CHAPTER 146: DRUNK HATEFUL HUSBAND

Alexia – POV

The car was quiet.

Too quiet.

Not the kind of silence that lulls or comforts. The kind that holds its breath. The kind that waits to snap.

Aiden sat beside me, his face turned toward the window, jaw set, unreadable. The only sound was the low hum of the engine and the occasional soft tap of Tobias’s fingers against the steering wheel.

No one said a word.

I kept my hands clasped tightly in my lap, trying not to fidget. Trying not to let the ache between my legs distract me, or the soreness in places I hadn’t known could bruise. I had kept up the act at the party, smiled when I had to, kissed when expected. But now—with the illusion unraveling—I didn’t know what to expect anymore.

He hadn’t looked at me since the kiss.

Not once.

And maybe that should have calmed me.

But it didn’t.

Because I knew Aiden. I knew what stillness meant when it came to him. It was the pause before a storm. The breath he took before switching masks. And behind closed doors, there was no mask left to wear.

I stared out the window, watching the city blur past. Neon lights reflected against tinted glass, all sharp edges and artificial glamour. A world that couldn’t see us for what we really were. A fake couple in a very real nightmare.

By the time the car pulled into the long driveway of the villa, it was already past midnight. The house stood quiet in the distance, wrapped in darkness. Tobias cut the engine, the headlights casting our silhouettes against the interior ceiling like shadows in a cage.

Aiden opened his door without a word.

Didn’t even glance back.

And that—that—hurt more than it should have.

He left the door open behind him, footsteps fading as he made his way to the front entrance, unlocking it with the slow, unhurried grace of a man who owned everything around him—including me.

I didn’t move.

I just sat there, staring at the leather seat across from me, fists clenched against my dress. I hated the fear crawling in my stomach. Hated the way I hesitated. Hated the fact that no matter how much I told myself to get out, to stand up and walk, I couldn’t.

Because I didn’t know who I was walking toward anymore.

The man who kissed me like he remembered what it felt like to love me?

Or the one who used my body like a battlefield only hours before?

The air in the car was too thick. My chest felt too tight. The perfume I’d worn for the party suddenly smelled cloying. Wrong.

Eventually, I opened the door and stepped out into the night.

The gravel crunched beneath my heels, and I winced at the discomfort shooting through my legs. I forced myself to walk, even though every step was a reminder of what he’d done this morning. Of how rough he’d been. Of how loud I’d screamed and how breathless I’d become and how I hadn’t known if it was hate or hunger fueling him.

The porch light was still on.

He’d gone in without turning it off.

I climbed the steps slowly, each one heavier than the last, until I reached the door. The hallway inside was empty. Quiet. Aiden’s jacket was already thrown over the nearest chair, and his shoes left neatly by the stairs like he always did. No sign of him. No footsteps. No echo.

Only silence.

I shut the door behind me.

And stood there—waiting.

For the shift.

For the version of him that always came out when we were alone. The version that hated me for crimes I could no longer deny. That punished me with words and touches and the sharp edges of memory.

But nothing happened.

Not at first.

I walked deeper into the house, heels clicking softly against polished marble. I found him in the kitchen, standing by the counter, back turned. He had poured himself a drink. Whiskey, neat.

His fingers curled tightly around the glass.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t even acknowledge me.

I stood there in my heels and party dress, dolled up in silk and shine and the very image of a wife made for show. But underneath it all, I was trembling. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone to see. But I felt it in my core.

He finally spoke, his voice low and sharp.

"You lingered in the car."

It wasn’t a question.

I swallowed. "I didn’t think you wanted to be followed."

He turned around then.

Slowly.

Glass still in hand.

His gaze locked on mine. And there it was again—that flicker. That unnameable thing I kept seeing. Not quite hate. Not quite love. Something in between. A bruise that never healed right.

"I don’t," he said, voice flat. "But you’re my wife. Remember?"

I nodded.

Because what else could I do?

He moved past me, brushing against my shoulder just enough to make me flinch. I hated that he noticed. Hated more that he didn’t say a word about it.

"You’ll sleep in the guest room tonight," he said quietly as he climbed the stairs. "I don’t want to see you."

The ache in my chest returned.

