Total pages in book: 192
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 189782 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 949(@200wpm)___ 759(@250wpm)___ 633(@300wpm)
“I’m not the right person for that. My family was—”
“They are your family.” She points at their glaring faces. “Embrace them. Build something better together. It won’t be easy. It’ll take time and patience, but dammit, Monty, you built a fucking global enterprise from the ground up. I know you can create a home where everyone feels valued and loved. I want that for you. For all three of you.”
“What about you?”
“Did you move my things from your bedroom? Your closet? Your bathroom?”
I press my lips together and blow out through my nose.
“Monty.” She sighs. “Let me go.”
“Can’t do that, Frankie.”
“You returned my phone.” She gestures at the device on the table. “Thank you for that. Now I need you to sell my wedding rings.”
“What?” My fists clench. “Fuck no.”
“I want a divorce.”
“Never.” The objection rips from me like flayed skin, making me roar in pain.
“You must.” Her shoulders slump. “It’s over.”
“No. Anything but that.” My ears ring. My lungs collapse. I bend forward, my body folding in on itself. “Anything else. Anything.”
“Okay, okay.” Her hands hover around me, reaching but not touching. “Shhh. It’s okay.”
Touch me. Please, put me out of my misery and fucking touch me.
“Will you guys give us a minute?” she asks quietly.
“Absolutely not.” Leo scowls.
“Then behave.” A beat of silence passes between them before she scoots her chair closer to me. “Monty. Look at me.” She tentatively places a hand beneath my chin, lifting it. “Please.”
The touch is light, but it sizzles through my nerve endings and electrocutes my blood like a goddamn thunderbolt.
I let the exquisite warmth of her fingers guide my face upward. Then I fall. I fall right into her gaze, knowing she sees the devastation in mine.
“I can’t.” I clasp her wrist, lowering her hand from my jaw to my chest. “I won’t survive it.”
A low, comforting hum slips past her lips, a sound of shared solace.
“What happened last night?” She presses closer, giving me her full attention. “Did you sleep?”
“I took the yacht out.”
“You got drunk.” Her nostrils pulse as if scenting it on me. “And broke a wall.”
“Not in that order.”
“Okay.” She presses her palm against my chest, directly over my heart. “You said anything else. Anything but a divorce.”
“Anything.”
“Get help.”
“Help?” My hand twitches around hers.
“Therapy. Talk to someone. You need counseling. We all do.”
“Fine.”
“No, not fine. You have to want this, to want to get better. That means sharing your feelings and opening up.”
“I’ll try.” I release a shaky breath. “For you, I’ll try.”
“Starting immediately. Like this week.”
“All right.”
“Thank you.” She inhales sharply. “One more thing.”
“I’m listening.”
Her nails dig into my shirt, fisting the starched fabric. “Don’t fucking hurt me again.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’ll prove you wrong.”
“I hope you do.” She untangles our hands and leans back, regarding me.
Gratitude. Relief. Hope. It’s all there in her striking eyes, the change of her breath, the drop of her shoulders, and the chambers of her heart inviting me in.
Fucking finally.
Let this be a lesson to you, little girl. Never invite a monster into your heart. Because it renders you powerless.
14
Monty
—
The next three days bleed into a grind of finalizing details and rehearsing our story until it’s woven tight. Every word we practice is a carefully placed brick in the wall we’re building to protect Frankie.
Meetings with detectives come first. They interrogate us separately, poke around for cracks in our wall, and leave with the promise to find the two mothers who lost their sons.
They won’t.
Then the press arrives, vultures circling for scraps, starving for a juicy story, demanding their pound of flesh.
They’re the hardest to convince.
To satisfy them, we agree to separate interviews and spend two days moving from one engagement to the next within the estate.
We only need to give them enough to answer their questions. If there’s nothing scandalous to report on, they’ll pack up and go away.
After my final interview, I wander the main house, searching for my wife.
My mind races, constantly scanning for potential threats, calculating risks, and mapping out contingency plans if our story doesn’t stick.
The most pressing topic in every interview has been the location of the cabin. If I only knew. It’s the catalyst that can set the whole thing on fire.
Denver never told them its location, and the storm disoriented Leo during the flight, leaving him unsure of the exact direction they came from. Frankie’s convinced it lies in the hills of the Brooks Range, but we have no way to confirm this without sending a massive search party. Which could draw unwanted attention.
The Turbo Beaver’s Hobbs meter indicates it was within a four-hour flight from Whittier, which matches Leo’s recollection.
I sigh, feeling the prick of every stake. The flight data recorder was destroyed in the crash, and without GPS or navigation systems, there’s no way to track the flight path.