CHAPTER 38

Lisa's POV

As I examine myself in the mirror, my thoughts start to go back to what Sabrina had said about how she had been unable to pique Damien's interest in order to get the marriage contract.

I wish I could see the woman's appearance so I could contrast myself with her. I doubt it will be feasible for me to get friends with Sabrina in order for me to see her. I don't like talkers, and Sabrina certainly looks to be one. She also behaves strangely, exactly like her spouse.

I'm curious about the kinds of women Damien enjoys dating. I recently told myself that the group of gals is known as. People like him date wealthy women or daughters who are billionaires; they do not date dumb-assed broke ladies like me but rather women who have something to invest in his company.

Why didn't he accept Sabrina, who looks to be a working-class woman, and her companion, who I'm sure is also a working-class woman? Why did he choose me over her?

The form, perhaps? When I become aware that I have been gazing at myself in the mirror for more than five minutes, doing nothing but looking at myself in a bikini, I start to wonder.

I'm in the ideal shape. I doubt Damien is the kind of guy who is attracted to such form. The majority of unreliable guys come to me because of this. And what I really wanted was a committed partner who would pop the question and tie the knot with me within a few months of dating.

I never thought I'd end up in this kind of marriage. There was no courtship, marriage proposal, or consummation.

I breathe deeply as my hands are lowered to my waist.

Why in the world am I seeing Damien and the kind of ladies he would adore? Why did he marry me if he isn't genuinely interested in women? There could be a lady out there he genuinely loves, but she's not paying him any attention. Am I here because he needs her attention?

The absurdity of it

I snort to myself and turn away from the mirror, folding my arms and frowning.

What the heck am I doing wrong?

I shouldn't worry about my purpose for being here. Damiry had previously informed me that we were wed as a result of pressure from his mother to do so. I should accept his response and not cast any doubt on him.

If he is lying, it is none of my concern. If he is lying, it is my fault for not doing more research before starting this.

I sigh deeply for the final time before grabbing a towel from the drawer, getting up from the floor, and moving toward the door.

I suppose going swimming will help me pass the time because I'm bored. Since Damien departed for work this morning, I have been thinking about everything and nothing. Grandma informed me she wouldn't be home when I wanted to see her. I committed to sending the guards the next day to assist her with packing.

I finished reading a book today and decided to put the second one on hold until tomorrow. I haven't visited Damien's office since the last occasion when he almost caught me.

Every time I consider going in there to seek out more information, this terror starts to grow inside of me. It seems that he hasn't used that office in a very long time, so for me, entering there is like learning the answers to old questions.

I was certain he wasn't homosexual until I read the article. He is a heterosexual man, but something prevents him from desiring a genuine union and a genuine family.

Her name was Helena.

In the past, she had a connection to him. They cherished one another. Damien must have cherished her much.

The paper was bursting with feelings of affection. I cannot dispute that. I want to know who she is because of this, but I can't simply come right out and ask him.

By entering an office that has been vacant for more than two months, he will likely feel as if I am violating his privacy.

I'm hoping that with time, I'll find my ideal love. a sincere, pure one.

This is the reason I purchased books yesterday for myself from a shop. I need new books to keep me occupied so I won't be tempted to go to his office and choose a different book that could disclose more.

More solutions.

I want them. So terribly. I need the solutions. But I'm worried about what I could discover and Damien's reaction if he finds out.

As I exit the front door, the evening airbrush passes in front of me. Fortunately, I have my hair pulled back in a ponytail. If it weren't packed, a light airbrush would send it flying in my direction.

I race enthusiastically to the pool and let go of the towel around my waist before jumping in and screaming.

"Wow!"

I feel great. Cool water is present. I don't waste much time and start swimming from edge to edge while playing with the water with my two spread arms and forcing a smile despite the countless drops of water flowing into my nose.

When I reach the edge once again, I draw back, exhaling deeply and allowing as much air to pass through my nose as possible after the water is gone.

I turn to face the sea while keeping hold of the string and imagining a different performance style. A voice interrupts me before I can plunge back in.

The question "What the hell are you doing in there?" Damien asks in a voice that makes me want to throw up my hands in the air.

I take hold of the thread once again and carefully turn around to face him. He is dressed in the same manner as he was this morning before leaving for work.

I wrinkle my brows and wonder why he is returning home so early instead of leaping out of the water since it is obvious from his expression that he disapproves of the concept.

"Can't you respond to me? Why are you doing that? I briefly blink after hearing him growl fiercely.

What use does a pool serve? Not for swimming, is it? Given that it is evident that I am swimming, why is he asking me such a question?

He is entirely to blame for my lack of employment and daily boredom. If only he'd let me go to work. I don't have to work with him any longer; I may look for another position.

I calmly respond, "I'm swimming, Damien," and make my way out of the water. Isn't that how it appears?

The last sentence causes me to quiver a bit as his steely look penetrates deep into me. I've never talked to him disrespectfully, so doing so now seems odd.

Simply said, I find it offensive that he is asking such an absurd question.

He's still gazing at me as I turn around to face him, arms crossed over his chest. He turns to look at me while I'm wearing a bikini.

Even before I realize he is truly observing me, I can feel his eyes on me. I gulp down a knot in my throat and clench my teeth in apprehension.

Why is he looking at me from below? Is he fond of me in a bikini? Does he think I'm hot? Does he like how I look?

"What the hell is this? Are you serious? I'm startled and startled out of my trance when he cries.

I mentally smack myself for having such thoughts.

Why in the world are you dressed like this? He yells once again.

I sincerely apologize and say "I'm sorry". There was nothing to do indoors, I was quite bored, and I reasoned that the water would be very beneficial.

"What use? Have you gotten permission to swim here before coming? And you're dressed in a manner that suggests some...

I furrow my brow. What does he mean when he requests consent?

Do I need to ask permission before using any technology or doing anything in this home even if I am not his true wife?

Really?

How did you dress? In order to get his attention, I repeat what he just said. Now that he's brought it up, I think the issue is what I'm wearing. He objects to it. "Like a whore?" you ask.

I'm not sure if his expression of astonishment is a result of the fact that I'm speaking to him in this tone for the first time or the fact that I'm saying something he didn't want to hear.

"What? I had already seen the moment of remorse on his face as he took his eyes off of me and replied, "Of course not."

I nonchalantly respond, "No, it's fine," as if his comments haven't bothered me in the least. I'm wounded, of course. It aches so much in my heart. like a shit. Perhaps it's because I didn't anticipate all of them from myself or because I had high expectations for him.

Not the rudeness and haughtiness he used to exhibit toward me while I was working for him. As his wife, I was expecting respect.

He said, as if I had questioned him, "We are going to have dinner with a friend and a business partner tonight, that is why I am home early."

I keep my mouth shut. I simply keep looking at him.

"Change into something nice so we can go and return early. Change out of this outfit you're wearing. He says without seeming sorry, "I have a lot of work to accomplish tonight.

When he's through, he spins around and leaves me standing there with my lips slightly open, two hands shaking alongside me, and I feel like a large piece of my heart is being crushed.