I don’t say a word. I allow the silence to stretch, to suffocate her, letting the full force of my presence bear down upon her like a physical weight.
My eyes rake over her, taking in every detail. The rapid rise and fall of her chest, the nervous flutter of her fingers against her bag. Never in a million years did I think I would find myself in this position, directing my wrath toward her.
This is the woman I wanted to go public with, the woman I was ready to claim as mine in front of the whole fucking world. We were so close, so goddamn close to having it all.
But she just proved what I already knew, what I should have never forgotten. You come into this world alone and you leave it alone. Relying on other people is a surefire way of getting fucked over.
“You wanted the truth,” she blurts out. “Well, I told Sir Whitmore the truth. I’m sorry you don’t like it.”
I step closer, my voice a low rumble. “The truth? The truth is you betrayed me.” I’m fighting to keep my composure, but the fury’s there, beneath the surface, ready to explode. “Why? Why would you fuck me over?”
“I didn’t fuck you over,” she snaps back, lifting that stubborn chin of hers, defiance flashing in her eyes despite the obvious fear. “I told Sir Whitmore the truth. You’re not the right man for this acquisition. You’ll gut his business, strip it for parts, and leave the charity in ruins.”
“And who the hell are you to make that call?” I snarl, leaning in until our faces are inches apart. “What gives you the audacity to cost me a billion-pound deal? You are my lover and my employee. You are paid a huge amount of money to serve the interests of my company. Ofmyfucking interests. And this is how you repay me?”
Her pulse pounds in her throat, a frantic flutter beneath that creamy skin I’ve tasted countless times.
She doesn’t answer, just fumbles with her bag. Her eyes dart toward the door and something primal roars to life inside me. She’s not going anywhere. Not until I say so. Not until she looks me in the eye and tells me why she ripped my fucking heart out.
“Why?” The words tear from my throat, raw and agonized. “Fucking why?”
Her eyes meet mine. “Because it’s the truth. You’re untrustworthy. You only care about yourself. You don’t give a crap about anyone else.” Her voice breaks. “You’re a cruel, ruthless man, and I’m not worried about you in the slightest because you’ve lost the deal but still have billions in the bank, all the yes men and women you want, and people worshiping at your feet.”
“I didn’t want anyone worshiping at my feet. I didn’t want a yes woman. I wantedyou,” I snarl, the words coming out like a confession. “I wanted your respect, your trust, your fuckingfaithin me. But you’ve made it pretty damn clear that’s off the table now, haven’t you?”
I spot Security hovering at the door. At least someone in this company still knows how to follow orders.
“Get out,” I grit through clenched teeth, jerking my head toward the door. “Get the fuck out of my office, Gemma. And make sure you stay out of my way from here on out.”
“Gladly,” she spits.
With shaking hands, she fumbles with her badge, yanking it from around her neck and slamming it down on the desk hard enough to make the monitors rattle.
Then she’s gone, fleeing like I’m the villain, security flanking her.
I stand there, staring at the empty space where she sat for five years. The white-hot rage inside me slowly cools, hardening into something far more painful.
CHAPTER 43
Gemma
“I can’t believe youbooked a trip to Costa Rica,” Lizzie says, watching as I dig through my closet, pulling out bikinis that haven’t seen daylight in years. It’s depressing—a reminder of how much of my life has been swallowed up by work, by Ashbury Thornton, by . . . him.
“Yeah, well, believe it,” I mutter, tossing the bikini aside.
It’s been ten days since I stormed out of the office. Or since Liam kicked me out. Depends on who’s telling the story.
The first five days were spent in a haze of chocolate and endless job applications. But then it hit me—I can’t just jump into the next corporate role, not if I want to keep what’s left of my sanity.
Luckily, the day after the showdown, I got a letter from Ashbury Thornton saying I’m on “gardening leave,” which is just a fancy way of saying they’re paying me to fuck off. You could say it was Liam’s way of being nice, of softening the blow. But I know better. He’s buying my silence about our affair. Yes, he could have fired me for the stunt I pulled with Sir Whitmore. But he was also sleeping with me, and I could have stirred up a shit storm if I wanted to. So he’s paying me off, buying my silence and complicity, just like we’ve done to countless others before me.
And now, here I am. Jobless, aimless, but with a tidy nest egg to my name.
I hold up a particularly skimpy number, eyeing it with a mix of nostalgia and dread. I’ll probably look like a potato in this now, my ass having taken on a permanent desk chair shape from all the hours spent glued to my seat at Ashbury Thornton.
“This is so spontaneous for you! Who are you and what have you done with my Gemma?”
I snort, holding up another bikini I think I’ve worn once when there was a heatwave in England. “What has Ashbury Thornton and Liam done to me, more like,” I say, my voice dripping with the kind of sarcasm that’s become my default setting lately.
