Chapter 6 Chapter 6

Darcy

After my parents left, Emerson and I stood rooted to the ground for what seemed to me like an eternity. My eyes prickled, and a dull feeling settled in my chest. He turned and started walking to the car parked on the other side. My legs followed.

The driver came down when he saw us and opened the door. I entered first, then Emerson. I sat at the end of the car, pushing myself into the soft leather seat, keeping space between us.

This was my life now, this was what I signed up for, and I had no right to be sad over it. Emerson had not forced me.

I wondered what Emerson's house would look like. I wanted to ask him. I turned to him to see him focused on his iPad.

His profile was astonishingly handsome, he had this icy look which somehow made him slightly more charismatic. How could two brothers look so apart? I tilted my head to the side and suddenly remembered they were stepbrothers.

"What?" he asked without lifting his head.

I turned my face away. "What?" I asked back, clearing my throat.

"I'm glad something else caught your attention. I was beginning to think you'd moped for the entire ride like an abandoned wife." 

"Abandoned wife?"

He lifted his head and slowly turned to me, "Hmm. I understand, though, you were still mourning your loss. But I don't think I'd be able to stand that for more than one night."

Arrogant. He spoke as though he owned me, and that didn't sit well with me. "You don't decide how I choose to grieve for my past."

"Your past is over. This is the present." He touched his chest, "Me." He paused, and something cold settled between us. "I won't appreciate my woman crying over others, be it exes or parents."

That's it, this man was sick. "Trial wife." I corrected. He lifted a brow, his hand sliding off his chest, "We are here because we both want something."

His lips pressed into a thin line, and I could feel so many thoughts were passing over his head as his eyes remained glued to my face. The air grew thicker with each second, but I'd eat stone before looking away and give him the satisfaction that I'm controllable.

A text from my phone tore through the tension. My hand reached for it before my brain could register the fact that I wasn't supposed to break eye contact with Emerson.

"We are married, be it trial or not, I'm bound to you, and you’re bound to me." His voice was soft but firm.

I pulled out my phone to see a text from my boss, it was a screenshot of our wedding post with over a dozen question marks.

I placed the phone into my purse without answering it. I inhaled a scent of breath and rested my head on the headrest, my eyes shutting close slowly.

He was right. We were married. There was no use fighting.

The next time I opened my eyes, the car had parked in an underground parking lot, and Emerson had stepped out. I did the same and followed behind him. He walked too fast, and I stopped trying to catch up when I realised it was impossible for me to meet his pace.

My breath hitched when I stepped into the sitting room. It was bigger than I expected and luxurious, every part of the room screamed money.

High ceilings, a chandelier with diamonds all over it. The room had a dark theme. There was a glass table in the middle surrounded by four couches. My eyes ran along the walls, which were designed with so much artwork. I looked out of the ceiling to the glass window, my feet unconsciously took a step forward.

I would have taken another step had Emerson's hand not caught my wrist. I schooled my features, keeping it neutral.

"This is Davison." he said, gesturing towards a man who had an apron tied around his neck and a chef cap on. He bowed, "Welcome, madam."

"He is the chef."

He introduced me to the housekeeper, Mrs. Blackstone, and instructed her to take me to my room.

I kicked my heels off. The tiles were cold under my feet. I kissed my feet and rushed to the rug. It was soft and fluffy. I smiled, as I took in the room. Just as rich was this man? 

This room was three times the size of my room and decorated in the same dark theme.

I threw myself on the bed and rolled from one end to the other. My dress bit into my skin, and I decided it was time to take it off. Sitting straight, I threw my hand to my back, trying to unzip the dress. My hand barely caught the head of the zipper before it slipped off.

I rose to my feet and kept trying. Just then, I felt a warm hand grazed over mine. With a hissing sound, the zipper opened, and I caught the dress on my chest before it fell to the ground.

I caught a familiar smell of cologne as I whipped my head around. Emerson was behind me. His tie was nowhere on his neck, and a few of his buttons were undone, I could see a line of ink peeping out.

I took a step back, furrowing my brows. I dragged in a breath, ‘I know we were married, but can't he at least knock before stepping into my room.’

He arched a brow, and from the way his face twisted into something-

"Knock?" he said with so much irritation, interrupting my line of thought.

Wait, did I say that out loud?

I slapped one hand over my mouth.

I tried to shrug as though it wasn't a big deal, "I mean, yes. We may be married, but you can't just barge into my room."

"It seems there's one thing you have in common with that jerk. No sense of courtesy." he said and sat on the bed.

"Oh, there's so much more." I said sarcastically. "What do you want? Why are you in my room?" I asked, my hand not leaving my dress because if it did, it would slide down and my chest would be exposed.

"It's my room too." he said, his hand unfastening the remaining button. My eyes drifted from his working fingers back to his face. This was a joke, right? Except it wasn't, his face was as expressionless as it always was.

I took a step back and then another. "Why are we sharing a ro-" my words died in my throat as my legs caught the rug, and in a heartbeat, I was tumbling to the ground.