Page 101 of Insta Bride
After being publicly humiliated with dozens of old photos of Kye and other women plastered all over social media, my pride wouldn’t let me say the words first.
But I did.
I loved him. More than I’d ever loved my ex.
Almost more than I loved chocolate ice-cream.
Who was I kidding, I could always buy another gallon of chocolate ice-cream. There’d never be another Kye.
Still, being married looked like it would help my career. The partners at my firm preferred inviting stable individuals to buy a partnership. Apparently, married equalled stable.
It only felt right being able to support Kye land Softli as a client. His firm was one of the largest hardware companies, and a strategic alignment with global tech giant, Softli was within reach.
“Are you ready for dinner tonight?”
I gasped as Kye walked out of the bathroom, naked as the moment he’d left our bed. Kye’s tan from the island had started to fade, but getting back into the weight training had given him muscles where no woman could resist touching.
Kye had spent the last week in Melbourne, talking strategy with his own senior directors. Arriving home last night after I’d fallen asleep, the twice daily phone calls hadn’t been enough to keep my jealous fear at bay. I’d spent hours studying all the trash photos of Kye on social media. Trying to interpret the way he’d looked at other women. Then, I’d stalk the other women on social media.
Most of them had played up their celebrity by association status. Whole blogs had been written and dedicated to my husband.
Some were written in past tense.
The ones that ate away at my self-confidence were the ones that appeared recent. Especially the ones that compared themselves to me.
While Kye had been away, building his career, I’d been at home, feeling our marriage erode.
If he hadn’t said the words by now, he never would.
“Lena, tonight? Ready?” he asked again.
Damn, each time I saw him, my hands wanted to own him. I wanted to lick my way down each bulging muscle and never come up for air.
“Sure.” I’d become expert at swallowing my lust and pride. “What do you want me to wear?”
“Whatever you’re comfortable in.”
“I doubt sweatpants and a yoga top will fit in at the restaurant.”
“Baby, you could wear nothing at all and you’d still fit in anywhere I go,” Kye deadpanned, watching for a reaction. The longer it took for him to say three little words, the more walls I’d built around my heart. He’d felt the walls grow, but didn’t know why.
I managed a smile, “Thank you kind sir, but I think I’ll stick with wearing clothes, just for the night.”
“Just so you know, you don’t have to wear clothes on my account.”
He stood, only a metre away. I could smell the musky cologne, and remembered how it mingled with our sex into something that should be bottled and sold. He kept rubbing his lips through his teeth as if there was something he wanted to say, and I wished he would. I wished he’d just put me out of my misery and confirm my fear.
Our marriage would end with the final camera.
“Seriously, what should I wear? I know tonight’s a big deal for you.” I broke the silence when he didn’t.
“Do you trust me?”
I raised my eyebrows as if to say, are you kidding me?
“For clothes, I mean, do you trust me?”
“Of course, I do.”