But I didn’t argue.

I waited until his footsteps disappeared down the hall, until I heard the distant sound of his bedroom door closing. Then I leaned against the nearest wall and finally let myself breathe again.

He hated me.

But sometimes...

Sometimes I wasn’t so sure.

And that was what scared me most of all.

I didn’t make it to the guest room.

I tried.

I really did.

But I hadn’t even finished taking off my earrings when I heard the slam.

Not a door.

Something heavier.

Something final.

I froze.

His door.

Thrown open.

Footsteps followed—fast, purposeful, full of that rage I’d learned to recognize. My fingers stopped at the clasp of my necklace as I turned around slowly, heartbeat thudding too loud in my ears.

Aiden stood in the doorway of my room, chest rising and falling like he’d sprinted down the hall. The shadows played across his face in sharp angles. His jacket was gone, sleeves rolled up, and the drink he’d been holding before now shattered somewhere behind him. Glass glittered on the floor like ice.

He looked like he wanted to tear something apart.

Or someone.

Me.

"Aiden...?"

I hated how small my voice sounded. Hated it more that I took a step back on instinct.

His eyes flickered to the bed. Then to me.

"You slept like nothing happened," he said.

I blinked. "What—?"

"This morning," he snapped. "You passed out with my cock still inside you and you slept like a baby afterward."

I flinched at the venom in his voice. "You left me unconscious—"

"No." His voice dropped an octave, quieter but far more dangerous. "You gave in. You begged. You moaned. You screamed. And then you passed out. You liked it."

My throat closed.

He stalked forward, slow, precise, like a predator who already knew he’d won.

"You used to make men beg, remember?" His tone was a mockery of sweetness. "Back then, I begged for mercy. My sister begged for her life. Your slaves begged for kindness. You gave none of it."

He was in front of me now. Close enough to feel his heat. Close enough to smell the whiskey on his breath.

I couldn’t move.

"I want to hate you," he whispered.

His hand came up—fast.

I flinched, expecting a strike.

But he didn’t hit me.

He grabbed the back of my neck and pulled me to him. His mouth crushed mine in a kiss that wasn’t tender. It was war. Teeth, breath, fury. His other hand tangled in my dress and yanked it down, silk tearing at the seams.

I gasped into his mouth.

He bit my bottom lip, just enough to draw blood.

"I shouldn’t want you," he growled against my mouth. "But look at me. I do. I still fucking do."

He shoved me backward until my legs hit the bed.

I stumbled, landing on the mattress. My heels caught on the edge and fell to the floor with a clatter. I was half-naked now, heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

"Aiden, please—"

"Please what?" he hissed. "Beg me not to do what you did to me? To them? You think I forgot how you used to smile while giving orders to whip us?"

His hand was at his belt.

Unfastening.

Unzipping.

His eyes were pitch black.

And I was shaking.

He climbed onto the bed, knees on either side of me, one hand pushing my thigh apart while the other grabbed my wrist and pinned it above my head.

I hated the way my body reacted. The heat. The ache. The betrayal.

Because no matter how afraid I was... I still wanted him.

And I hated myself for it.

His face hovered over mine, inches away, eyes locked with mine like he was trying to read every regret I’d ever buried.

"I told myself I’d make you pay," he said, voice hoarse. "But all I want right now is to fuck you until you forget your name."

His hand slid between my thighs.

I gasped.

He wasn’t gentle.

But he wasn’t cruel either.

He was desperate.

For control. For revenge. For understanding.

And I realized something terrifying in that moment.

He didn’t know whether he wanted to punish me... or love me.

He thrust into me in one hard, claiming stroke.

I cried out.

Not from pain.

Not from pleasure.

But from the sheer overwhelming weight of it. Of us.

His hand clamped over my mouth as he moved, fast and brutal.

Like if he fucked me hard enough, he could forget the screams from the past.

I didn’t fight him.

I didn’t want to.

Because I was just as lost.

Just as broken.

He buried his face in my neck, breath ragged.

"You destroyed me," he whispered. "And I still fucking want you."

I let the tears fall.

Not from fear.

From the truth in his voice.

From the truth in mine.

Because I wanted him too.

Even if it killed me.