Page 132 of Hate to Love You
“I knew who you were. You might not know this, but we were in the same circle at one point in time, Miss Wayne,” I say, watching as her jaw drops. “And I have to say, you seemed pretty content on his arm at all the parties and Galas. So, I guess I’m just having a hard time understanding why you’d be out here spreading a lie about him still being alive and—”
“He…wasn’t a good person, okay?” Abby suddenly snaps, closing her eyes.
“What?”
She stares at me for a long moment, and then takes a deep breath.
“Look, I loved him, and I’m sure it appeared that he loved me. I’m sure it looked like we were this incredibly happy couple, because that’s exactly what he wanted everyone to think. But behind closed doors, he was…he was just different,” she sighs, playing with her fingernails. “I don’t expect you to understand.”
I hear the bartender set Abby’s drink down on the bar, and I hear Abby thank her, but I still refuse to tear my eyes from her.
“Try me.”
She scoffs quietly to herself.
“Why did you marry him?” I ask, hating the way my chest tightens at the thought of her picking anyone else. “If he was mistreating you?”
“He didn’t start out mistreating me,” she says softly.
She takes a deep breath, rolling her eyes and sitting back in her chair.
“I’m not sure what you’re looking for here, but it’s not that unique of a story. He was something, I was nothing, and I was just grateful that he picked me. He got a football scholarship, and I followed him to school. But then he tore his ACL and couldn’t play anymore, he started drinking, and started partying. I don’t know. He just changed. And so did the way he treated me.”
“Tell me,” I ask quietly. “Did he…hurt you?”
But says nothing.
“Abigail,” I whisper darkly. “Did he hurt—”
“Who cares if he did?” she suddenly laughs sarcastically.
“I fucking do,” I growl. “And I care about whether his parents knew about it and—”
“He’s dead, Roman,” She scoffs, throwing her hands in the air. “What are you going to do? Dig up his coffin and beat up his corpse? No, you’re not. Because it’s done. It’s over. Good, bad, or indifferent, there’s nothing anyone can do to fix the past. But in my future, you know, the one I’m still responsible for? I don’t have to think about him anymore, so I don’t. That’s my peace.”
She takes a deep breath but narrows her eyes at me further.
“And yeah, I lied to you about him, and yeah, I probably shouldn’t have. But in that particular moment, I guess telling you he was an ex, and not my dead shitty husband felt like what I wanted to do. And you know, after spending years under someone else’s thumb, I make it a point to only ever do what I want to do,” she scoffs, chuckling softly and rolling her eyes. “So, there you go! Whether you accept my explanation or not, I don’t give a fuck. At the end of the day, I don’t really know you, or trust you, and I don’t have to tell you anything about anything. I might work for you, Roman Antonov, but I don’t owe you a damn thing and—”
“Okay,” I say firmly, holding up my hand.
“Wait…what?” Abby asks, confused.
“I said okay,” I say, softly. “You’re right, you don’t know me. And you don’t owe me anything.”
“But…” she scoffs, once again opening her mouth as if to say something, only to instantly close it again.
The two of us fall silent, and if my mind was spinning before, it’s a fucking hurricane now. Abby’s words felt like yet another slap in the face, with this revelation feeling like daggers plunging straight through my chest.
Trevor’s assessment over the last week had been correct.
And my assessment over all those years…had been wrong.
While I was fantasizing and coveting her from the sidelines, Abby hadn’t been happily married to the man of her dreams. She’d more or less just told me that she’d actually been married to a monster in a human suit. And if I could dig up her bastard dead husband, and make him face my justice, I’d flay him alive for whatever he did to her.
But on that point, I don’t actually know what he did to her, because she’s not ready to talk about this with me. And why should she be? She’s right. She doesn’t know me.
Even if she did…am I really any better than him?