Keep Me (Sinful Manor #1)

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Killian and I got married last year on September 18. The divorce papers showed up just shy of one year later, on the twelfth. They were hand delivered by a notary who had to watch me sign them while I sobbed into the sleeve of my sweater.

And just like that, it was over.

I found a furnished short-term rental in Manhattan, but I spend every night tossing and turning because I forgot how loud it is here. I miss the quiet of the country, the creaks of that old house, and the sound of his footsteps when he would come in from the fields.

I miss his voice, the deep, rasping texture of it when he’d growl into my ear. I miss the feel of his enormous hands in mine. The safety, the comfort, the familiarity.

Almost immediately after leaving Barclay Manor, the loneliness crept in. I’ve typed so many messages to him just to delete them later. If this is what missing someone feels like, I wish I had never fallen in love with him at all.

Killian wasn’t just my husband for a brief, strange period. He was the first person I ever truly cared about. The first person who loved me for me. The first person it hurt to say goodbye to.

Walking down the streets in New York, I try to imagine that it was all just a dream, but then I swear I hear him call my name in the distance or the buzz of a bee, and I’m transported right back to where it all started.

If I could tell him anything right now, I’d tell him that I’m trying. I moved some of my things out of storage. I’ve started working on a new novel. I even made a friend in my building who tells me way too much information every time we strike up a conversation, but he makes me laugh, and someday, I imagine I might tell him about the bougie swinger parties I used to go to with my fake husband in Scotland.

But not yet. Maybe someday I will.

For now, I try to get through each sunrise and each sunset. I bring my laptop to the coffee shop and I watch the people walk by while trying to piece together some sort of story that sounds half as fascinating as ours.

I imagine he’s over my shoulder reading it like he did that day. In my imagination, the couples always start as enemies, more at war with themselves than each other. But then they eventually realize that the only people willing to fight with them are the ones who care about them.

Or at least that’s how this new one is going.

“Sylvie?”

I glance up from my laptop at the sound of a familiar voice. It takes my eyes a moment to recognize the woman glaring at me from a seat near me. Her hair is much shorter, in a pixie cut, and the scowl she often wore when I saw her has relaxed into a soft frown.

“Enid?” I question, trying to remember the last time I spoke to my parents’ right-hand woman.

“I thought you lived in Scotland with your mean husband,” she says in a bitter tone.

In the past, I might have reacted in anger, but now I only laugh. “No, not anymore.”

“Oh,” she replies, swallowing her discomfort. “I’m sorry about that.”

I shrug. “Thanks.”

“Do your parents know you’re back?”

My spine stiffens. Rather than have a conversation with this woman from the next table, I decide to join her at hers. For a woman I still despise, this feels like a very mature step for me.

“No,” I reply. “Please, don’t tell them.”

She scoffs. “Oh, I don’t work for them anymore.”

My jaw drops. “What?”

“They fired me back in July.”

I knit my brow as I recount the last time I saw them. They never said anything about firing Enid, and she’s been with them for years.

“Artists,” she says with an eye roll. “So temperamental.”

“Did it have to do with me?” I ask, which immediately makes me feel like an idiot. Of course, it doesn’t. Nothing in my parents’ life ever has to do with me.

“Yes,” she says plainly. Staring right into my eyes, she says, “I told them what a self-serving, entitled, talentless brat you are.”

We stare at each other before a chuckle bubbles from my lips, spilling out into a full laugh. Tears fill my eyes, and I can’t seem to stop myself.

She doesn’t laugh with me, but she doesn’t look as mean and miserable as she usually does either. Who knows, maybe Enid got laid this year and it made her loosen up a little.

When my laughter finally dies down, I wipe my tears and let out a heavy sigh.

“I thought you’d like to hear that,” she says softly.

“I did. It’s probably the most they’re ever going to stick up for me, but it’s nice.”

She nods. “You’re probably right. Just remember, it’s not you. It’s them.”

“Oh, you’re on my side now?” I reply with a laugh.

She shrugs. “They don’t sign my paychecks anymore. And I started to feel as if they never really saw me anyway.”

“I know how that feels,” I reply, staring down at the coffee cup in my hands. “Well, thank you for telling me that.”

“You’re welcome.”

I’m about to stand up to return to my table when she asks, “Is it true your husband threw a rug at them?”

This time, we both break out into laughter just before I tell her the whole story.

***

Most nights, I don’t sleep much. I’ve been home now for over a month and a half, and I still blame jet lag for the reason I’m wide awake at 3 a.m. Part of me wonders if it’s because I know somewhere he’s awake too. When he’s active, I can’t rest. We are that in tune now.

