Shit, shit, shit!
I grit my teeth as I drive home. My hands flex around the steering wheel as I recall our argument. The ugly things we said to ea
ch other.
You’re just like that boy who took me when I was unconscious. To him I wasn’t a person either. Just some orifice where he could stick his dick for his pleasure.
All I wanted was some fun with a side of “fuck you” to my father. It should’ve been so simple. But Ryder’s right. It’s complicated because I care.
I care that I made her feel the way she does. I care that she was raped when she was fifteen. I care that she suffered—and still does.
If I could, I’d find the fucker and rip him apart with my bare hands. He’d never stick his pecker into another woman.
I park in the garage and sit there. The right thing to do is divorce her. She doesn’t want to be married anyway. It’s always been about the money. So let her keep the million—it’s already invested, and I don’t want it—and find her own happiness. If the whole thing only affected me, I’d do just that.
But it would affect all my siblings. Dad would use a divorce to deny us our legacy from our grandfather.
Really? That’s the only reason why you aren’t going to let her go?
Fuck my perverse mind. I glare at the gray concrete wall. If there weren’t any paintings to worry about… I squeeze my eyes shut.
I still wouldn’t let her go. I can’t. She’s ensnared me somehow. It isn’t the mystery of her that’s keeping me enthralled, either. I already know all about her background, plus the stuff that Paddington wasn’t able to dig up. But she’s like a problem whose solution I find too wondrous, too complex to toss aside. I can’t do the right thing and leave her. The notion just…claws at my insides.
I open my eyes, breathing hard. What the fuck am I going to do about my wife? I can’t just stop caring.
Finally I pull myself together and take the elevator to the penthouse. Hopefully she’s still asleep or went out with her sister. Right now I’m in a piss-poor mood, and something monstrously dark wants to make a point—that I’m not like that fucking asshole from her past. To me she’s a person and her pleasure matters more than mine.
The mirrored doors open with a soft chime, and I step out—and come to a dead frozen halt.
What the hell is she doing here?
Annabelle Graham Reed Underhill hasn’t changed a bit in the last five years. Still the same tall, willowy woman with a smooth heart-shaped face. Well…except she’s more expensive than before if the diamonds around her throat and earlobes are any indication. Her tight carmine dress is designed to show off her tits and ass. At some point I thought the gods must’ve given her those chocolate brown eyes and soft mouth.
I must’ve been on crack. Plastic surgery and the genetic lottery are what give you those things.
“Annabelle,” I say at the same time the door to the penthouse opens, revealing my wife. She’s in a blue cotton dress with silver glittery lettering that says Keep Calm and Let It Go. Her feet are bare, and her red hair hangs damply around her shoulders.
Her pale make-up free face registers shock, her green eyes wide. She’s never heard me say that name. I either refer to her as “my wife” or “Gigi”.
Another source of her anger last night.
Proximity to her scrapes my nerve endings. My skin tightens and I feel that crazy pull again, the same magnetic force that initially drew my eye at the strip club. It’s more powerful now because I know her strength and character.
Annabelle Underhill takes a quick glance at my wife, her gaze sweeping up and down. A corner of her brightly lipsticked mouth lifts as she turns to me. “Yes, love?”
I can’t look away from my wife, the emotions crossing her heart-breakingly beautiful face in rapid succession. I can’t figure out what they are; they’re moving too fast. Disquiet gathers within me as the sensation of something precious slipping through my fingers grows.
I vaguely register Annabelle Underhill putting a hand on my forearm.
My muscles tense as distaste rolls through me. I try to pull back, but her grip tightens. I twist my arm and grab her hand in mine not too gently, and return it to her side.
“You have to go,” I say without taking my eyes off my wife so I don’t miss anything. We have things to discuss without an audience.
“Who are you?” my wife asks, her gaze on the brunette.
“I’m Annabelle Underhill.” The voice is positively velvety. “And you?”
My wife’s eyebrows pinch. “Annabelle Key…Reed.”