The Unwanted Wife
The Unwanted Wife
L. MURPHY
Copyright © 2022 L. Murphy
All rights reserved
First Edition
Fulton Books
Meadville, PA
Published by Fulton Books 2022
ISBN 978-1-63860-126-5 (paperback)
ISBN 978-1-63985-506-3 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-63860-127-2 (digital)
Printed in the United States of America
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Epilogue
PROLOGUE
Brooke
“I’ve arranged for you to marry Landon Campbell.” My father’s gruff voice rumbles through the thick air over breakfast. Fear races down my spine and my heart rate speed up. My hands shake as I pour his coffee, spilling it over the cup and onto his lap.
“Dammit! You stupid clumsy bitch.”
He grabs my wrist in a vice-like grip. He picks up the cup of coffee, an evil grin stretches across his face as he proceeds to pour the scalding-hot liquid across my forearm. I wince at the pain and suck in a deep breath. I know better than to cry out. Noise only encourages him to inflict more pain. Tears pricked my eyes and he let go of me so roughly that I fell to my butt.
My glasses fall off my face and I scramble to grab them. The dark, blurred images always cause my palms to sweat as fear seeps into ever cell in my body. My father cackles as he watches me squirm on the ground. He delivers a swift kick to my right side, knocking the breath out of me.
“Clean this mess up. I’ll be in my study arranging your engagement dinner for tomorrow. Don’t disturb me, you ugly cow.” With that, he leaves the room.
I clean up the mess then take a cold shower in hopes of slowing the bruising. My thoughts swirl about the man of who is to be my new husband. Will he be a cruel man like my father, or will he be gentle and loving? I can only hope for the latter, although I fear the worst. What kind of man would agree to marry someone they never met, especially someone as ugly and useless as me? Not a good one, a nagging voice says in the back of my mind.
Landon
One week later
The wedding day
I gulp down another glass of whiskey. Fucking Connor Robinson, and his fucking contract. His stipulation for this marriage was outrageous. I gulp down another drink, and glance at my new wife across the room. She is dancing with her father for the father-daughter dance. The picture of perfect feminine grace as she glides across the floor. As I watch her, I notice that something seems off about the way she is moving. It is almost as if she’s favoring her right side.
I shake my head, brushing aside the thought. The last thing I needed was a spoiled, vain, brainless wife. I signal the bartender for another drink.
“Trying to blackout before the wedding night?” Arnold Macintosh, Connor Robinson’s nephew and sole inheritor, asks as he slides next to me.
“I don’t blame you, Brookes such an ugly, fat thing. Good luck getting that bitch pregnant.” He chuckles and I ignore him.
“Of course, you could always turn off all the lights if you were desperate. Which, if you ever wanted to unshackle yourself—” Arnold is cut off when I grab him by the throat.
“Do not speak ill of my bride, Arnold, or you will be sorry. And I can assure you I am more than capable of getting my wife with child. Although I am sure you would not want that. No, if I have a son, Connor Robinson’s fortune goes to him, doesn’t it?” I smirk as I shove him away, down another drink, and go to collect my bride.
CHAPTER 1
Eighteen Months Later
Brooke
The sight of my porcelain sink fills my vision as I pop in my contacts. Avoiding the mirror, I go through my morning routine. I dread going downstairs to breakfast. Every day for the last eighteen months is the same. Landon and I sit silently through a stilted breakfast before he leaves for work and not come back until I am fast asleep.
The smell of coffee fills my senses as I round the corner to the kitchen. Landon’s head is buried in a newspaper as he sips his coffee. Sitting across from him, I butter some toast and spread some raspberry jam across it. Sinking my teeth into the tart flavor I close my eyes and hold in a small moan. The past eighteen months have been like heaven. I have tried so many foods, but so far, nothing has been better than this raspberry jam Landon’s chef makes homemade.
After twenty minutes of silence, Landon folds up his newspaper. “I’m heading to Italy for some business tomorrow morning.”
I nod my head, even though inside my heart is racing. Landon’s business trips are a common occurrence. It also happens to be the only time he ever touches me. Usually late the night before he departs and always in the dark. I make a mental note to leave my contacts in. Blindness and hands are not a good combination for me. Without any more conversation, Landon leaves for work.