With time, I’m sure it will wear off, but so far I can’t get through a single night without crying myself to sleep.

On this particular night, I wake up at three in the morning with a new text message. I bolt upright as I stare at the screen.

Killian : I like the ending.

The sight of his name makes my chest seize up, and my cheeks grow hot. Just four words, and I feel whole again.

It takes me a moment before I realize he is referring to my story.

I quickly type out my reply.

Me : Thank you.

Killian : You should publish it.

Me : I wrote it for you.

Killian : I love it.

Me : I’m glad.

We’re silent for a moment, both of us probably unsure where to go from here. What do we say to each other now? My fingers are aching to type out I miss you. I love you. Please let me come home.

But he responds first.

Killian : How are you?

Me : I can’t sleep.

Me : How are you?

Killian : I’m trying.

My chest aches, and I choke down a sob. Deep down, I keep asking myself this one burning question. If Killian thinks he’s sparing me from a life spent in that house, what is left to motivate him to get out? Won’t he just fall back into his own ways? Why can’t I help him?

Killian : I need to hear your voice.

I dial his number so fast my fingers hurt. As the call rings, I chew on the inside of my lip, waiting to hear his voice.

“What time is it there?” he asks in a growly whisper.

My skin erupts in goose bumps at the sound. His voice seeps into my pores like warm honey.

“Three thirty,” I reply.

“It’s half past eight here.”

“You’re up early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he mutters.

“Me neither.”

“Do you feel different?” he asks. “Being home.”

“What do you mean?”

He clears his throat. “I mean, do you feel like you belong there?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t know where I belong.”

I belong with you , I want to say, but I hold myself back. Putting too much pressure on him isn’t what I want to do either. I can still see the gaunt look in his eyes that day after the beach. I can’t do that to him again. I can’t be as bad as the others.

If letting Killian Barclay go is what I have to do for his own good, I’ll do it.

“Do you feel different? Now that I’m gone.”

He clears his throat. “The house feels smaller. I don’t like how quiet it is without your footsteps in the hall.”

I swallow the pain climbing up my throat. Don’t push, Sylvie.

“How did your aunt react?” I ask.

He lets out a breath of laughter. “She lost her mind, but Anna spoke to her. The house is mine, and she can’t take it away.”

“Good,” I reply, and I mean it. Nothing pleases me more than hearing him say that. “It’s all over, then,” I add. The contract, the marriage, the whole thing.

“Aye,” he replies. “It’s over.”

“What will you do now?” I ask.

He doesn’t reply, and I hear the struggle in his heavy breath. I’m waiting, hoping, praying that he’ll say something that might possibly involve me.

“I need more time, mo ghràidh. And I can’t ask that from you.”

I blow out a silent, quivering breath as I stare down at my bed, letting a tear fall directly from my eyes to the pillow. “I’ll give you whatever you need, Killian. If you tell me you need my help, I’ll help you. If you tell me to wait, I’ll wait. That was the vow we took, remember? It might be over, but I still believe in those words we swore. I’ll do whatever you need because that’s what wives do.”

He lets out an exhale that sounds hopeful.

“Oh, darling,” he replies. “Sylvie, I don’t want you to wait.”

My heart shatters. I didn’t know heartbreak could hurt so much, but it’s true. It’s agony.

I physically bow over in my bed from the pain, holding in a silent cry as he devastates me with his words.

“I need to do this on my own, love,” he continues. “And I’m afraid it might take forever. So, if you want to make me a vow, then promise me that you won’t put your life on hold for me. You’re not coming back to Barclay Manor, and we are not married. Tell me you understand.”

The phone line is silent as I cry into my pillow.

“Please, Sylvie. I need to hear you say it.”

He must hear the wet sounds of my next inhale because he makes a sympathetic sound.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

After a moment, I work up the courage to give him what he wants. “I understand. I won’t wait for you, but I will be here to help you. No matter what, I will always want to help you.”

“That’s good enough then,” he replies softly. “Then, right now, I want you to get some sleep.”

“I don’t want to hang up,” I cry.

“Then, keep the phone on your pillow. I’ll be here until you fall asleep.”

Wiping my tears, I do as he said. I lie on the bed, resting my phone face up on the pillow. Staring at his name on the screen, I let the sound of his breath on the other line lull me off to sleep.

It’s the first restful sleep I’ve had in weeks, and the entire time, I dream of gentle bees and typewriter keys scattered in the grass.