Her mother gave her a knowing smile, a cocktail mix of pity and compassion that Abigail hadn’t ordered nor wanted, much less during office hours.
“Has Preston come back?”
“No,” Abigail said. Short, to-the-point responses, terminated lengthy, pointless questions that Mrs. Sinclair already knew the answer to.
Mrs. Sinclair scoffed. “Jesus, what’s wrong with that man? How long has it been?”
Seven days.
Six nights.
It was the longest Abigail had spent without seeing Preston, and she felt every second of those lonesome six nights.
When the sun retired for the day, she felt as alone as a full moon on a vast, darkened sky. She wore Preston’s shirts to sleep and slept on his side of the bed, clinging to his pillow as if her life depended on it just to feel close to him again.
Pretending Preston was working a late night, eased her into a deep slumber. And when she woke and he still wasn’t there, she told herself he’d woken up early and she’d missed him again. It was during this time where she truly understood the phrase, “Ignorance is bliss.”
“Seven days,” Abigail ignored the crack in her voice. She wasn’t going to cry. For the love of God, she wasn’t going to cry over a man in front of her mother.
Abigail knew what she’d say.
He doesn’t deserve you or your tears.
Do you think he’s crying over you, too?
Just like a storm, this will pass.
You don’t need him. You don’t need any man to feel worthy or fulfilled.
Abigail didn’t want to hear those false statements. She wanted to hear the truth. She needed someone to tell her she had made a mistake and now she had to live with the consequences of her stupidity. She needed her mother to reprimand her and for once, not be on her side. But she knew Mrs. Sinclair would never do that, so Abigail defended her lover with the smallest part of himself he had left behind.
Preston was a wonderful man, and he didn’t deserve malicious rumors. Yet she’d let him go ever so easily. Like a helium balloon, she watched him fly away, farther and farther from her until she couldn’t see him anymore. Until everything that was left of him were the mere thoughts of his memories.
Mrs. Sinclair sighed.
“Abby, you need to tell him what happened,” her voice oozed parental wisdom.
“It won’t make a difference if I tell him. He doesn’t want me anymore,” she said so low that her mother had to lean forward to hear her.
“He doesn’t want you anymore?”
“No, Mom. He hasn’t answered my calls. I’ve called him every day since he left. I’ve left countless messages, but he hasn’t checked them because his voicemail box is full. I’ve even gone as far as to email him and nothing. It’s as if he’s shut me out of his world.”
Abigail gave up the fight, she surrendered her armor and let her body grieve a downpour of what felt like eternal sorrow.
Mrs. Sinclair reached for her hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “This might not be what you want to hear bu—”
Abigail raised a hand to stop her. “Then don’t say anything else, Mom. Please.”
She dodged bullet number one.
“I think you should leave him,” Mrs. Sinclair continued, blatantly ignoring her daughter’s wishes.
“Mom, stop.” Abigail removed her hand from her mother’s grip and looked out the glass. She made sure no one was eavesdropping on their mother-daughter conversation.
“I’m sorry, but I don’t understand why you’re sticking around, living in his house when you said he doesn’t want you anymore.” Mrs. Sinclair scooted closer to the edge of her chair. “It isn’t your fault, you know that, don’t you? Whatever you did or said doesn’t give him the right to hurt you.”
“I know it doesn’t and I need you to stop talking badly about my husband. To Dad. To Mike. To our employees. My personal life is off-limits, especially when we’re at work. If this continues, I’ll have no other choice but to find another job. Now, if we’re done here, I have actual work to do.”
Abigail’s body shook with self-shock. She’d never spoken to her mother like this before, not even when Mrs. Sinclair had grounded her for misbehaving as a child or when Abigail went through the rebellious phases of a teenage girl. She’d always kept her composure and had known her place as a child.
But enough was enough.
She wasn’t a child anymore.
Abigail knew her mother only had her best interest at heart, but leaving Preston wasn’t in Abigail’s best interest.