As much as I hate myself for it, a thrill rushes through me in anticipation of tonight. I know he does not love me or even find me attractive, but the thought of making love to him tonight sends tingles all the way to my toes. Cursing myself for doing it, I pick up my phone and schedule an appointment with my usual spa lady. That is another thing I have discovered since my marriage—pampering. I have never been able to go for a massage or have a mani-pedi before because ofconstant bruising and burns. Though my skin is still always tender and my arms still tend to be bruised, it is much easier to hide. The bruises are always a softer color, not as angry.
I am scheduled for a full pamper session at one. I am talking massage, waxing, mani-pedi, a hair treatment—the works. My other appointment does not start until ten. Glancing at the clock, I see its only seven thirty. I decide to head to the basement where my makeshift art room is set up. Though it is a windowless room and can be very stuffy, I love my studio. It has got a large closet that I use as my dark room for developing photos, but the rest of the room I have lit up with LED bulbs and twinkling lights when I want a softer glow. I have bright, teal-colored walls I painted myself, and on one wall is entirely made up of bookshelves filled with my portfolios. Each book has a theme. Some are based on seasons, others on animals. Some drawn, painted, or photographs. They represent eighteen months of commitment to filling out as many as I possible could. In the center of the room is a large circular table that I do all my projects on. I have a dresser along another wall filled with supplies—bins full of wood to carve and wield into small figurines. I curl up with my sketch pad on the couch that is full of throw pillows and blankets.
I start to draw yet another portrait of Landon. I always start with his eyes. There is a stormy grey bordered by thick long black lashes. Then I move to his bold dark eyebrows, his slightly crooked nose, his strong, square, chiseled jaw covered in a five o’ clock shadow. Finally, I move to his plump soft lips. I run my finger along their outline. Knowing those lips will be pressed against mine tonight or dragged down the length of my neck, my heart rate picks up and my panties dampen. I can feel tingling in the tips of my breast even though he has never touched them, never explored beyond what was needed for the act itself. Sometimes I wonder why he even bothers. He clearly has no wish for intimacy, at least not with me.
The stupid voice in the back of my mind echoes my cousin’s words, “Brooke’s such an ugly, fat thing. Good luck getting that bitch pregnant. Of course, you could always turn off all the lights if you were desperate. Which if you ever wanted to unshackle yourself…” That was the last I heard of his sentence because my eavesdropping was interrupted by a server passing by. Unshackled? From me? If he did not want me as his wife, why did he marry me? What does it have to do with a pregnancy?
My alarm goes off reminding me of my appointment in a half hour. I put my incomplete drawing in the dresser drawer that holds an album dedicated to Landon. I keep it separated from my other work in case Landon came down here one day; not that he ever has. In a year and a half of marriage, Landon has never sought me out, never touched me unnecessarily. Hell, we do not even talk more than needed. Mostly we stick to polite table etiquette such as “Please pass the butter,” during our breakfast and dinner on the weekends. Landon owns a multibillion-dollar company in software. He is so tech-savvy it is unreal. He started the company from the ground up, and everyone thought he would fail. Closing the door to thoughts of Landon, I get into my Buick and head to my appointment, ignoring the nagging guilt I feel for keeping it a secret.
CHAPTER 2
Before He Leaves
Brooke
I wake up to warm lips gliding down the length of my neck. I cannot believe I fell asleep while waiting for Landon to come home. I still feel groggy from the medication I took earlier and sit up slightly to wake up. London’s big hand slides up my bare leg until it meets the hem of my short shorts. He lifts his head, and his lips connect with mine. The kiss is soft and slow, making my head feel fuzzier than it already is.
I taste the bitter taste of whiskey on him, and a small piece of my heart shatters. Tears prickle my eyes, so I squeeze them shut. Not that Landon can even see me as there are no lights on. Self-loathing pools over me, and I hate him for doing this to me. Hate myself for letting him. For being so weak, believing in childish fantasies. Landon has never touched me without some form of liquid courage. Most of the time, it’s whiskey, sometimes bourbon.
Fat, ugly thing. I try to push that stupid voice out of my head, try to ignore it and enjoy the moment.
Landon removes my shorts and panties, but to my dismay leaves my silky shirt in its place. He spreads my thighs and settles himself between me. I feel his hard length pressed against me. Feel his bold fingers stroke me, prepare me. I gasp out in pleasure as he slides in. I can feel my heart hammering against my chest, and my breath comes out in pants as Landon sets an agonizingly slow rhythm.
