The Devious Husband: Sierra and Xavier’s Story (The Windsors)
Chapter 66

My heart races as I walk into Sierra’s office building, trying to figure out why she hasn’t cancelled today’s meeting like she has all others. I can’t figure out if it’s good or bad, and I can’t help but fear that it means she’s no longer affected by being in a meeting with me.

For two months, I’ve shown up in front of her door every single day, giving her little handwritten notes and little gifts that reminded me of her and some of our best memories, hoping to thaw her heart, but she still looks at me expressionlessly, and every single day, she reminds me to sign the papers, not offering me any other words.

I’m starting to lose hope, and I’m beginning to worry that I’m harassing her, that my displays of affection are truly unwanted, and she just wants me out of her life. Where do I draw the line? Ultimately, all I want is for her to be happy, and I’m beginning to see that my presence in her life has the opposite effect.

I take a deep breath and gather my courage before walking into her conference room, only to freeze when I replace her perched at the edge of the table, smiling up at Graham as he looks down at her with an expression that can only be described as intimate. My heart constricts painfully, even as it rejoices at the sight of her smile, something I’ve missed desperately.

She turns toward the door, and surprise flickers in her eyes when she sees me, like she genuinely didn’t expect me to be here, and it strikes me then. She hasn’t been cancelling these meetings. It was only me that was uninvited. “Xavier,” she says, her face falling as she pushes off the table and nearly stumbles. I watch as Graham wraps his arm around my wife’s waist with far too much familiarity, and she smiles up at him as she replaces her footing, his touch lingering for a few moments, before it falls away when she takes her seat.

“I hope I’m not late,” I tell them, trying my best to rein in my temper as I sit down next to Sierra.

“Not at all,” Graham replies as he reaches for his laptop and plugs it in, clearly irritated I’m here. Have they been having these meetings together, just the two of them? Was she with him, every time she came home late? Elijah refused to tell me anything about her and went so far as to cut off my access to any of her security information. Is this why? Was he trying to keep me from seeing something I shouldn’t?

I draw a shaky breath as Graham begins to walk us through some of the complications the project manager has run into, and Sierra stares at him throughout his presentation, seemingly enraptured. She doesn’t look my way once, and it fucking kills me, because I remember when she used to look at me that way. I remember when we’d both be in the same room, and it’d be like no one else existed, no matter how many other people we were competing or working with.

She watches him, but I watch her, my eyes roaming over her face, before moving on to her body. My heart stutters when I recognize the short navy dress she’s wearing. Did she even think of me as she put it on? Did she remember that I’d fucked her in it, right on top of Graham’s conference table?

I run a hand through my hair as my gaze is drawn to her hands when she opens up her notebook and grabs a pen. She hasn’t been wearing her wedding ring for some time now, and that’s definitely the kind of thing Graham would have noticed. Did she tell him that we separated? That she left me and moved back into her own home? Does he know she asked me for a divorce?

I’m fucking desperate for her attention as I reach for her pen and pull her notebook closer, but she only glances at me for a moment, dismissing my actions as she looks back at Graham like he’s actually saying something of interest, when we both know he’s not. These meetings are formalities. This is never where we replace out anything we didn’t already know.

That dress is one of my favorites. You look gorgeous.

She glances at the note I left on the edge of the page, her gaze lingering. I’d been so sure her reaction would give away whether or not she remembers that day, but her expression is unreadable. I bite down on my lip when she looks away and scribble something else onto the page.

Does he know I fucked you in it on his conference table?

This time her eyes widen, and she finally looks at me. I smirk at her, pleased I finally got her attention, but then she looks down and snaps her notebook closed, something akin to guilt crossing her face before she turns away from me, almost like she can’t quite face me. My heart drops as I look down at my hands, at my wedding ring.

That look… what did it mean? My stomach tightens, and I suck in a breath as my mind begins to fuck with me. My hands begin to tremble, and I move them underneath the table before clasping them, my breathing accelerating. Why did she look at me like that? Was it because she wore that dress for him today? It certainly wasn’t for me, since she’d clearly not expected to see me here today.

Was it something far worse than that? Did she sleep with him? At least a handful of times, she didn’t come home until nearly midnight, and I’d stupidly assumed she must’ve been with her siblings or their wives, when I should’ve considered that she might have gone out for dinner with someone else. She might have gone home with someone else, not returning to her own bed until late at night.

I look at her again, just as she’s smiling at something he says, and it fucking kills me that he can do that to her, when I no longer can. I take a steadying breath as my gaze moves between them both, and I’m reminded of something she once said to me, just before I rushed over to her grandmother to ask for her hand in marriage. “I don’t want to wait anymore. I’m going to write my own story and marry a man of my choosing.”

The man of her choosing was never me.

It was him.

I lean back in my seat when the meeting concludes, and she rises to her seat, walking up to him. They murmur among themselves, and my heart twists painfully as I listen to them discussing their dinner plans like I’m not even here, like she isn’t still legally my wife.

“Sierra,” I say, my voice soft. “Can I talk to you?”

She looks at me, and it hits me then. We’ve been in a similar situation before, and I’d told her she was crazy if she thought I’d let her flirt with another man right in front of me, before reminding her that she’s mine. Today it isn’t me she’ll kiss. It’s not my fingers that’ll slip between her legs, taunting her for being wet and needy.

She tells him she’ll meet him at the restaurant, and he throws her a sweet smile, their eyes locking for a few moments, like he’s trying to quietly ascertain if she’s okay, the way I used to. Sierra watches him walk away like she can’t bear to see him go, and the pain rapidly becomes unbearable.

“What is it?” she asks, showing me none of the sweetness she just showed him.

I stare at my wife, taking in those beautiful eyes that I’ve always loved, those lips I fantasized about for years, and the way her nose points up just a touch at the end. “Do I even stand a chance?”

She looks away, her eyes dropping to her notebook, where they linger for some time. “Sign the papers,” she says, those gorgeous eyes I’ve always loved entirely devoid of emotion.