Fixed (Flawed Love Book 2)

  Copyright 2019 © Fixed by Emma Louise

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted by U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, establishments, or organizations and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously to give a sense of authenticity. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Fixes is intended for 18+ older, and for mature audiences only.

  Editing and Interior Design by Silla Webb at Masque of the Red Pen

  Cover Designed by Mary Ruth at Passion Creations

  DEDICATION

  PROLOGUE

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  EPILOGUE

  STRUCK

  PROLOGUE

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT

  For Brenda Travers & Nicole Erard.

  Thank you for all that you do.

  For Yasmin Carranza- Duke is yours.

  Maybe, just maybe, two broken people

  could manage to create something whole.

  -Nalini Singh

  I shouldn’t be watching this.

  I should turn away.

  I should close my eyes.

  His hand gently cupping her face, their eyes connected.

  I shouldn’t watch him fist her hair, moving her head into the perfect position for his mouth to devour hers.

  I should close my fucking eyes.

  Instead, I watch him inch her skirt up her thighs. His fingers slipping into her underwear, her head thrown back in utter ecstasy.

  This is not for me to see. I should turn around and walk out the door.

  The undeniable intimacy that floods the room around them is like a hot dagger to my chest.

  The soft moans and muttered curse words ring in my ears like alarm bells.

  I shouldn’t be watching, but there’s no way I can stop myself. I need to know this is real, that my eyes aren’t playing tricks on me.

  I can't look away.

  Not when she’s my sister.

  And he’s my husband.

  The warm evening rain soaks me as I blindly run to my car. Fumbling with my keys, I somehow drop my purse to the floor, watching through a fiery haze as the contents spill out, littering the concrete at my feet. My wallet bounces under the front wheel, landing open and showing my favorite picture of my husband and our daughters. His arms spread wide in a father’s embrace, one on each side of him. His hands squeezing their little bodies. His hands that were just touching another woman. Feeling like the world just tipped on its axis, I drop to my knees, not feeling the hard stones that dig into my bare skin. Ragged breaths rip from my body as I feel bile threatening to rise inside me.

  I find my phone amongst the detritus and dial the one person that I know will get me through this. When Poppy answers after just two rings, the dam breaks. The scalding tears fall from my eyes in a torrent, choking me and stopping the words I desperately need to get out. I can hear her calling my name, but nothing can break me from the nightmare I’m trapped in.

  Nothing will take away the pain of seeing my life as I know it crumble to nothing right in front of my eyes.

  “I want a divorce.”

  The words croak out past nervous, dry lips.

  Shifting nervously in his seat, my husband’s eyes bounce around the quiet restaurant, over the people eating next to us. They skirt around the silverware laid in front of us.

  They look everywhere, but not at me.

  The silence following that declaration clings to me. It turns the air to a lead weight that presses me into my seat, rendering me unable to move, unable to speak, even if could have found any words.

  We sit there for an indeterminable amount of time. Neither saying what should be said. What needs to be said. Looking at my husband, really looking at him for the first time in the six weeks since I'd caught him fucking my sister in his office, I battle to feel something rather than the numb haze I've been trapped in.

  Taking in his dark hair, styled to perfection as always. His version of casual-wear, a button-down shirt but no tie. Not a stitch out of place. The handsome face that I've looked at every single day for the last twelve years. I can’t help but remember the nineteen-year-old boy I met all those years ago. The one who made me smile every day, had made me the center of his world. Despite being still in school, I hadn’t thought twice when he’d dropped to one knee and asked me to marry him the day he graduated, a year before I did. I’d been proud to stand by his side as his wife through every obstacle life threw at us. I didn’t think things could get better until we had our baby girls.

  Except it was all a lie. The man I loved, the wonderful father, was a veneer. A shiny exterior that hid the rot I wasn’t awake enough to realize was setting it. The man I thought was the love of my life was a selfish fuck who used me to give him the best of both worlds. The doting wife at home to look after his children. Someone at his side at the company parties, dinners with the bosses. All of that while he was out fucking anything with a pulse.

  I wish I could say that catching him with my sister was the first time I’d caught him. I wish I could say it was the second, but the truth is, he’s probably never been faithful. Walking into his office and seeing him with Amber, that was the first time I considered leaving. That was the day it became real. This wasn’t a faceless woman on a business trip who left her underwear tucked in his pants pocket. This wasn’t lipstick and perfume on his clothing after a night out with the guys. This time his infidelity had a face. My baby sister’s face.

  Despite the toe-curling embarrassment of living with a man who obviously had zero regard for me, I stayed. I turned a blind eye, time and time again because the moment I looked at the faces of our tiny babies all those years ago, I knew I didn’t matter anymore. My wants and needs ceased to exist the day they arrived. I would forever put them above me. And they needed a dad. One who was there every day. I wouldn’t be the one to take that away.