Her entire life, she’d spent it looking for him. For the man who’d fulfill her deepest, most sinful desires. For the man who’d never want to mold her into what society deemed acceptable. He could leave her all he wanted, but she’d never leave him.
The degree of intensity in her daughter’s words left Mrs. Sinclair to swallow an audible gasp. Robotically, she stood from the chair and walked to the door.
“I apologize, Abigail. This won’t happen again.”
“Mom, I—”
Mrs. Sinclair turned around for a slight second. She raised a finger to stop her daughter from speaking further. Her gray eyes glistened with unshed tears.
“Not another word, Mrs. Bennett.”
The sound of Abigail’s office door closing resonated throughout her entire body. It trembled like an earthquake, too violent to prevent the aftershocks of the day Preston left behind the same tremor that shook her heart.
With quivering shoulders, she deflated into the chair. It seemed like lately, she’d been hurting everyone she’d ever truly loved. It seemed like lately, her words were her lethal weapon of choice to destroy hearts and execute trust.
Not too soon after her mother had left, a knuckle rasped on her door again. Abigail hoped it’d be her mother coming back to make amends. When she noticed black curls sticking out, she wiped under her eyes and sniffled her tears.
Clearing her throat, she said, “Come in.”
“Mrs. Bennett, Ke—” Linc stopped mid-sentence. His quirky smile turned upside down immediately after seeing her swollen eyes. He stepped further into the room. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, Linc, I’m fine. What’s up?”
“Are you sure? I can—”
“Lincoln, I’m fine. What was it you were going to tell me?”
Linc swallowed his concern. “Kenneth’s waiting for you outside.”
Abigail turned her head to the outside windows where Kenneth stood as stoically as a statue with his massive arms crossed over his muscular chest.
Ever so punctual.
She gave her thanks to Linc, assured him she was fine again, and packed her things. Before she left for the day, she passed by her mother’s office. She couldn’t go home knowing they’d ended things on bad terms. But when Abigail walked into Mrs. Sinclair’s office, she found it empty, as empty as the bed she’d sleep in tonight.
Abigail gripped the handle of the door and breathed in and out. She did this for five minutes until her fears and worries were hypothetical.
“Mrs. Bennett.” Kenneth gave her a nod in greeting once she stepped outside.
As many times as Abigail had told him to call her by her first name, Kenneth hadn’t listened. Ever so formal.
“Hi, Ken. You don’t have to pick me up and drop me off every day. It’s autumn. I enjoy my walks. And I’ve told you already to take the week off.”
“I’m only following orders, Mrs. Bennett,” he said, closing the passenger door behind her.
Abigail wasted no time poking his head with questions. As soon as he jumped into the driver’s seat, she inquired him.
“Orders?” she asked, holding on to a sliver of hope that Preston still cared about her. “Have you spoken to him?”
Kenneth, ever so loyal to his boss, stayed quiet. Not a single sound left his lips as he eased the car into Manhattan traffic.
Abigail tried again. “What did he say, Kenneth?”
Sti
ll, he stayed quiet.
“I just want to know he’s okay. Please, just tell me he’s okay.”
Kenneth’s eyes darted to the rear-view mirror where he locked his brown eyes with Abigail’s.
“He’s okay, Mrs. Bennett.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Stepping foot on the grounds of the newly constructed Hotel Bessette, Preston removed his sunglasses as he intently studied the new construction. Standing on twelve acres of land on the most luxurious avenue of Paris was the eight-story structure. The arched windows and extended balconies accentuated the baroque architecture of the renaissance era that Mrs. Bessette had become enamored by. He was yet to meet with painters, landscapers, and Jean-Pierre himself, but from what he saw, the new building was coming along smoothly.
Although his mind was occupied with the details of his upcoming appointments, it wasn’t enough to keep Abigail out of his current thoughts.
