Mrs. Sinclair took a close look at her daughter’s face. Her cheeks were tinged pink, her lips were swollen, and her eyes were as red as chili peppers. “Oh, Abby, what did he do?”
“Momma,” Abigail hiccupped as she ran into her mother’s arms. She cried for what felt like minutes into her neck.
“Did he hurt you?” Mrs. Sinclair drew circles on her daughter’s back, offering the serenity only a mother could.
“I’m pregnant,” Abigail blurted.
“Oh.” She took a step back. She’d prepared herself for bad news, but this was anything but. “My goodness that is great, great news.”
Abigail covered her mouth and shook her head frantically.
Mrs. Sinclair scrunched her eyebrows and then understanding lined her features. “No?”
“No, Mom. I don’t-I don’t want it.”
“That’s okay, too, honey.” She hugged Abigail as deeply as she could. “Come on, let’s go to the clinic.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Preston was on a conference call with Beatrice Bessette when the phone chimed. He sent the call back to Jaqueline, letting her know he was not to be disturbed, and continued discussing the layout of the lobby in the newly constructed Hotel Bessette.
Mid-sentence, he was again interrupted by the buzzing of his personal cellphone. He quickly glanced at the screen and noticed Mrs. Sinclair was the mundane caller. His finger lingered above the red button.
What more could this woman have to say?
Preston treated Abigail like a queen. And that was because she ruled his world. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and although he wasn’t Mrs. Sinclair’s number one fan, it’d been she who’d brought Abigail into the world.
Like the suave businessman he was, he promised Mrs. Bessette he’d be in Paris in a few weeks to oversee the final details and ended the call.
He mentally prepared himself for a word battle with Mrs. Sinclair, and despite himself, answered the phone.
“Mrs. Sinclair,” he greeted her with a smiling voice. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”
He shook his head. He’d taken it too far—way too far. Luckily for him, Mrs. Sinclair wasn’t in the mood to squabble.
“Good evening, Preston. Abigail isn’t feeling well. She’ll be spending the night at my house.”
He stood on his feet and shoved his chair back. His voice was laced with concern when he asked, “What’s wrong with her?”
“She’s got a fever.”
“Has she been to the doctor’s office?”
“Yes. He suggested bed rest for a couple of days.”
“I’ll be right there.”
“No, no. There’s no need. She’s sleeping right now. I was only calling to—”
“If you think I will leave my wife when she is sick you are sorely mistaken. I made a vow to be with her in sickness and in health and I intend to keep my promise.”
“Very well, then,” she said reluctantly.
Preston shrugged on his jacket and grabbed his briefcase. Once in the reception area, he instructed Jackie to reschedule all meetings for later in the week. While she set things up, he sent Kenneth a quick message asking him to pick up a bowl of chicken noodle soup from Ben’s.
“You have a meeting with Mr. Davis at the end of the week. Would you like me to reschedule that meeting as well?”
“Yes, please. Dai is a friend. I’m sure we can work something out when he gets back from Japan. He’ll be busy with funeral preparations.”
“Oh, yes. I heard about his father,” Jackie said with a frown. “I’m sorry, Mr. Trice. I know you two were close.”
“Yes, well, we knew he was sick. We weren’t expecting him to take a turn this fast.”
This reminded him, he needed to check in on Lauren to see how she was doing. No doubt things were going to change in The Law Firm of Benjamin Davis.
“I think we’re all set, Mr. Trice.”
“Thank you, Jackie. You’re more than welcome to leave early today.”
Preston called for the elevator. As he waited for the doors to open, his mind became consumed with fuming questions.
Why would Abigail go to her mother’s house and not to their home? Why hadn’t she called him, instead? If Preston was sick, Abigail would be the only one he’d call, the only person he’d want to look after him. Not his mother, not Elizabeth, not Kenneth, just his wife. She was all he needed to survive. Was he not all she needed?
He ran a hand over his face and stepped into the elevator. An inane migraine started to develop above his left eyebrow. He quickly brushed it away with the sweep of his thumb.
