But when he saw that I wasn't upset at all—just absentmindedly sketching in the small journal I always carried, something darkened in his expression.
"Olivia," he said sharply, "you've been drawing in that damn book since we left the hospital."
"Is it for your art therapy? Or are you designing something for someone I should know about?"
I had just finished sketching a small cottage by the sea, the property I'd secretly purchased last month.
"Just doodling," I replied without emotion.
My indifference only seemed to fuel his irritation.
Without warning, he lunged across the car and tore the journal from my hands.
"Let me see what's so fascinating worth ignoring your husband for," he demanded.
Nine years of marriage.
A passion I'd pursued since childhood yet he couldn't recognize a single one of my recurring motifs before the pages began tearing in his rough grip.
Victoria watched with delight as Alexander demolished another piece of my identity.
The remainder of the journey passed in heavy silence.
When we arrived at the mansion, Alexander immediately rushed to Victoria's side as she whimpered about feeling dizzy from the car ride.