  So now, here we are. After years of putting up with this shit from him, he wants a divorce.

  I feel nothing.

  Less than nothing.

  I am a void.

  A gaping hole instead of a person. If I didn’t have the girls, our daughters, I think I could have easily withered away. Let the darkness consume the shell he’d left of me.

  “No,” the quiet word shoots from my lips like a bullet, hitting Pete. The shock on his face causes a swell of jealousy within me. Jealousy that he can still feel things like shock. That he can be surprised by my word. He isn’t numb.

  “Elliott, I know this is...”

  “No!” My hand hitting the
table causes the cutlery to rattle. The sound is loud enough for other people seated nearby to stop their chatter to look at us in concern.

  “You don’t get to do this to me.” The words spoken through gritted teeth shouldn’t be loud enough for him to hear, but he does. I know because of the way he flinches. The way his jaw tightens in irritation, because even though he’s the only person who’s done something wrong, he’ll be annoyed that I’m reminding him of his flaws. Perfect Pete does not like his flaws to show, ever.

  “You don’t get to destroy my world, our children’s world, then run away. You don’t get to do that!” Regret flares in his eyes when I mention the girls. For all the faults he carries as a husband, he’s always been an amazing father. Late nights, early mornings, sicknesses and skinned knees. He’s been there for it all. There’s no doubt he loves our girls. It’s me he doesn’t love anymore. I can live with that though. I can live with the hurt and humiliation. I can live with a fake smile and an empty heart if it means Brooke and Bailey, my beautiful little girls, get to keep their daddy.

  My chest heaves with the effort it’s taking not to burst into tears. My hand twists the tablecloth in an effort to control the urge to pick up my steak knife and use it as a weapon. Shifting forward in his chair, Pete reaches out and gently puts his big hand over mine.

  “I’m sorry, Ellie.” The sincerity in his voice causes the first tear to fall. “We have to do this. You deserve better. The girls deserve better.”

  The urge to fight for him is so strong it pushes me to grab his hand that still covers mine on the table.

  “Please...” the words die on my lips. “I don’t want to do this...”

  “It’s time, Ellie. I’ve made a fool of you for long enough.”

  Pushing the engine off button on my car, the headlights cut out leaving the car shrouded in darkness. The street lights too far away to do much to fight it. I sit there a minute, looking at the house the girls and I moved into six weeks ago. The house my best friend owns. When I called her all those weeks ago, after catching them together, I broke down. Within minutes of answering my call, Poppy was there, at my side. Her husband scooped up what was left of me, the pain too much bear. I’d let Poppy take control. She collected the girls from the sitter and moved us into her old house. She and Keir having moved into a larger house in anticipation of their first baby being born in a few months. The girls love being here, even if they were slightly confused at first. Thankfully, their little six-year-old minds quickly adjusted. They were more concerned about the fact that Poppy’s dog wasn’t here anymore.

  I just wish that my own mind could have adjusted as well as the girls did. Once the initial shock wore off, I slipped past the sadness and straight into a strange kind of detachment.

  “Whatever it takes, Elliott. Do whatever it takes to keep him.”

  My mother’s voice echoed in my head on a constant loop. The words I'd heard oh so often growing up. The words that caused a chasm of fear to open up in my chest every time I heard them. The fear she instilled in my sister and I since our father walked out on us when I was just seven-years-old. After weeks of my head telling me I was better off out of the marriage, warring with the need to listen to my mother’s advice had taken its toll. I was exhausted until I finally caved and decided to go back.

  Tonight was supposed to be me taking control. Me telling Pete that I'd had enough of being his doormat and that I was coming home. I was ready to listen to his groveling, his hollow apologies. Instead, he turned my world upside down, again, when he asked for that divorce.

  Divorce.

  Failure.

  I failed my family.

  The emotion threatening at my eyes shocks me. I’m not ready to cry. I’m not ready to let go of my newfound anger. My shield. Instead of letting the tears break, I remind myself of the pity in Pete’s eyes. The man has destroyed my life, and he feels sorry for me. God, the shame of that burns.

  Pushing my way out of the car, I make my way into the quiet house. Walking into the den, I can’t help the small smile that creeps onto my face when I see my girls sleeping peacefully. Keir is sitting on the huge sectional, Poppy’s head in his lap, Brooke, the oldest of my five, and all of them are fast asleep. It looks like an explosion in a toy shop in here. There are dolls everywhere. When I turn the TV off, Keir stirs and I notice that the girls have somehow convinced him to let them give him one of their famous makeovers. His dark hair has a variety of bows in it, and his nails are a very bright shade of pink.

  “Hey,” he says on a stretch.

  “Looking good.” I nod to his head, causing him to reach up and feel his hair. He blushes slightly when he finds the bows still in there. He’s so stinking cute.

  “Were the girls okay for you guys?”

