Page 84 of Resist
I’m carefully combing through each line, in case something is coded, making sure each entry is an actual business expense and not some front for sexual assault. I’m not sure how I’d know, but so far, it seems everything’s in order.
I place the second book down, lift the third, and a creek in the floor pulls my attention to my fucking wife standing in the doorway of her office. Confusion is clear on her face, and there’s a takeout bag of what I can only guess is soup or something equally adorable and kind in her hand. “Sterling? What the fuck are you doing?”
CHAPTER 32
Cora
If my hand trembled anymore,I’d drop the bag of chicken noodle soup in a moment of high drama you’d expect to see in a movie. Instead, I clasp the bag tighter, my nails puncturing through the brown paper.
I swallow, flex my jaw, close my eyes and count to three in a bid to calm down. Why the fuck is Sterling balls deep in paperwork for Blackwell Publishing?
He’s clearly looking for something. I’ve stood here long enough to know he’s a man consumed by the task of digging. He’s methodically combing through piles of documents, but I don’t know what he’s searching for.
His face betrays a myriad of emotions that are all reflected in my chest. What the fuck is going on? What’s he looking for in my belongings? He’s wealthy, so doesn’t need money.... or does he? Is this a shtick? Getting women to trust him so he can steal from them?
I can’t make the pieces fit together at all. What could he possibly be searching for in old files from our publishing house? It’s not making sense.
Confusion and fear have my body in a death grip, my muscles are so tight, pulled so taut I’m afraid they may snap, or shatter. I’m not sure which.
“Don’t make me ask again, Sterling.” My voice wavers as I struggle to prepare myself for the worst, whatever that may be.
He flinches at the sharpness in my voice, then places the book he’s holding onto the pile next to him. He’s clearly been at this a while, from the layout of the boxes, he’s about halfway through. He’s got a swipe of dust across his cheek, sweat beads on his forehead, and his water bottle and mug of tea are both empty.
This isn’t just a random curiosity.
He rakes both his hands through his hair. The downturn of his lips, the sadness in his eyes, the way his shoulders curl forward tell me he’s battling with something inside.
“Tell me what you’re looking for, I might be able to help you find it.”
It’s giving red flags, for sure. But I can’t figure out what they are. I keep coming back to the money thing, but other things flit across my mind from simply being a nosy fucker to corporate espionage. Though that may be my overactive imagination from reading a few too many thriller novels coming out to play.
Either way, I can’t shake the unnerved feeling snaking through my veins. I feel somehow duped, like this fake marriage may be even faker than I thought. It’s another reminder that I don’t know my new husband much at all.
What have I married into?
Trying to soothe the building anxiety in my veins, I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Corabelle, maybe we should sit down to talk about this.” I place the soup on the desk at the wall perpendicular to the door so I don’t pour it all over myself with my trembling hands.
“I don’t want to sit, Sterling. I want to know what the fuck you’re doing going through all of my company’s documentation. What the fuck are you looking for? Who are you? Are you here to spy on me?”
“No!” He shakes his head, but halfway through he stops and nods. “Yes. Kind of. I... Fuck.”
My patience is shredding like the hem of a shirt when you’ve pulled a loose thread. If he doesn’t hurry up and spit out what he’s doing, I might scream, or slap him, or call the police. Maybe all fucking three.
“I don’t know how to say it.” He looks truly conflicted, his beautiful features layered with agony.
“Just say it.” I fold my arms, like it’s a layer of armor that may help me prepare myself, or defend myself against my fake husband’s betrayal.
“I...”
“Just fucking say it, Sterling.” I’m not proud of the hysteria that’s woven itself into my voice, or the way my bottom lip tremors, or how my legs are shaking, threatening to buckle from under me.
“Your father raped my mother, Corabelle.” His mouth keeps moving, but all I hear is a deafening ringing in my ears. He’s here to discredit my father? To ruin the company he dedicated his life to building, and all because he thinks Dad hurt his mom.
“I-it’s impossible.” I shake my head. My body’s already filling with a fast fury at this man’s audacity to stand in front of me and spout lies about my fucking father when he’s barely cold in the ground. “You have the wrong man. Your mom has the wrong man.”
He’s still talking, but I’m hearing maybe every few words at best, my head’s still shaking as the trembling in my limbs gets worse.