CHAPTER 26

Lisa's POV

When I recall that I need to travel to Grandma's house first before meeting up with Anna to go shopping, I wake in my sleep and reach for my eyes to wipe them before sitting up.

Damien is not in bed when I look around, so I scowl as I attempt to imagine where he may have gone.

Even so, did he spend the night here? I can recall getting out of bed to use the restroom before going back to bed, but I didn't see him there.

He stated he would go for a little while, but he never returned.

I yawn loudly, stretch, and get out of bed, glancing briefly at the enormous wall clock.

Even though it's just seven in the morning, I'm certain Damien is already at work. We resume at 7 a.m., and he often gets to work earlier than that.

I genuinely want to know whether he entered this space last night or not. I rush to the restroom, yank open the door, and enter to see how dry everything is.

The bathroom wouldn't be this dry if Damien had come in to take a bath before leaving for work.

This indicates that he hasn't come home since yesterday night when he abandoned me here asking a question.

How can you find him? Is he the kind of promiscuous person who poses as a saint?

I have no other explanation for why he wasn't at home on the second night of our wedding than this. He didn't even say where he was going, and he didn't give the impression that he wouldn't stay the night.

What nonsense! I hiss fiercely and rush back into the room while muttering foul words.

I slouch on the sofa and put my palm over my head while I consider my life.

I've just been here three days, and I'm already really bored. Was this the purpose of my employment? unable to find a job to divert my attention from my problems, I worry myself to death when sleeping and waking up to my husband's absence.

I immediately get to my feet and start to make my way out when I spy a door in the bedroom I recall talking to myself last night about a new pastime. I didn't know there was another door in here, and I'm curious how many rooms there are in the whole estate.

I feel myself moving toward the little entrance out of curiosity. Due to its tiny size and location on the left side of the bedroom door, the door is hardly discernible.

The doorknob turns when I touch it. The anticipation of what I shall learn causes my heart to start pounding. I can be curious when I want to, and if Damien isn't prepared to respond to them, I may as well figure them out for myself.

I enter the room and glance around, but all I see are books, which quickly fill me with dissatisfaction.

More is what I'm hoping for. in what way? I have no idea.

I find myself shutting the door and going inside rather than going back. Two bookcases and a desk with two seats are the only items in the room.

I'll have concluded that despite being Damien's home office, it isn't suitable for use as his workspace. First of all, it is much too tiny, and the bookshelf is stacked high with non-work-related titles. It seems that he tosses any book he purchases here.

I have no idea whether Damien reads books. He doesn't seem to be a book reader. I reach out on a whim to grab a book from the shelf.

As soon as I realize what kind of book it is, I gasp in shock and feel my heart expand with happiness.

A romance book!

Wow! What I need is this. This is the ideal activity to discover. I need this to keep me occupied and distracted from my problems.

I enter the room again, shutting the door discreetly behind me, hiding the book behind me without looking at the other people. I smile to myself as I make my way out and hope that no one will see me.

Although I am aware that I shouldn't be doing this, I have discovered my new comfort level and am now happy to be in the same room as you.

I'll likely complete all of the books there before the year is over, which will make my year meaningful and allow me to start thinking about trying my hand at writing.

My father has always encouraged me to be a writer or a journalist since I enjoy reading. Even though I didn't enjoy any, I still wanted to attempt journalism.

After getting the blanket from the bed and putting it over me due to the cold, I make my way back to the sofa.

I squander the overpowering sense of having a free book to myself to keep me company by sinking into the sofa and muttering in delight.

Going to Grandma's residence no longer appeals to me. She won't speak to me right now, but I have faith that she will change her mind. I should probably give her some time and space so she can process everything.

I'm not sorry I did this for her. I really hate becoming friends with Juliet and providing for her in that way.

As soon as I open the book to begin reading, a note slips out. I grab it quickly, and it says, "To you, my love."

My face fills with confusion as I finish reading the message. What it signifies and who it was sent to are both mysteries to me.

Did someone give Damien this? Was it given to someone by him?

I'm certain the answer to the latter question is no. Damien has never been seen with a woman, and as I consider this, I'm starting to question why and how it's even possible for a handsome guy like him to remain single.

He seems homosexual.

I let out a small gasp as I come to the conclusion that this is the only explanation for Damien's actions. He married me, but because he's homosexual and doesn't want the world to know, we won't be having sex after that.

Goodness! My heart starts to beat erratically in my chest, and I nearly scream as I lunge forward.

"Oh, no!"

This is just unbelievable. Why won't he just inform me? I have a right to be aware of his identity and motivations, don't I?

I can't tell whether my tears are caused by disappointment that he is homosexual or by guilt for not being informed and having to learn this information on my own.

I sit up straight, taking up the book again, and quickly turning the pages in the hopes of finding anything to provide me with another clue.

I need additional proof to support my assertion that Damien is homosexual.

Anyone, male or female, may have written the message from earlier. I need to be certain that it is a man and not a woman.

I quickly open it page by page until I reach the final one, lifting it up so nothing else may come off as the first did.

I look around and can see nothing; my desire to read has vanished. When something falls, I glance down to see another piece of paper on the ground as I'm ready to put the book down.

I take it without thinking about it.

"I sometimes wonder if you, Damien, and I, Helena, can share this kind of love, but the answer is never yes," Helena said.

Always, no is the response.

In added perplexity, I wrinkled my forehead. Does this imply that Helena, the author of the first message, desired Damien but was turned down by him?

What is her book doing in his home and on his bookshelves if he really rejected her?

Do the other volumes include more of her notes?

When the door opens, I hastily fall back into the sofa to conceal the book so Damien won't notice it and accuse me of trespassing. I have just sprung to my feet and am ready to risk going back into the room to get the answers to my query.

Actually, I'm trespassing.

Damien enters the room wearing the same T-shirt and shorts he did when he left his house last night.

His eyes scan the whole space as he shuts the door before landing on my little body as I sit on the sofa.

He gives me a nod as he enters in silence. I bite my lower lip, unsure of whether to greet him formally, as if he were still my supervisor, or affectionately as if he were my husband.

This is sufficient proof that he did not stay at home. He also hasn't gone into the workplace.

So from whence is he coming?

I say "Good morning, Damien" with a slight grin on my face, my buttocks resting on the small book, and the blanket snugly around me.

After a little pause, he just replies, "Good morning," without giving me a second look.

The thought of having to share this enormous, beautifully built special closet with him comes to mind as he walks to the closet and stands in front of the mirror. Now that it has occurred, I will set aside some time to organize my clothing there before shopping for new clothing.

"How was your night?" I asked. I re-ask while anticipating a response. I'm curious about where he spent the night, but I can't approach him that way.

Before he turns around and looks at me coldly before leaving for the restroom, there is a moment of silence during which I assume he did not hear me.

Before I know it, I yell "Damien," turning around to see if he would slow down. You're not required to feel uneasy around me or spend the night someplace else as a result of me. I should put up with any inconveniences since I am the one who came here to meet you. Allow me to enter another room if you don't mind.

He doesn't respond, and his expressionless eyes don't change. I'm at a loss as to what is going through his head or how he must be feeling.

He doesn't respond and turns around to go back toward the restroom door. I get up quickly.

The question "Damien, are you gay?" Without thinking, I speak aggressively, and afterward, I bite my bottom lip in remorse. I didn't mean to ask this, but I think my want to hear him talk to me overrode my better judgment.

He carefully pivots so that we are directly facing one another. As he yells, his face goes steely and his eyes grow lethal. It's "What the hell!"