The Lies He Told | PSYCHOLOGICAL THRILLER ROMANCE |

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

My husband is like a bear with a sore head, his temper unpredictable and destructive, like a volatile volcano on the brink of eruption.

Daniel awoke at the crack of dawn, his body aching and throbbing, the remnants of his excessive drinking wreaking havoc on his limbs.

He retreated to the en-suite, where he spent the better of half an hour purging himself of his past indiscretions, his muffled sobs echoing like a mournful dirge and his tears mingling with the gurgling of the toilet.

If I felt generous, considerate and magnanimous, I would check on him and make sure he was okay. I would take him a revitalising glass of ice-cold water and two effective paracetamol tablets to combat the headache.

However, I am not in the mood for his melodramatic performance right now—the theatrical portrayal of discomfort and the exaggerated "poor old me" routine.

I am done with his shenanigans—he can cry me a river. I am not about to coddle him, not after the secret messaging app I found on his phone. He did not deserve my care, my concern or my love. He threw away those privileges when he decided to tarnish our marriage and crawl into bed with another woman.

Perhaps he could invite his young, fresh-faced mistress to our home to nurse him back to health. I bet Lilac would love to see the unprepossessing side of the man, with drool dangling from his mouth and boxer briefs hanging off his ankles.

"Olivia," Daniel groaned from the bathroom, like a child calling for its mother when they have a runny bottom, which he does, by the way. "Please, wake up. I need you..."

"Oh, get fucked," I muttered into the pillow, feeling brave, as I knew he could not hear me. If he thinks I am getting out of bed to wash his tooshie, wipe the drool off his chin, or pick up the dirty, soiled laundry left all over the bathroom floor, he has another thing coming. He is a big boy, engaging in affairs with women of the calibre of Lilac. He is well past the need for my assistance in booking hotel rooms for his whores, so it stands to reason that he would not require my hand-holding during episodes of gastrointestinal anguish.

Daniel sobbed like a baby, a surefire sign that another belt of vomit was imminent. His vocalisations ascended to a level of prominence that could penetrate the thickest of walls. Just as his inconsiderate behaviour had disturbed my rest, I feared his disregard for others would once again shatter the tranquillity of dawn and startle our unsuspecting guests.

Plucking another cushion, I buried my head underneath it to extinguish the clamour.

I would rather die from a lack of oxygen than dance attendance on his every whim, especially since his phone had vibrated non-stop in the receptacle of his bedside table for the past thirty minutes.

One can hazard a guess who that could be, messaging him at this hour, hoping to secure another hotel rendezvous for this afternoon.

"Oh, Olivia," he lamented, his voice choking with tears of desperate neediness and cynical narcissism. "Please, wake up. I need you. Only you."

My eyes rolled to the back of my head.

"Do you want me to choke and die?" His question was abrupt and venomous like he was ready to lash out. "Olivia!"

"I am coming!" I called out, leaping out of bed and dashing towards the satin robe that lay draped across the divan. With swift, practised movements, I secured the garment around my body, the silken fabric fluttering against my skin. "Screaming the bloody house down will not expedite my movements in the slightest!"

When I reached the bathroom, I was completely unprepared for the grotesque scene that greeted me.

I knew Daniel was in dire straits because he'd been a constant source of negativity since I woke up, but the image that met my eyes was nothing short of shocking.