Total pages in book: 104
Estimated words: 97836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97836 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
“Let me finish,” Kenji said with his usual calm. “Your husband—”
“He’s not my husband,” I growled, though technically speaking, I supposed Kenji was right.
“Fine, then. Your legal spouse… resides in Wyoming, which doesn’t have a waiting period. And if you get divorced in a tiny town, it’s possible our attorneys could try to obfuscate your statement of net worth so—”
The blood started rushing again. Statement of net worth. Statement of net worth.
I was one of five people who’d founded ETC, an emergency traffic control program that had made us billions in our early twenties. Two of the other founders were in this room, Dev was most likely hiding away in a stable somewhere whispering sweet nothings into a horse’s ear, and Bash was probably in a cornfield in Indiana fucking his new boyfriend.
All five of us were billionaires. And, with very few exceptions—including our assistant, Kenji—all five of us had sworn each other to secrecy about it. We’d learned early on that this kind of money made it nearly impossible to trust people. It was much easier to simply pretend we were regular rich guys, the kind of guys who did well in corporate America and could afford vacations and fancy cars. Once people discovered your net worth was in the ten-figure range instead of the six-or-seven-figure range, things had a tendency to get scary.
We’d learned this from personal experience.
I remembered Way’s comment about not being able to afford the drinks at the bar. The guy didn’t have a pot to piss in. So even if he was the most honest man in the world with the best intentions, if this cowboy in his tiny rural town of Majestic discovered he’d accidentally married into hundreds of millions, the chances he wouldn’t see this as the biggest payday anyone had ever brought home from Vegas were less than zero.
Which meant I needed to get out of this marriage without him finding out exactly who he’d married.
“…says if you can get him to sign papers for an uncontested divorce the way they prepare them, you should be fine,” Kenji continued. “If it’s uncontested, there’s a way to list the accounts without including their balances. The assumption is the other spouse can do their due diligence once they know the accounts exist, but they’re banking on the fact this guy won’t bother and won’t have a bloodthirsty attorney on retainer. Hopefully, he wants out of this mistake as much as you do, and he’ll see various accounts listed and assume they’re standard checking, savings, retirement, etc.”
“But he could inquire about the balances?” Landry asked. “Like, he’d have a right to ask for statements or something if he wanted to?”
Kenji hesitated. “Yeah. That’s where you’re going to have to sweet-talk the guy, Silas.”
Zane and Landry both groaned in defeat.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, assholes,” I snapped. “Have you forgotten I have a reputation for corporate negotiation?”
Kenji sighed. “With all due respect—”
Landry cut in. “Kenji’s too professional to say bullshit. This requires finesse, Silas. Not corporate negotiation. You think some good ole boy is going to see you pull up in your Range Rover and believe it’s in his best interest to sign those papers without asking questions? Small town doesn’t mean small brain.”
I clenched my teeth as I imagined trying to manipulate the sweet cowboy. This whole thing was a disaster. “Then I’ll rent a… an economy car. A compact or whatever. I’ll wear normal clothes. I’ll look like a regular guy.” I gestured to the clothes I was wearing. “I’ll show up in sweats, for fuck’s sake.”
They stared at me before Landry pointed a long, lazy finger at the logo down the side of my leg. “Your eight-hundred-dollar Alexander McQueen joggers? Is that what you’re referring to?”
Kenji cleared his throat. “Everyone be quiet and listen to me. I know exactly what we need to do.”
THREE
WAYLON
The bell over the outer door to the mayor’s office jangled cheerily as it was yanked open Monday morning.
“Waylon Fletcher,” my cousin’s deep voice commanded. “Get your ass out here.”
Back in my private office, I groaned lightly but pitifully into the wooden surface of my desk. “Can’t. Sorry. Closed today. Go away.”
A long, low whistle confirmed that Foster hadn’t listened. “You look rode hard and put away wet, Mayor.”
I opened my eyes and summoned the will to glare at the man whose tall form was slouched casually against the doorframe, one ankle crossed over the other. “Thank you so much, Sheriff. What would we do without your astute forensic skills?”
He lifted one eyebrow and resettled his hat on his head. “Wow. Add cranky to that list. I’m guessing shit didn’t go down quite the way you planned in Vegas?”
I blew out a breath. For some reason, the faint thread of sympathy in his voice made my stomach quake in a way that nothing else in the past thirty-six hours had—not the vast quantities of alcohol Saturday night, not my bumpy flight home yesterday afternoon, not even the moment of absolute crushing panic yesterday morning when I’d woken up in a man’s bed.