I didn’t do anything fancy with my hair, just blasted the strands until most of the moisture was gone, and when I switched the blow dryer off Rob was back at my side. A long-sleeved shirt and pajama pants in hand.

It was my favorite set, both silky soft and very warm, and very welcome because I was feeling chilled after the whole open-door-shower-situation.

“Ready?” he asked after he’d helped me dress.

I nodded. “Thanks.”

Arms around me, a warm chest next to my ear. The bed beneath me, cool sheets, a hot husband . . . who pulled back and tucked the covers around me.

He was leaving.

“Don’t,” I said before I could stop the word and reached out to grab Rob’s arm. I guessed those drugs hadn’t completely worn off because normally I wouldn’t have asked. I never wanted to come across as needy and, dammit, I knew it was important to rely on yourself, first and foremost.

But, the truth was, I didn’t want Rob to go.

I wanted my husband next to me. Even if it was all just pretend.

“Please,” I murmured.

Someone had broken into the house, Rocco was hurt a second time because of me, my feet were beginning to sting again, and . . . I was so damned lonely.

He pulled away. Slipped from my grip as easily as if it were nothing.

My throat tightened, tears filled my eyes, and I slammed them shut, not wanting them to slip free, not wanting him to see.

It didn’t matter.

They slid through my defenses, wet my cheeks, dripping down to soak the cotton of my pillowcase.

Then the bed dipped.

I sucked in a breath. “I—”

“Not tonight,” Rob said, wrapping me in his embrace, turning me gently so that my face was pressed against his chest. “Just let me hold you tonight.”

My only answer was to scoot closer.

I shot to waking a few hours later. Early morning light trickled through the window of my bedroom, and the house was still.

But something had woken me.

I pressed my hand to my chest, trying to calm the racing organ as I sat up and listened.

Then I heard it.

Rob’s voice.

It was hushed, barely a masculine rumble.

I glanced at the door, saw it wasn’t quite closed. I could just make out the silhouette of one arm raised to his ear. He was on the phone.

My eyes flicked to his nightstand, to his cell on the polished wooden surface.

He was talking on that phone.

And we were right back to reality.

“Celeste.” Rob’s pleading voice raised enough for me to hear it clearly. “Please don’t do this.”

Pain knifed through me.

And dammit I was tired of this man hurting me. I was on a perpetual merry-go-round of pain and really freaking sick of it.

“Celeste— Stop. Listen. You mean too much to me to—”

Fuck. This. Shit.

I threw the covers back and stood.

Then promptly collapsed to the floor in a pile of silk and throbbing limbs. I was an idiot for many things, least of all was forgetting about the fact that my feet were stitched together like Frankenstein’s face.

“Moron,” I muttered through clenched teeth, flipping over to my hands and knees and crawling my way into the bathroom.

“Please think this through,” Rob said just as I reached the end of the carpet and the beginning of the bathroom’s freezing cold tile. I’d loved the pale gray shade until I was actually pulling myself across the glossy surface. Nose distance from it, I thought it was really quite ugly.

Or maybe that was my heart talking.

“Don’t do anything rash,” my husband said to another woman just as I closed and locked the bathroom door.

I wriggled my way to my robe and wrestled it on before sitting on the step leading up into our bathtub.

Clean lines, gray and sky blue, double sinks, separate bath and shower, walk-in closet. Cozy white bath mats. A vanity with a gorgeous stool. Fluffy bath sheets . . . and not those tiny towels that hardly covered anything.

The bathroom was a representation of everything I’d ever wanted.

Right?

Rob and I had done nearly all of the work ourselves.

I remembered how proud I’d felt of the space.

We’d done it.

We.

That we was gone now.

Plink. A tear dripped down my cheek, dropped to the marble step. Followed by another. And another. And—

“Ugh,” I growled, so beyond tired of crying. I was just done.

Done with it all.

There was a knock at the door. “Miss?”

I ignored Rob, instead turning on both bath taps to high, letting the sound of the rushing water drown him out.

“Melissa!” I heard him shout.

“I’m fine!” I shouted back.

“Why’s the door locked?”

I didn’t respond, rotating back to the tub and feeling the water. A bath suddenly sounded like a fabulous idea. I adjusted the temperature, flicked the lever to engage the plug, and began wrestling off my robe and pajamas.

The doorknob rattled. “Let me in.”

I snorted. Unlikely.

“Melissa.”

“I. Can’t. Hear. You,” I said lifting myself to the top of the tub before executing some kind of fabulous swing-my-leg-over-with-a-triceps-dip. “Thank you Pilates videos,” I murmured.

Thunk.

The door shook in its frame.

“What?” My eyes swiveled toward the pane of wood. Was he really trying—?

Thunk.

Another impact. Another shudder.

“I’m fine!” I yelled, not wanting to be down another door.

Rob was either taking his turn to ignore me, or he hadn’t heard me because his only answer was another jar against the door. Except this one was followed by a crash as the wood splintered and the lock gave way.

My husband stood, chest heaving, in the doorway. He stepped over the threshold, crunching splinters of wood beneath bare feet as he walked toward me. He wore a pair of old jeans that were as soft as butter, but his eyes were hard and angry.

“What the hell were you doing with the door locked?” he snapped. “You could have hurt yourself, and I wouldn’t have been able to help.”

I forced my eyes away, studying my toes as I leaned back in the tub. I could almost pretend he wasn’t there with the noise of the water drowning out his footsteps.

Unfortunately, it didn’t drown out his anger.

That was a pulsing cloud filling the room, weighing down on my chest, my heart.

I was hurting, I was worn down, I was . . . done.

Rob wrenched the taps off, reached across the tub to get right in my face.

“What were you thinking?”

His hair was mussed, twin tracks present from him running his hands through it. His face was slightly flushed, with just the hint of pink on his cheekbones. Hot breath, tinted with cinnamon teased my lips.

It did nothing for me.

It did absolutely . . . everything.

But I couldn’t do this anymore.

“I want a divorce.”

Rob stared at me for a heartbeat.

Just a heartbeat with those scorching black eyes before his mouth was on mine.