What she had done behind his back was unforgivable. How could she have been so fucking selfish? There wasn’t a moment where she had thought of him and how her decision affected him. She didn’t stop to think about the consequences of her actions.
Those actions, albeit selfish, didn’t only affect her. It took away his final chance of becoming a father.
A father.
He always knew he wanted to be one. He’d had the greatest example as a child and knew that when given the chance, he’d be the greatest father in the world just as his father had been to him.
But that dream, that hope, that longing, was now forever gone.
His phone beeped with a reminder of his pending meeting with Jean-Pierre Bessette.
Preston looked down at his wrist and noticed the time.
10:00 AM.
A meeting with a Parisian was the last thing he needed. What he needed at the moment was a true distraction from anything that had to do with Abigail. Unfortunately, the French’s obsession for leisure offered anything but an eight-hour job. They didn’t conform to the constraints of time, especially not Jean-Pierre. That was the reason he scheduled a business meeting at ten in the morning rather than eight, giving Preston unnecessary free time to let his mind roam. The laid-back lifestyle was something he wasn’t accustomed to. He hadn’t stopped working a day in his life, making himself brittle and never taking the time to stop and be alone with his thoughts because the thoughts of a sadist turned very dark in mere seconds.
Preston got into the car as it headed toward his final meeting of the day. Driving along the Champs Elysees, he observed the people of France as they lived on with their carefree lives. Some sat outside quaint café shops, sipping on a mid-morning brew while others chatted away. He was sure none of the conversations the pedestrians and tourists had was work related. America might be the land of the free, but the French knew how to take advantage of their freedom.
They really understood the true meaning and feeling of living life to the fullest. One minute spent worrying would age them by a decade and there was no room for that possibility. Preston wasn’t sure if it was the American in him or the Greek that refused to let him wind down but just the mere thought of a break was laughable.
“Nous sommes ici, Monsieur,” Julien informed from the front seat.
“Merci.” Preston opened the door and jumped out of the car. He buttoned up his suit as he took the first step in the direction of Jean-Pierre’s office. He was greeted by the receptionist who directed him to the elevators that took him to the eleventh floor. The silver doors opened just as Mr. Bessette came into view.
His arms were open wide in greeting. “Bienvenue, Preston,” he said, kissing both of his cheeks.
“Bonjour, Jean-Pierre.”
“I must say, Beatrice and I are very happy with how the hotel is coming along. She hasn’t stopped praising you since your last meeting,” Jean-Pierre spoke as Preston followed him to his office.
The double doors opened to a grandiose office with a mix of French countryside and polished décor, the opposite of what the hotel Preston was building for Mrs. Bessette looked like. The furniture was comfortable yet chic and elegant. The couch in the middle of the room was a muted white with softly patterned armchairs to match. Jean-Pierre’s desk was to the side of the room with triple glazed windows behind that looked out onto the Seine River. He walked over and sat in his French leathered desk chair and gestured for Preston to take a seat.
Jean-Pierre motioned to Preston’s goatee, “I see you’ve taken Beatrice’s suggestion.”
He smiled softly as his fingers grazed the coarse hair around his chin, wondering how Abigail would feel about it. Would she like it or despise it?
Hearing Mr. Bessette in the background, he shook the thought of his deceptive wife from his mind. Shuffling a stack of papers around his desk, Jean-Pierre smoothed the original blueprints of Hotel Bessette with several photographs of the new construction.
Preston undid the buttons of his suit and crossed his legs at the ankles. “Everything’s going according to plan.”
“Let’s talk details…” As Jean-Pierre spoke of the final inspection and the hiring of interior designers, Preston’s eyes scanned his desk, quickly landing on a picture frame. The photograph was of Mr. and Mrs. Bessette with their daughter, Sylvie. They sat on a bridge that overlooked the Eiffel Tower with Sylvie in the middle of both her parents. Their smiles were bright. Their eyes shone with love and admiration for one another.
