No Longer Yours To Disdain Chapter 2

After helping Bennett into his bed, I slipped down the hall to my own room to shower.

We had slept in separate bedrooms from the beginning. Bennett only came to mine on the first and fifteenth of every month—an antiseptic routine he called fulfilling his marital obligations.

The only exception was when he drank too much. In his rare stupors, he would regress into an obstinate child, wandering into my room, pulling me against his chest, and refusing to let go until dawn.

Just like tonight.

I had barely laid my head against the pillow when the mattress dipped beneath a sudden weight. Before I could sit up, two heavy, familiar arms wrapped around my waist, dragging me back against his chest.

Bennett let out a low, contented sigh, his breathing evening out almost immediately as sleep took him.

In the past, even when the sharp stench of stale alcohol made my stomach turn, I would have swallowed my discomfort. I would have lain there in the dark, reminding myself of the Sinclair family’s generosity, telling myself to be grateful.

Tonight, I felt nothing but an overwhelming urge to breathe clean air.

I peeled his fingers from my ribs, twisted out of his grip, and slid out from beneath the duvet. If he wanted this bed, he could have it. The Sinclair townhouse had plenty of guest rooms.

When I opened my bedroom door, I nearly tripped over Owen.

He was standing in the dim hallway in his striped pajamas, staring anxiously past me into the dark bedroom, his small hands curled into fists.

I knelt down, softening my voice as I reached out to smooth his messy hair. "Owen? What are you doing awake, sweetheart? You have preschool in the morning. Let’s get you back to bed."

Owen slapped my hand away.

His dark eyes—so eerily identical to Bennett's—glared at me with raw, icy disdain.

"Don't touch me, Tessa. You don't get to tell me what to do."

Not Mom. Just Tessa.

It had been that way ever since a few older boys at the private academy told him he was an accident, that his mother was an opportunist who had trapped the heir of Sinclair Capital by getting knocked up. Owen had turned on me overnight.

He forgot the endless nights I had sat beside his crib, pressing damp cloths to his feverish forehead while Bennett was in Tokyo or London. He forgot the way he used to curl into my lap, whispering that I was his favorite person in the entire world.

Now, his only wish seemed to be that someone else had given birth to him.

I stared at the small, retreating back of my five-year-old son until his bedroom door clicked shut. A soft, hollow sigh escaped my chest.

I walked into the guest room across the hall, shut the door, and dialed Gwen.

The line rang twice before she picked up.

"Gwen," I said into the quiet room. "I’ve thought it through. I’ll go with you to Paris."