Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 678(@200wpm)___ 542(@250wpm)___ 452(@300wpm)
It angered me to no end that my breath recoiled in my lungs as we stared each other down, waiting to see which option she would choose.
I purposefully left out anything remotely appealing for her to fall back on. Dallas needed to comprehend the graveness of the situation.
Finally—finally—she ruptured the silence. “Can I think about it on our way to the house?”
Somehow, it was the worst thing she could have said.
The waiting would be pure torture.
I shrugged, diverting my attention to my texts. Once Jared dropped us off, a waiting Hettie and Vernon stood on the driveway.
“Well?” Hettie said before Shortbread’s door even opened all the way. “Did you piss him off?”
Vernon ambled forward after her. “Will we finally have a little munchkin in the house?”
I entered my home first, which meant my disloyal staff—turned against me by my own wife—fell back, furious blushes glued to their cheeks, eyes pinned to the floor. “Both of you, get the hell out.”
Vernon, the gentle giant, blinked. “But where should we go?”
“Anywhere out of my eyesight if you want to keep your jobs,” I advised, ridding myself of my coat and advancing to the stairs. I did not spare Shortbread a look. “You have another thirty minutes to consider your answer while I make some calls. I’ll come to your room when I’m ready.”
Through the tall glass window sprawled along my stairway, I witnessed Shortbread collapsing on the bottom stair in her beautiful dress, her head tucked between her arms, her hair cascading all the way down her back.
She wasn’t going to get a baby.
She wasn’t going to get a divorce, either.
All she would get was a reality check.
As for me?
I always, always got what I wanted.
Forty-five minutes after I left her to sob on the stairs, I skulked to Shortbread’s room.
It did not surprise me to find it empty.
The silly rose she kept in the Q-tip jar had shed petals all over the place. That the cleaners hadn’t wiped the nightstand surface beneath it must have been my unkempt wife’s doing.
It was not lost on me that she had fused herself into my home so thoroughly, it would become an entirely different place should she choose to leave.
I stalked the hallways in search of Dallas.
Rain pelted the roof, knocking on the windows. The temperature had plummeted since our return from Paris. The cold never bothered me—I was used to it inside and out.
But it occurred to me that my wife might not be enchanted with the bitter frost that arrived once fall drifted away, making room for winter.
Not in the mood for playing hide and seek, I produced my phone and checked her whereabouts through the security cameras.
Rewinding the videos, I found footage of her dragging an oversized Louis Vuitton suitcase to the subterranean garage, two balled fists clutching the handle as if it sheltered a dead body.
A suitcase.
I bolted in that direction.
A potent potion of anger and alarm bubbled in my stomach. What did she think she was doing?
Choosing one of the options you gave her. Leaving, you moron.
It no longer surprised me that I had a reaction to Dallas—a fact at this point.
But it twisted my gut and every inner organ, pretzeling them in a ball of apprehension, to admit just how deeply she dug into my skin. So deep, she seeped through flesh, blood, and bone.
Through stem cells, cerebral scars, and dense layers of ice.
She hit right where it was raw and tender. Where the pain was inescapable. Not because I liked her—for I truly did not like Dallas Costa.
But because I wanted her.
Craved her.
Because touching her was the only goddamn thing I could think about.
By the time I burst through the doors of the underground garage, I had enough rage in me to light up Vegas. Nonetheless, my composure remained impeccable.
Dallas perched atop a mountain of suitcases beside the Maybach, snacking on a small box of strawberry-covered Pocky sticks. Her legs dangled in the air, like a child’s.
It sickened me to see someone so unsophisticated hold so much power over me.
I circled her with my hands knotted behind my back. “Going somewhere nice?”
“Any place away from you is lovely.”
Inside, something—someone—screamed at me to force her to stay. Not because I could tolerate her, but because losing her meant losing to Madison.
Instead, I feigned indifference. “Chapel Falls or the Hamptons?”
“Chapel Falls.” She sucked the strawberry coating clean before dropping the bare stick back into the box. “I don’t mind marrying someone with kids. More children to surround myself with.”
What was with this woman and small humans?
“I’ll call Jared.” I brought my phone to my ear, unbelieving that, for the first time in my thirty-one years, someone had called my bluff—and that that someone enjoyed Henry Plotkin books and Cheaters.
“No need.” A satisfied hum buzzed up her throat at the taste of another Pocky stick. “I already called him. He’s on his way.”