The Wife He Took for Granted

Three months.

That was all that remained of Abigail Thomas's marriage.

She had just submitted her application for a position at Seraphim when the news broke: her husband, Matthew Gonzalez, had been photographed entering a hotel with his first love.

Three years ago, Matthew's grandmother, Victoria Nguyen, had asked Abigail to marry Matthew. A three-year arrangement. Now, the clock was winding down. In three months, she would vanish from his world completely.

She hadn't told anyone. Not that anyone would care.

In Matthew's eyes, she was nothing more than a decoration. In three years of marriage, he had never touched her. The times he spoke to her could be counted on one hand. They were strangers living under the same roof.

Now that his first love had returned, his whole heart belonged to her. There was even less reason for Abigail to stay.

Her phone rang. Matthew's mother, Quinn Sullivan. "Abigail, handle the situation with Matthew and Delilah at the hotel. Don't let this blow up."

Abigail's chest tightened with exhaustion.

Delilah Roberts was Matthew's first love. Three years ago, when Victoria discovered their feelings for each other, she was furious and sent Delilah abroad. Matthew had been devastated. Abigail only learned all of this after the wedding.

"Quinn, I understand," Abigail said quietly.

"Don't be upset. And don't fight with Matthew." Quinn's voice was soothing. "Men always have lingering feelings for their past. You're Mrs. Gonzalez—you need to be understanding."

Abigail said nothing, but something hollowed out inside her.

Of course I'm hurt. When I married you, I really liked you.

But she wouldn't make a scene. She had promised Victoria she would take care of Matthew for three years. She had tried everything to please him, to be a good wife. She could never warm his cold heart.

Now she was tired. She couldn't love him anymore.

She changed, grabbed her keys, and drove to the hotel.

At the top-floor suite, she hesitated, then rang the bell.

The door opened quickly. Delilah stood there in a white bathrobe, her flaxen hair damp. When she saw Abigail, she smiled brightly. "Abigail, you're here!"

Abigail's gaze swept past her. "Where's Matthew?"

"He's in the bathroom." Delilah stepped aside.

Just then, the bathroom door opened. Matthew walked out in a matching bathrobe, drying his hair. When he saw Abigail, his expression hardened. "Why are you here?"

Before she could answer, Delilah jumped in. "Abigail, don't get the wrong idea. I spilled juice on myself at the airport. I just came here to clean up."

Matthew let out a cold laugh, his eyes mocking. "Do you really enjoy following me around that much?"

Abigail's face went pale. She wanted to explain that Quinn had sent her, but the words died in her throat. In his mind, everything she did was wrong.

She steadied her voice. "Quinn asked me to pick you up. Reporters have already taken photos of you and Ms. Roberts at the hotel. It might affect Gonzalez Corporation's stock price—"

Matthew cut her off. "Abigail, all you ever care about is the Gonzalez family's money. Did you manipulate my grandmother into forcing me to marry you?"

Each word was a blade.

What he didn't know was that before the marriage, she had secretly loved him for seven years. She had thought marrying him was the happiest moment of her life. She never expected it to be the beginning of her misery.

Delilah tugged at Matthew's arm. "Matthew, don't talk to her like that. Abigail is just worried about you. Go back with her, so Quinn won't worry."

His expression softened slightly. He shot Abigail a cold glance and turned back to the bedroom. "Wait while I change."

The bedroom door closed. The warmth drained from Delilah's face. She sneered. "You see? The person Matthew loves has always been me. So what if you've been Mrs. Gonzalez for three years? You still don't have his heart."

Abigail met her gaze coldly. "Too bad I'm the legitimate Mrs. Gonzalez right now. No matter how much he loves you, you're nothing but a homewrecker."

Delilah's face darkened. Just then, the bedroom doorknob turned. A flash of malice crossed her eyes.

She swayed and fell toward the coffee table, letting out a shrill scream.

Abigail instinctively reached for her—and her hand slammed hard into the table.

Matthew rushed out and helped Delilah up from the floor. "Delilah, what happened?"

Delilah clutched her wrist, tears welling up. She glanced pitifully at Abigail. "It's not Abigail's fault. I just lost my balance."

Abigail felt sick. Only Matthew would believe such a terrible act.

He turned on her, eyes blazing. "Abigail! Are you crazy? Delilah is a painter! If her hand is injured, how can she paint?"

His words left her hollow. She didn't bother to defend herself. She just watched as he cradled Delilah's hand with a tenderness she had never seen in three years of marriage.

He cared about Delilah's paintbrush hand. He didn't care at all that Abigail had given up her dream of being a designer for him.

"I'll take you to the hospital." Matthew lifted Delilah and headed for the door.

He never looked back at Abigail.

She stood alone, staring at the bruise blooming on her hand—the one she got trying to catch Delilah.

No one noticed. Matthew didn't even see it.

Whatever. I'm leaving in three months anyway.

Abigail's eyes reddened. She tilted her head back and let the thought carry her through.