Disoriented and in need of a stiff drink, I strode to my office.
“Mr. Fitzpatrick!” Sophia jumped from her station, sprinting in my direction as soon as I walked out of the boardroom. “You have a visitor.”
“Who?”
“Ms. Penrose.”
“Call her that one more time and you are permanently blacklisted from working at any respectable Boston company.”
Forcing myself to keep my steps even, I made my way to my office, finding Emmabelle Penrose sitting in my executive chair, her long legs draped over my chrome desk. She wore a pair of Louboutins I was pretty sure belonged to my wife, a pencil skirt, and a blouse that didn’t leave much to the imagination.
And the day just keeps better and better.
“Never mind. Wrong sister.” I waved Sophia off, pushing open the glass door and closing it after me. I leaned a shoulder against the glass wall, tucking my hands into my front pockets.
“Cillian! How’s life treating you?” Emmabelle purred, looking up from her phone.
“Like I fucked its underage daughter, and now it’s out for revenge,” I answered blandly, pushing off the wall and taking a seat in front of her. I was—and always would be—unruffled by her entire Dita Von Teese on steroids act. Her cry for attention fell on deaf ears in my case.
“Feet off the table,” I instructed. “Unless you want them broken.”
“Oh, dear, someone’s in a mood.” She removed her legs from my desk, dumping her ugly secondhand Prada bag on top of my laptop. I resisted the urge to hurl her out of my window. I doubted it would win me any points with my wife. “I’m afraid things are about to go from bad to worse.”
“I sincerely doubt there’s room for deterioration,” I lunged back.
“Then I’m here to prove you the sky is the limit, baby.” She plucked something from her bag—a stack of papers—and slid it across my desk with her pointy scarlet fingernail. “You’ve been served.”
I didn’t touch the papers. I glanced down and saw my wife’s handwriting. Curvy. Romantic. Small. Like her.
For a second, the temptation not to feel was overwhelming.
To laugh it off.
To kick Emmabelle out.
To show her that I didn’t care.
Then I remembered it was exactly why I had to fight to get my wife back.
“The answer is no,” I said mildly, cracking my knuckles under the table. “I told Persephone divorce wasn’t an option. It is tacky, brings bad press, and besides, she’s yet to fulfill her part of the bargain.”
“You realize you’re not God, right?” Emmabelle cocked her head sideways. “You can’t just snap your fingers and make people fall in line.”
I stared at her. “Prove it.”
“She doesn’t want you anymore.”
“I can change her mind.”
“What makes you think that?” Belle grinned, her eyes glittering.
“She wanted me before I even tried. Now that I intend to make an effort, she won’t be able to resist me. Either way, we both know you’re walking out of here with the divorce petition if I have to fucking feed it to you. This has no legal ground. You’re not the sheriff, and I’m not a guy you can push around. If it comes to court, I’ll ask the judge for couple’s therapy—and will receive it—seeing as we’ve been married for a short period and no adultery or abuse has occurred.”
“That’s what I thought.” Emmabelle chuckled, withdrawing the papers from my desk and tucking them back into her bag. “Look, I’m not your biggest fan for numerous reasons. At the top of them is the fact you planned to lock my baby sister in a suburban McMansion and have her produce heirs for you while you stayed here and lived the big life. But I’ve come to accept that, despite your sociopathic shortcomings, you’ve truly grown to love her. Am I right?”
There were many offensive things on the tip of my tongue, but Emmabelle had the advantage today. I had to let her have her day in the sun, even if I wanted to burn her down.
“Yes,” I agreed sullenly. “I love your sister very much.”
So much it goddamn fucking hurts.
“Well, maybe it’s time to tell her how you feel.” Belle stood, scooping her bag and hurling it over her shoulder. “You’ve been apologizing for the wrong thing the entire time. Persephone didn’t leave you because you’re an asshole. Heck, I’m sure it’s half of your charm. She left you because she thinks you’re incapable of feeling. Prove her wrong.”
“How the hell can I do that, seeing as I’m not supposed to see her?”
“Says who?” She blinked in surprise.
“Says her,” I growled. “She told me not to come after her.”
“Since when do you listen to what my sister says? One of the very things she loves about you is that you do whatever the hell you want. Always.”
Of course, the one time I decided to obey, it was to the wrong fucking instruction.