When Love Breaks by jack

Chapter 32

About fifteen minutes later, the car slowly rolled into the driveway.

“We’re home, Bryant, I announced as I opened the car door.

Unexpectedly, the man beside me, who was out cold from drinking, slumped toward me as I opened the door.

I frowned, bracing myself to hold him up. “Can you stand up on your own?”

But I got no response.

Left with no choice, I had to wake Emma, who was sound asleep, to help me get Bryant back into his room.

“Mrs. Ferguson, do you need help?” Emma asked, rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

“No, it’s fine. Go back to sleep,” I replied, feeling sorry for disturbing Emma’s rest.

After Emma left, I struggled with the nausea from Bryant’s alcohol fumes as I bent over to help him out of his shoes and tie, then straightened up to head downstairs. But as I turned to leave, I found my hand suddenly gripped in his.

“Sweetheart…” he mumbled with his eyes still closed.

I didn’t think he was calling for me. More likely, he had reached a point with Margaret where they called each other endearing terms like that.

I tried to pry his eyelids open. “Bryant, look at me. Do you see who I am?”

“Sweetheart…” He wasn’t cooperating, turning away from my attempts and pulling my hand closer, whispering, “Jane, my wife is Jane.”

My heart skipped a beat. But I quickly reminded myself, thinking Bryant was just drunk. wouldn’t take it seriously. When he was sober, he would only choose someone else.

I pursed my lips, saying lightly, “Is that so? But you don’t even love Jane. Must be tough, being married to a woman you don’t love.”

His words in the office, spoken to Timothy, were etched clearly in my mind.

‘Jane, don’t be foolish anymore.” I told myself inwardly.

“It’s not tough…” He nuzzled my hand, his usually cold face showing a hint of contentment, drunkenly saying. “My wife is great. She’s the best woman.”

“At least your eyes aren’t blind.” I snorted.

After marrying into the Ferguson family, I had been perfect toward the elders and Bryant Even if Bryant didn’t love me, he couldn’t fault me there.

I

Bryant mumbled a few more words I couldn’t make out, probably thinking I had left, and drifted back to sleep.

After ensuring he was sound asleep, I freed my hand and went downstairs to make him a hangover soup.

He tended to wake up in the middle of the night after drinking too much.

With this soup, he’d wake up the next day without a hangover.

It might have been a habit formed over the three years. Even though I’d had the divorce papers drafted and I had moved out of this house that no longer felt like mine, I still found myself taking care of him.

As I fished the softened ingredients out of the boiling pot, I finally realized what I was doing, smacking my forehead in frustration.

‘What am I doing?’ I couldn’t believe it.

I wanted to leave, but wasting food didn’t sit right with me either. I would chalk it up to a good deed for the day, like looking after a stray dog. I found a reasonable excuse for myself.

I strained out the ingredients when the soup was ready and carried it upstairs.

I intended to leave it on the bedside table and go, but as I reached the bed, I found myself caught in a pair of lucid eyes.

Startled, I felt somewhat uneasy. “You’re awake?”

“Yeah,” Bryant murmured.

“This, um, I made you some hangover soup on a whim.” Feeling like I got caught do something wrong, I placed the bowl on the bedside table, “Drink it if you want, or jus

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I turned to leave, in a hurry to escape. Unexpectedly, the man, who was too drunk to st an hour ago, suddenly reached out, pulling me back with a firm grip around my waist.

“Sweetheart, can we not get a divorce, please?