This was the life Preston had always dreamt of having and once he’d met Abigail, he longed for it even more. He wanted the big family, the holiday cards, and the matching pajamas under the Christmas tree. The realization that the mere thought of having his child repulsed Abigail to the point of aborting it behind his back, gutted him.
How could he possibly move on from this? How could he look her in the eye again? How could he trust her after this? His thoughts ping- ponged around his mind and any second longer, they would summon a migraine.
Mr. Bessette shifted his head to the side and scrunched his eyebrows in question. “Preston, are you listening?”
Preston cleared his throat and swept his thumb across his right eyebrow to help avoid the pending migraine.
“Je suis désolé, Jean-Pierre. My mind wandered somewhere else.”
“Ah, I know that look. That, mon ami, is the doing of a woman. We have all been through it.”
“It’s Abigail,” Preston said, finding the need to confide in someone who shared a similar lifestyle. “She believes our lifestyle is not for kids and doesn’t want them. Meanwhile, I have wanted a family of my own for as long as I can remember. The death of my father only heightened that longing.”
“Kids, that’s a tough subject.”
“Abigail thinks it’s impossible. How do you and Beatrice do it? Being in an open relationship and raising Sylvie.”
Jean-Pierre leaned forward on the desk. “The secret to a happy marriage is giving your spouse whatever they desire, regardless of your needs.”
Regardless of his needs?
Could he give Abigail what her heart desired regardless of what he wanted? Could he be that selfless and compromise on something as big as having a family of his own?
“Beatrice is a very sexual woman. When we first started dating, we explored with other people—other couples. I didn’t enjoy it as much as she did, but I did it because I was in love. I had decided to compromise. I married her, of course because I love her, but in the very back of my thoughts, I believed that once we got married, she’d leave it behind. On our honeymoon, she brought another woman into our bedroom. Nevertheless, I wouldn’t change a thing because I love her, and it is the things that irritate me the most about her that I love the most because I wouldn’t find those qualities in anyone else but her. If Beatrice is happy, I am happy. Marriage is about compromise not about changing the other person. If you enter it with that mindset, you will never survive. Occasionally, do something your partner enjoys even if you hate it. Who knows, you mind end up fancying it way more tha
n you thought you might. I know I did.”
“I don’t think children is something I can compromise.”
“Don’t think of it in that way. It is not a child you are compromising. You’re compromising your needs for hers because you love her, don’t you? Is a child worth losing her? Worth losing what you have? Worth losing that unconditional acceptance that you will never find with any other person?”
Preston thought of all the moments that had led him and Abigail to where they were now and if he’d change anything. If he’d stuck to his rules and turned her away the second he saw her wandering outside his establishment, would he be this heartbroken, feeling sickened to his stomach? If he would have walked right by her and paid her no mind, then he never could’ve described the unbearable pain he’d been feeling for days.
Preston thought and thought of the different possibilities that they weren’t met to be, but it was in vain because Lachesis had spun his fate right into Abigail’s. Somehow, he was destined to meet her. If not at his club, then at Central Park while on one of her runs with Mike or at Mount Sinai while in one of his inane appointments mandated by his mother and sister.
Abigail was his kryptonite in every way and in every form of the term. But how could he ever come to forgive what she had done?
Aborted his child.
Broken his trust.
He had no idea how to recover from the strife she brought upon their marriage, upon their lives.
Trust was the most essential piece within a BDSM relationship. When trust was broken, it was impossible to rebuild. When trust was given, communication came easily. With a mere conversation, this whole debacle could’ve been avoided, but she willingly chose to break that bond by betraying his trust and it had taken their entire relationship off track.
It’d tainted his words with hatred.
It’d infected his thoughts with regret.
It’d poisoned his mind with doubt.
Abigail might’ve trusted him with her body, but he had trusted her with his heart.
Leashed (Masters of Desires Book 2) Page 13