  “They were perfect. Tiring, but perfect.” He laughs, finally pulling the accessories out of his hair. The movement waking Poppy. She gently shifts Bailey away from her, giving herself room to stand.

  “How did it go?” The concern in her voice causes guilt to flare to life. She came over to sit with the girls, assuming that I was meeting Pete to discuss the separation. I didn’t tell her that I was actually going to try to fix my marriage, not end it.

  “It was fine.” I’ve no doubt that she sees through my bullshit fake smile, but she knows me well enough to know that I'll talk to her when I’m ready and not a minute before. She eyes me shrewdly before wisely deciding to let the subject drop, for now.

  Keir helps me carry the girls upstairs and Poppy helps me tuck them in before they leave. It’s still early but at six months pregnant, Poppy is exhausted. She gets into the truck after making me promise I’m going to be okay here on my own. And it’s a promise I can make easily. I will be okay. More than okay. I might not have been able to keep my husband happy, but I will do everything in my power to make sure my girls and I are happy.

  I wish I could say that the days, weeks, months that followed were easy. That we fell into an easy routine and that we were moving on, but if I'm being honest, I can’t.

  The truth is, I’m lost.

  I’ve never been alone like this. Yes, I have the girls. Poppy is a constant fixture around here, and I’ve become really close with Lucy, but they aren’t there with me when the girls cry at night for their dad. They aren’t there when I'm exhausted from listening to them arguing and I just need to vent my frustrations. They aren’t here when I have to make decisions for us that Pete and I should be making together.

  On top of that, I miss my sister. Not the one who slept with my husband, the one who was my shadow growing up. I can’t bring myself to answer the phone when she calls. I’m not ready to hear her explanations.

  I’m alone. Surrounded by friendship and love but utterly, utterly alone.

  “Mommy!” The loud yell pierces the quiet afternoon air. Dropping my coffee cup to the kitchen counter, I move to the stairs to see what’s wrong now. One day I might just get to enjoy a full cup of coffee while it’s still hot. Today is not that day.

  I don’t make it all the way to the stairs before first Bailey, then Brooke, come flying into the room. A tangle of arms and legs as they fight to get ahead of each other. It’s impossible to understand a word they’re saying when they’re both crying and carrying on like this.

  “Enough!” I hate that I'm shouting, yet again, but it feels like this is the only way they listen these days. “Stop right now and tell me what is going on.” Two tear-filled faces turn to me, and my heart aches. Seeing them miserable is killing me.

  “She tried to take my bow, and I wanted to wear it.” Bailey hiccups.

  “I wanted to look pretty for Daddy,” Brooke murmurs. My heart breaks for these girls. So many years of me trying to make everything perfect for Pete has rubbed off on them. They think they need to be pretty little dolls all the time. Just like I was.

  “Hey now, there are plenty of bows for you to both have one. Let’s go see what we can find in your room.”

  By the time they’v
e gotten their favorite dolls packed up, Pete arrives to collect them. Making small talk with him is like pulling teeth. I can’t be around him without wanting to cause him physical pain. The weeks we’ve been separated have shown me that trying to make our marriage work would have been a colossal disaster. Whenever I’m forced to see him, the only thing I feel is revulsion.

  Well, that and shame that I ever begged that man not to leave me.

  Closing the front door, I let my head drop against the cool wood. Watching them leave for the weekend still isn’t getting any easier. Having to pretend that I’m happy they are going is eating me up inside. Every time I have to stand on that porch and smile as Pete buckles them into the car chips away at something inside me. After a minute of fighting back my emotions, I move into the kitchen. Over the last three months, I’ve developed a ritual, a way to make it through the weekend and keep my tenuous grip on my sanity.

  First stop is the bottle of wine that’s chilling in the fridge. Once I have a large glass in one hand and the rest of the bottle in the other, I make my way upstairs into my bedroom. I loved this house when Poppy first moved here, and I’m so grateful that she decided to keep it as a rental when she and Keir married. The place is smaller than the house I lived in while married, but every inch of it feels like home compared to that cold shell of a house I'm used to. The downstairs is filled with over-sized sofas that you just want to sink into, and there are picture frames filling every available surface; it feels lived in, and I completely love it.

  An hour later and I'm blissfully numb. The warm water from the tub has softened the tension I can’t usually shake, and the bottle of wine has hushed the sadness for a minute. My Kindle has long since been thrown to the side, and I've been entertaining myself by singing along to the radio that’s turned up louder than it should be. Anything to beat back the silence the girls leave behind.

  By the time the wine bottle is empty, my fingers are like prunes. Lifting my drunk self out of the tub is a precarious exercise, but one I've perfected quite well. Turning the radio off, I move to the linen cupboard. Sober me forgot to leave a towel out. Drunk me is amused to find that sober me also forgot to bring the clean towels up from the laundry room downstairs.