He’d known something was wrong with Abigail since Sunday but assumed it was due to her upcoming cycle. She was always groggy and lethargic when she was on her period.
He should’ve done something then.
Fuck.
What if now was too late?
He was overreacting. This was a curable fever, right?
The last time someone in his life had been sick with a small headache, he’d died. Preston couldn’t lose Abigail like he’d lost his father.
Not her.
Not now.
Not ever.
He wasn’t mentally, nor was he physically prepared for that kind of heartache.
“Where to, Sir?” Kenneth asked, handing him the bowl of soup he’d picked up from Ben’s.
“East 62nd Street.”
It seemed like everyone around him was dying—his father, Mr. Davis. Now all of the sudden, Abigail was sick. Fuck his overreaction. In his world, a headache was a tumor, a fever was a flesh-eating bacteria that took mere seconds to spread.
“Can you go any faster?” He was desperate to see her and hold her and love her.
“I’ll do my best, Sir. We’ll be there in ten minutes.”
Preston nodded his response.
He took a breath and exhaled it through his nose. He rubbed his thumb over his brow and passed the time trying to cure his headache. He pulled his hair back just like Abigail had taught him. He applied pressure between the skin of his thumb and pointer finger.
But it didn’t work.
He didn’t have her healing touch, her soothing fingers, or her curative kisses.
No, Abigail couldn’t go away. Not this quickly. There was still so much he wanted to do with her, so much they had yet to experience.
“We’re here, Mr. Trice.”
“Thank you, Kenneth. Abigail and I will be back in a few minutes.”
Preston opened the door and jogged up the steps that led to the Sinclair-Bennett townhouse. He knocked three times, glancing at his watch. After a minute with no answer, his patience ran thin. With his fist mid-air, the door swung open.
“Hello, I’m Preston Trice, Abigail’s husband. Mrs. Sinclair said she was here.”
“Oh, my. Abby wasn’t kidding about your looks.” Mrs. Davidson fanned herself with a duster. “I might have to visit my priest this Sunday.”
Preston chuckled at the elderly woman’s flirtatious banter. It was the first smile he’d had since Mrs. Sinclair had called him.
“Come on in, Mr. Trice. I’ll let Mrs. Sinclair know you’ve arrived.”
“Could you just…” He exhaled. “Could you just tell me where my wife is? I need to be with her.”
“I’m af—”
Preston turned to the sound of heels descending from a row of steps. His attention was now given to Mrs. Sinclair, who although was in the comfort of her own home, wore high-heels and a pantsuit.
“Good evening, Preston.”
“Where’s Abigail?” He was past pleasantries.
“Sleeping. Come, let’s get something to eat. You look awfully pale. Mrs. Davidson has made the most delicious pot roast.”
What the fuck was wrong with this woman?
In two long strides, Preston was in front of her, peering down at her with his tall stature. “Either you tell me what room Abigail’s in, or I will open every single door in
this house until I find her and when I find her, I will take her home, where she belongs.”
Mrs. Sinclair laughed bitterly and returned his death stare. Preston knew he couldn’t intimidate her as easily as he did others. But he hoped his demeanor showed he’d always stand his ground when it came to Abigail.
“Fine. We’ll do this my way then,” he said and started up the stairs.
Mrs. Sinclair locked her jaw.
“Abby is on the third floor,” she said with a sigh. “Fourth door down the hall. Don’t you dare wake her, Preston. She needs to rest.”
He ignored the threat laced in her voice and jogged up the stairs. On the third floor, he hurried down the hall and pushed open the fourth door.
Darkness welcomed him in.
The curtains were drawn closely together so that not a single ray of sun interrupted Abigail’s sleep. Preston adjusted his vision in the dimmed light to find his beautiful wife resting inside the duvet of a queen-size bed.
He wanted desperately to kiss her, push her bangs aside and gaze into her gray eyes, but she needed to rest for the fever to come down. Knowing he was not to wake her, he placed the bowl of soup on top of the nightstand and walked to the far wall on the other side of the room.
