The Accidental Marriage: Chapter 42

–Lareina: Are you okay?

No. I haven’t been okay since you mentioned divorce.

My default response—I’m fine—comes to mind, but I hold back. Lying won’t help anybody. She isn’t a fool, and she knows I’m upset. Are you okay? is her way of asking if I’d like to talk about it, and I’m fine would be the clearest way to shut her down.

–Me: Not really. But we can’t get divorced. I didn’t get what I want. We have to talk, Lareina. Don’t do anything rash and don’t move out or get a lawyer. Definitely not Ethan Beckman.

That asshole would rub his hands together with glee if he filed for divorce on her behalf. My misery is his joy.

–Me: Wait for me. I’m coming right now.

I climb into my car and floor it. The phone stays silent—hopefully she’s digesting what I told her. After all, I just delivered a major blow to her plans.

If Lareina were some other woman, I’d be confident that “I love you” might be enough to convince her. But she’s anything but ordinary. She has her own internal logic and way of looking at things. If I can’t change her views, she won’t cave. No matter what. I need to delay the divorce and use the time wisely to show her I’m worth keeping.

As for the promotion, fuck it. The firm can give it to me next year or the year after. Or if Dad is too pissed to make me a partner, I’ll just stay an associate for life. Better yet, I could quit and be a man of leisure, spend all my time with my wife. We haven’t even had a honeymoon.

What an idiot I’ve been. I should’ve taken time off and spoiled her. She’s spent her life trapped in a house in Nesovia by her evil aunt. I could show her the wonders on every continent, see the world again through her eyes and discover new beauty.

My car squeals as I turn and brake. I kill the engine, hop out and run inside. The house is silent, although lights are on in the kitchen and living room.

“Lareina?” I call out. “Honey?”

More silence.

“Lareina?” I call out again, louder.

Still nothing.

Apprehension slithers down my spine. It isn’t like her to avoid me like this. Where did she go?

I pull out my phone to check her location.

What in the world? Is this thing broken? Why is she stuck halfway between here and the citrus grove owned by the Pryces? It’s just an area with a bunch of woods and crap. And she doesn’t even have a driver’s license yet.

Did she take one of the cars out anyway, to clear her head? But it seems irresponsible—not something she would do, no matter how upset.

Heart pounding, I rush to the garage. The sensors turn on the light.

“Lareina!” I shout desperately, hoping she’ll hear me no matter where she is. The name echoes, but there’s no response.

My eyes sweep over tens of gleaming vehicles. None is missing.

Something’s wrong. The fine hair on my back stands. Terror burns my gut. I check the app again. Lareina’s location hasn’t changed.

What Grandmother said once flashes through my mind. “I love undeveloped areas with trees and wildlife. But sometimes I feel like they’re the city planners’ way of accommodating serial killers who might be living in the community.”

It’s not a serial killer. I haven’t seen or heard anything like that on the news. But the tension in my belly tightens like an overstretched violin string.

I get inside the Cayenne and speed off. On the way, my phone rings. I answer immediately, praying it’s Lareina calling because she didn’t hear me from the bathroom or something.

“We got a problem,” Francisco from the LAPD says. “Rupert Fage escaped.”

I run an impatient hand over my face. Why is he calling me? What does he want me to do about it? “How? Did you get him back?”

“We’ll get to the bottom of that soon enough.” Translation: We don’t know, and we don’t want to admit it. “And no, he’s out and about. Very dangerous. He’s been missing for at least five hours.”

The blood in my veins turns to ice. Rupert’s out, and Lareina disappears? I flex my fingers around the steering wheel as rage, fear and frustration claw at me. “Five hours? And you’re telling me this now?”

“Calm down. We’re sending a couple of cruisers over to your place, just in case.”

“Forget it. My wife’s missing! Her phone says her last location’s off the road to the Pryce Citrus Grove. Hold on. Let me give you the coordinates.” Taking advantage of a red light, I go to the tracking app and rattle off the numbers. “I’m going to need you there. Now!”

Lareina…

The light hasn’t changed to green yet, but I hit the gas hard, leaving a wake of honking cars behind me.

Hang on. I’m coming.