Escape from Mr. Whitman (Emma and Theodore) novel Chapter 131

A bitter smile flickered across Theodore’s face. “Haven’t you hated me enough already?” he asked quietly.

Emma didn’t reply.

Their relationship had soured beyond repair; they were like oil and water–utterly incompatible.

With a cold snort, Theodore wrapped her in a towel, lifted her up, and carried her out of the bathroom, back into the bedroom. He set her down on the edge of the bed, then turned and headed back into the bathroom.

The sheets, freshly changed by Fallon, were pristine and crisp. Emma’s hair was still dripping, little droplets already soaking into the fabric.

She needed to dry her hair.

“Fallon!” She called out, thinking to ask the housekeeper to bring her the hairdryer, which was still in the bathroom. She didn’t want to have

another awkward run–in with Theodore.

But before she could finish the thought, Theodore reappeared, hairdryer in hand. “I told you, Fallon won’t be coming in tonight,” he said flatly.

He plugged it in and switched it on. The hot air blasted over her hair, and for a moment, Emma couldn’t make sense of his intentions. Was he

trying to make amends? Or was this just another gesture for Cecilia’s

sake?

The only sound in the room was the drone of the hairdryer. Neither of them spoke.

Emma kept silent because she simply had nothing left to say, and as for Theodore–she could already guess what he might say, and she had no desire to waste words.

Despite his awkwardness, Theodore was surprisingly thorough, if not exactly gentle. He had no method, drying one side then the other,

occasionally tugging her hair and making her wince. Still, eventually, her

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hair was dry.

“Where’s your hair tie?” he asked abruptly.

Emma blinked. What did he want a hair tie for?

He rummaged through a drawer until he found one, then awkwardly gathered her hair and twisted it into a messy knot atop her head.

The move exposed her neck, shoulders, and most of her back.

He stared at her back for a moment, then grabbed her arm and turned her so she could look too. “Just look at yourself! What kind of rehab

exercises are you even doing, to end up like this?”

Then he spun her around to face the mirror so she could see her own back. “Take a good look!”

Emma had fallen a few times during her physical therapy, and sometimes she’d collided with the equipment. Bruises streaked her arms and back.

But what did that have to do with him?

Suddenly, with a sharp tug, he yanked away the towel wrapped around

her.

Emma immediately snatched up the blanket to cover herself, glaring at Theodore like he was the enemy. “Theodore, don’t push me. I swear I could kill you right now.”

He sat across from her, his gaze dripping with sarcasm. “We’ve been married five years, and this is how you react when I touch you?”

What did he expect? Was she supposed to welcome him?

She shot him a scornful look. “Go ahead, Theodore. Touch me all you want–won’t your precious Cici be heartbroken?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he pressed her down onto the bed, but made no move to pull the blanket away.

Emma felt his hand, warm and steady, settle on her thigh.

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Was he… massaging the bruise on her leg?

She finally gave up resisting–she’d come to recognize this pattern. His unexpected kindness always came with a catch; there was always something he needed from her.

Just as she suspected, he only applied ointment to her bruises: from her thigh to her arm, her stomach, and her back.

When he finished, he tucked the blanket securely around her, meeting her frosty gaze.

Emma stared at him coldly, waiting for the inevitable–he’d ask her to drop the charges, just like always.

But instead, he simply adjusted the blanket and gave a rueful smile. “Emma, how did we end up like this?”

He was really asking her that? As if he didn’t know?

He let out a heavy sigh. “Emma, can we just talk–calmly, for once?”

Emma thought for a moment. Since Cecilia had come into their lives, she’d been nothing but calm; it was Theodore who always lost his head

over her.

“Theodore, I don’t know what’s left to say.” Her tone was flat. “I’ve already made myself clear.”

Theodore reached beneath the blanket and found her hand, holding it tightly. “Emma, I never wanted any of this. From the very beginning, I just wanted a real life with you,”

“Oh, really?” Emma let out a cold laugh. “From the beginning? I thought I was a manipulative shrew who forced you to marry me.”

Theodore closed his eyes, silent for a long time.

“Mr. Whitman, Mr. Whitman,” Emma said with a sardonic smile, “Kindly let go of my hand–and bring me some rubbing alcohol, please.”

When Theodore opened his eyes again, the red veins stood out starkly.

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Clearly, he hadn’t slept much–no doubt exhausted from trying to shield Cecilia from the consequences of her actions.

He didn’t question her request. He simply retrieved a bottle of alcohol and

handed it to her.

Emma pushed herself upright, took the bottle, and began spraying her hands, arms, thighs, stomach, and back–everywhere he’d touched her. She even spritzed her hair for good measure.

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