I had anticipated Jonathan's anger, shock, disappointment, repulsion—but his reaction no longer mattered. The surroundings fell eerily silent, even more so than before. I could hear water dripping from me onto the floor, and the subtle slowing of breaths around me. Everyone seemed stunned. I, who had once worshipped Jonathan, had slapped him and demanded a divorce.
He fell silent, the crimson mark on his face stark. Then, he approached, and fearing a retaliatory strike, I instinctively recoiled. His expression darkened further; he seemed angrier than when I'd slapped him. “That slap was alimony!” he spat. “Are you going to hit me back?”
“Are you so ungentlemanly, Jonathan?” I glared.
He remained silent, lips pressed thin, then grabbed my wrist and dragged me away. I struggled, but no one helped; they were captivated spectators. “I’m not going with you!” I cried, grabbing a nearby arm. The man glanced at me, then at Jonathan, offering no assistance. Instead, with a roguish grin, he said, “Jonathan, she nearly drowned. Let’s not be so petty, eh?”
This was my rescuer, drenched but undeniably charming—the antithesis of Jonathan’s cold aloofness. His wildness captivated me momentarily. Jonathan, noticing, glowered. He tightened his grip. “She’s my wife, Frederick. In what position are you to lecture me?”
Frederick, still smiling, countered, “Didn’t I just hear her say she wants a divorce?”
Tension crackled. Seeing the murderous intent in Jonathan’s eyes, Frederick chuckled. “I saved your wife. Shouldn’t you be thanking me?”
Jonathan's expression softened slightly. “I’ll hand the Brindlewest project to you entirely.” He then dragged me away, leaving behind a stunned crowd.
Gasps followed us. “The Brindlewest project is a goldmine! Did Jonathan just give it to Frederick Guzman?” “Hundreds of billions! Even the Zimmers only got a small share! But Jonathan gave Frederick the whole thing?” “Just because he saved his wife? That can’t be! I thought Jonathan hated his hick of a wife!” The whispers continued long after we left.
Jonathan brought me to his private penthouse suite—he never stayed in previously occupied rooms. Yanking me in, he shoved me into a bathtub. Warm water enveloped me. “Can you get out, Jonathan?” I murmured.
He remained cold and silent, as he had since the slap. “No,” he rasped.
After my bath, he lifted and carried me, ignoring my protests. He tucked me into bed, then joined me. I braced myself, but instead of violence, he pulled me into a fierce hug, his arms a vise around me. His jaw rested on my head; when I struggled, he only tightened his hold. Just as my patience ran thin, he whispered, hoarsely, “Thank goodness you’re alright, Elise…”
“Drop the act, Jonathan,” I retorted. Frederick had saved me; what right did he have to those words?