Well, I’m not going to let that happen any longer.
I arch an eyebrow, looking down at Diana from the step above. “Are you seriously asking me about private conversations I have with my wife?”
How dare she! How did I let things get this far?
You gave her a line of credit, and now she wants to buy the bank, Aiden. This is on you.
She swallows. “I didn’t like how she reduced me to nothing but someone who works for you.”
Fuck me!
“Diana, youdowork for me.”
“We’re more than colleagues.” She grabs my arm. Her nails bite through my suit jacket and dress shirt.
I’m about to remove her hand when I see Mia stroll to the top of the stairs. She looks at us, and I see hurt in her eyes. But it’s not there for more than a fraction of a second and is replaced with…amusement?
“Fancy seeing you both here,” she chimes. “Better hurry, right? You know how much Edith hates it when we’re late for Christmas Eve dinner.”
Then, without waiting for either of us to sayanything, she goes down the stairs, hips swaying in that red dress that should be illegal.
I patiently remove Diana’s hand from my arm. “You are a family friend and a colleague, Diana. But that’sallyou are.”
She lifts her chin defiantly. “Your whole family knows that you’re in love with me. Don’t deny it.”
“I don’t have time for this,” I tell her grimly.
I chase my wife—something I never thought I’d do, that I’dhaveto do. I catch up with her close to the library, before we enter the dining room.
“Mia.” I grab her wrist, and before she can protest, I usher her into the library.
She’s smiling, I realize, when we’re in the old-fashioned, too-much-leather library. “Yes, dear.”
I drop her wrist. The sarcasm in her voice punches through my ribs. Anger surges through me. I want my wife back, not this caricature, this….
“What the hell is your problem?” I hiss. “You’re being a little—” I stop myself, but she tilts her head.
“Say it,” she dares, eyes glinting.
“Bitch,” I snap. Quiet. Sharp. “Youarebeing a bit of a bitch tonight, Mia.”
Her mouth curves into a sneer. “I think I’m pretty good at it. Don’t you agree?”
My blood simmers. “What are you doing?”
“Trying something new on for size. You think it fits?”
Before I can say anything, the library door flies open.
“Mia, I told you I don’t like it when you’re late for dinner,” Mom snaps.
“I’m here with her,” I growl, stepping forward.
And just like that, it strikes me—has it always been like this? That they say these things to her and not to me, even when we’re both at fault? Like now. We’re both late for dinner, but onlyshegets scolded. And why the hell should either of us bescolded? We’re adults, for fuck’s sake.
“Better go.” Mia isn’t offended; she’s rolling her eyes.
“Mia, this conversation is not over,” I grind out. “Something’s off, and I want to know what it is. I can’t fix what I don’t understand.”