“Beagchaithnini sneachta,” Landon’s low raspy whisper sends a bolt of pleasure from the tips of my breast all the way down to my toes. I bit my lip to hold in a moan as he picks up his pace. I am so close. Suddenly, hands come into play, and my breathing turns to gasps. I arch up into every stroke wishing for more. Harder, faster, I want to scream at him.
“Come,” Landon demands. “Come, Beagchaithnini sneachta,” and with a last gasp, I come biting the inside of my cheek in an effort to keep quiet as London’s grunts out his pleasure.
Landon rolls off me, his breathing labored as he casually lays there with one arm covering his eyes. In a few minutes, he will get up and go shower. Then he will go down to his study where I always imagine he drinks away the memory of me.
When he leaves, I go into the bathroom to remove my contacts. My eyes are itchy and irritated from sleeping with them in already. I will have to forgo them tomorrow and wear my glasses. I hate wearing my glasses. They’re too easily removed.
After I clean up a bit, I curl back into bed careful to stay on my side of the bed. I know he is not coming back again tonight, but I still leave space for him. It’s stupid wishful thinking on my part that he might come back and wrap his big six-foot-four-inch frame around me and whisper sweet nothings to me while his fingers thread through my hair. I burrow further into my pillow as tears slowly spill over my eyes. I curse myself for crying. How does he do it? How does he make me feel so good, yet so ashamed after? Pushing my face into my pillow to muffle my cry I fall asleep with a list of if only running through my mind.
If only I was prettier.
If only I was thinner.
If only someone loved me.
Landon
I press the bench bar above my head again and again. Its punishing weight not taking my mind off the brown-haired beauty upstairs. Her soft gasps play through my mind on repeat. I wanted to pound into her so fast and hard but forced myself to hold back. She is a wee little lassie, barely reaching 5'4" and 120 pounds soaking wet, if that. The thought of her slight frame fills me with fury. I would never have chosen a wife so small. I like my women to have something substantial to them. Not that Brooke did not have curves because, believe me, she does. Very tempting curves that drive a man to his knees. But she had this fragile quality about her, like if I was too hard or rough with her, she would shatter.
That thought spikes my anger even more, and I pick up my pace. As much as I want to go back upstairs and do what we just did all over again, only this time with a lot more…sound, and a lot more…exploration, I will not. I will not give Connor Robinson the satisfaction. He may have arranged that his only child married to one of the wealthiest men in America, he would not gain a thing from it. Any information he hopes to get from me through his daughter is blocked. I do not confide in her, do not share any of my business with her. I isolate her completely. I may be stuck in this marriage until I produce an heir, but I will be damned if I let it affect any aspect of my life. I will take down Connor’s company, and a brown-eyed lass is not going to stand in my way, even if she is my wife.
CHAPTER 3
House Guests
Brooke
I wince when the nurse puts in the IV. It hurts every time.
“And how are we feeling this morning?” Dr. Goodmin asks in a chipper voice.
“Fine,” I lie. I feel like shit. Have for the last two days. Throwing up constantly, dizzy, and racked with hot and cold flashes. Ugh, dialysis sucks.
“Now, don’t lie to me, little lady,” Goodmin chides. “Your chart says you’ve been throwing up excessively the last few days.”
“Yes, that’s correct,” I mumble feeling foggy.
He grunts. “Have you been taking your medication?”
“Daily as prescribed.”
“Huh, your chart shows your hormone levels are a little high.” He rubs his jaw in thought. “Well, how about we do an extra hour on the dialysis machine today, and I put in a new prescription at the pharmacy for you. See if we can’t get you back to normal range.” He smiles at me and I nod even though new medication and extra time here is the last thing I want.
It has been two weeks since Landon left, and he is scheduled to return home today. I am anxious about his return when I am feeling so sick. Not that I think he would notice, but I would not want to raise suspicion. Getting home, I head upstairs for a shower. I scrub away the horrid hospital smell. I dress in a long sleeve to cover up the bruises the IV always leaves, then lay down on the bed for a minute. As my eyes drift close, I tell myself to get up, that Landon will be home soon, and I should probably comb my long brown hair before it becomes a wavy mess. But my energy was depleted by the shower, and I succumb to sleep.