Resting his briefcase against the wall, he admired the captured memories throughout Abigail’s life. A smile curled his lips at the sight of a toothless Abigail at the pier with Mr. Bennett. Even at a young age, she held the most beautiful smile that could illuminate the darkest days. It was the same smile that stole his heart. He grabbed another picture in his hand. This one was of a much older Abigail in a cap and gown, graduating from Columbia University.
Preston placed the picture down and looked back at his wife whose body was cocooned in a blanket of cotton. He figured she’d sleep for a while and decided his time was best spent answering emails than concocting absurd scenarios in his head of the possible ways in which his wife could die. He removed his jacket and unscrewed the cufflinks from his shirt. With three swift bends, he rolled up the sleeves to his elbows and typed away on his phone.
It was difficult for Preston to stay on task while his wife was merely five feet away from him. He couldn’t help himself but watch as her chest rose and fell with every breath. The emails he had answered were of the slightest importance compared to her.
He looked at his watch.
6:30 PM.
Kenneth had been waiting for over an hour. Just as Preston was about to shoot Kenneth a message, the shifting of bedsheets got his attention.
“Preston?” Abigail asked, her voice raspy with sleep. “What are you doing here?”
He stood at the sound of her voice. “Your mother told me you were sick. I came as fast as I could. How are you feeling?”
She rubbed the sleep from her eyes. “I’m fine. It’s just a little cold.”
“A cold?” he questioned. “I thought you had a fever.”
She coughed. “The cold gave me a fever earlier but I’m fine now. You can go back to work. You probably have a lot of work to do.”
Of course he did, but he would never let work come before Abigail.
Preston removed his shoes and snuggled next to her in bed. He handed her the bowl of chicken noodle soup. “Do you want me to ask Mrs. Davis to warm it up for you?”
“Did you get this for me?”
He nodded. “I asked Kenneth to pick it up from Ben’s. They have the best chicken noodle soup in the city.”
Abigail’s eyes tinged with unshed tears. Preston placed a strand of hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead. He cradled her in his arms and like a frightened child, she wept into the crook of his neck.
“This isn’t a little cold, is it?”
A loud sob escaped her lips. The sound was so pitiful, it pierced his heart.
“What’s wrong, Angel?”
“My stomach hurts, that’s all. I just need to go back to sleep. Will you tell me a bedtime story?”
She removed her face from his neck and looked at Preston. The end of her nose was pink and so were her cheeks. Even with bloodshot eyes, she looked lovely.
Abigail moistened her lips and said, “Tell me about the girl who broke your heart.”
“I much rather talk about the woman who glued it back together,” he said with a smile.
Abigail’s face stayed stoic with tears as she waited for Preston to begin his story.
He swept his hair back. He’d known going to Greece for their honeymoon was a mistake, but it’d been Abigail’s choice, the only say she’d had throughout the entirety of their wedding planning. He hadn’t had the heart to deny her then and certainly didn’t have the heart to deny her today.
He swallowed a breath and prepared himself to divulge into a conversation he knew was necessary but wished he could prolong it a little longer.
“Dad always put family first and although my grandfather tried his best to erase the Greek out of his grandchildren, Dad never let that happen. He’d send Beth and me to Athens every summer. Yiayia would take us to the Edessa Waterfalls and the surrounding islands. We’d explore Acropolis every time we went. It never got old. My best childhood memories are from Greece. But as Beth and I got older, life started getting in the way. I went off to college and Beth had just met Joel, so our breaks stopped coinciding.
“When I was nineteen, I went to Athens alone. It was during that trip I met Calista. She was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. Tall, blue eyes, blonde hair. I fell for her looks as soon as I saw her walk down the shore. Being a cocky nineteen-year-old American, I went over to her and asked her out. We went out on a couple of dates and that’s pretty much how our summer fling started. It was purely sexual at first, but all those times we had sex, I’d give a little piece of myself, and she’d do the same.
“Calista…she had a kinky side. She liked it rough and even more when I bit her shoulder and slapped her ass. As teenagers, we experimented with our kinks. I stopped using my hand to slap her and used a shoe or a belt. I’d tie her wrists with ropes or shoelaces. We used everything around the house, anything we could find to get ourselves off. Looking back at it now, we were true amateurs and had no idea what the fuck we were doing.
