Grayson’s bitter laugh cut him off. “I’m not surprised. I’ve been thinking this since the night you fucked him. You don’t love me.”
My gaze slammed to Gray.
I had no words, no reply.
This was an act—right?
Grayson stepped to me, blocking my view of West. He dragged a hand down the side of my face, his voice soft, his words cutting, as he whispered the fear I’d worried was truth. “Or maybe you loved me once, but there’s something terribly wrong with you, Story. Because if you loved me, then why did you ever go back to him?”
I opened and closed my mouth, blood rushing through my ears and drowning out the soft laughter and music.
He stepped back and looked at me with such disgust I could taste it. “Is the baby even mine? I guess we’ll find out when you give birth.”
“I…” My mouth was dry.
My brain screamed to keep the act up, but his words cut through me like a machete.
He’s right.
There’s something terribly wrong with you, Story.
Grayson turned to leave but West grabbed his arm before he could go. “You expect me to believe you’re done with her? After everything, you’re just going to let her go?”
“Should I let her marry you again? Or should I let her fuck you in front of me first?”
West’s grip loosened, suspicion in his eyes giving way to something else… Hope.
“Maybe I should let her leave me for you?” Grayson asked, sounding bored and put out. “Be your mistress instead of running away with me?”
Claws scraped at my chest.
I know I’d made mistakes—we both had, but Grayson had been the epicenter of every good choice and bad decision—not West. I married West because of Grayson. I fucked West because of Grayson. I was his mistress and I slept in his bed for us.
Yet as the cruel words fell from his soft pink lips, and my sins were laid bare without a soft blanket of context, I suddenly didn’t know what to believe.
For us, I whispered in my head. I did it all for us.
Didn’t I?
Grayson dragged his pink tongue across his top lip. “Or maybe she could choose you and sleep in your bed for months? Would that do it?”
West dropped Grayson. He looked at the marble, a wrinkle forming in his chestnut brow. I could see it—see him rewriting our history, painting everything I’d ever done with a brush of love. That was good, that was what we’d wanted. Yet it tasted bitter on my tongue and burned my heart. Because as West rewrote our history, it forced Grayson to erase ours.
Grayson looked me directly in the eyes. “Because if she loved me, she never would have sought you out.”
I couldn’t breathe.
Grayson walked away, but not before adding with a laugh, “Good luck, West.”
I made sure when West looked up at me, I was watching him. Even though every shard of my broken soul wanted to look at Grayson.
Trust.
I had to trust Grayson. Hopefully he’d gotten West’s phone. Every word he’d said had to have been for a reason. When I saw him again, he’d explain.
He’d have to explain.
“You really love me?” West asked, hoped.