strange thing is, I can’t bring myself to feel bad about any of that.