“She’d read up on erotic asphyxiation and wanted to give it a try. So, one day, I tied her wrists up to the headboard, and right before I came, I choked her. I was supposed to stop, but I just couldn’t. It was the most euphoric thing to watch her eyes flutter and her face lose all color. Calista tried her best to speak to me. She made the most dreadful sound, but I only pressed deeper into the hollow of her throat. She gave up fighting soon after and her body went still. It was then I came. After I came down from my bliss, I tried to shake her awake, but she didn’t answer. Her eyes just didn’t open. I felt a very light pulse on her neck and performed CPR until she started breathing again.
“I will never forget the fear I saw in her eyes that day, not because I had almost killed her, but because it aroused me so much, I wanted to do it again. I thought she wanted the same, but I was wrong. When she awoke, her knees rose to her chest, and she was frightened of me. She asked if I had tried to kill her. Honestly, I didn’t know what to answer—yes, no, maybe? I didn’t know what I was trying to do. My need for the adrenaline rush took over all reason. It was only an experiment but somewhere along the way, I got lost. She broke up with me that day and warned me to stay the fuck away from her. I didn’t fight her. I let her go because I believed every word she had said to me. I was sick. I was mentally ill. I could’ve killed her and yet the only thought in my head was that I wanted to choke her again.
“A week before I went back to New York, Calista came to see me. We sat on the steps of the house, and I apologized for everything I had done to her. Although she accepted my apology, I could tell she feared me and was scared of whatever it was she needed to say. She told me she was pregnant. I was indifferent at first. I knew how it happened, but I didn’t quite know how. I mean, we were always careful. I guess you could never
be careful enough. The more I thought about becoming a father, the more the idea stuck. I was more than willing to move to Greece or marry her and have her come to New York with me. Whatever we needed to do to raise our child together, I was willing to do. And I told her as much, but she had other plans.
“She said she’d never marry a sicko like me or move to New York. That I needed to stop being delusional and that I could never be a father to a child when I had abused its own mother. If I hit her, I would surely hit the baby. She was dating her brother’s friend and convinced me it was the best thing for our baby to have him as a father instead of a demented pervert like me.
“I was stunned, and I couldn’t do anything but agree with every insult she threw my way because I knew she was right. I knew the best thing for that kid was to be born to a different father. So, I agreed with her decision, and I came back to New York empty handed and brokenhearted. I never spoke of this until today. I don’t know anything about the child other than she is a girl and she’s around fifteen. The only thing I have of hers is a ten-year-old picture Calista had sent me after I’d begged for it. I don’t even know her name, and I don’t intend on finding out. What’s the point? She’s mine but she really isn’t. She isn’t my daughter, and I am not her dad. Her father is the man who raised her, the man who taught her right from wrong, who taught her kindness, and how to ride a fucking bike. Not me. I am not her father. I am just…the sperm donor.”
Preston wiped a tear from his eye. “Every month, I make a deposit into a bank account in Athens. I have the girl in my will, too, along with a letter I wrote her soon after I came back home that summer. You had asked me if I lived my life in regret or wonder. I don’t regret giving her up. I like to think the decision I made to give my child a chance at a father who wasn’t mentally ill, was the first decision I made as a father to that little girl. I do, however, wonder. I wonder if she’s happy. I wonder if she looks like me, if she’s into mythology or if she plans to be an architect. I wonder if I’d ever meet her, if she’d forgive me…
“For years, Calista’s words echoed in the back of my mind. I went to therapists and psychologists, tried to figure out what the fuck was wrong with me. Most suggested medication or to stop having sex if the urge to hurt arose while in the act. I’d be a monk if I’d taken the advice. But there was one psychologist, Dr. Kolmes, who introduced me to the BDSM world and soon after, I was trained to be a dominant. I learned how to give women pleasure with pain without physically or mentally hurting them like I did Calista.”
Leashed (Masters of Desires Book 2) Page 8
