“What the fuck?”
He just raises an eyebrow and walks away. I clench my fists and glare at his retreating back. If I didn’t care about law at all—or my career at Huxley & Webber—I’d punch him just on principle.
A hundred million plus.And my wife is running to Ethan for it. Of course the fucker doesn’t have that kind of money, so he’ll have to finance it for her.
It chaps my ass she hasn’t said a word to me. She knows I have the money. Why won’t she askme? My money’s just as good as whichever banker Beckman introduces her to. Actually better.I’m her husband!
–Me: Can we meet?
As soon as I send the text, I realize my wife might not see it in time. I call her. I’ll be damned if she takes a penny of money that Ethan Beckman arranges for her.
“Hello?” She sounds innocent, as though she isn’t about to have a coffee date with the enemy.
“Can we talk?”
“I saw your text and I was about to respond. Is this about the prenup? I heard Ethan just delivered it to you.”
My knuckles whiten at the warm way the fucker’s name rolls from her lips. “I haven’t read it yet.”
“You should. How about in an hour or so? I can stop by your office, unless you’re coming home early today?”
“Now. I want to talk now.”
“Nowis not a good time.” I can hear an infuriating frown in her voice. She makes me sound unreasonable. “I’m meeting someone in a few minutes.”
“Ethan Beckman?”
“How did you know?”
“Because he came here to rub it in. Don’t do anything stupid. I’ll be there in a minute.”
I hang up, then open a tracking app on my phone to see where she is. The phone I bought her isn’t some innocent model. I put an app on it to track her movements because at the time I thought she could be linked to Harvey or Mom. But I’ve never checked up on her with the app.
Until now.
I hate that I’m acting like a jealous husband, but what I hate more is how crazy she drives me. Me, leaving the office at two, when I’m supposed to meet an important client in an hour. Instead of prepping for it, I’m chasing after her like a puppy about to be abandoned.
Lareina is sitting in a booth at the newly opened specialty café that some of the assistants were talking about in the break room a few days ago. The place is all dark wood and windows. Little figurines featuring famous landmarks in Italy—the Colosseum, the Tower of Pisa, Duomo di Milano, St. Peter’s Basilica and more—line a shallow shelf behind the counter, above bags and bags of freshly roasted coffee beans.
She’s heartbreakingly beautiful in a pretty pink dress that brings out the natural flush in her face. She tucks a wayward strand of hair behind her ear, and the gesture is natural andperfect. The glint of the wedding ring on her finger soothes my monstrous possessiveness, but only a little. After all, she’s still here to meet with Beckman.
He brings a tray of two slices of cake and two coffees to her. He smiles like a used car salesman or ambulance chaser, and my wife smiles back at him as though blind to his smarminess. He sips his coffee, and she merely warms her hands with hers. See? He has no fucking clue she can’t eat or drink what he just gave her. He doesn’t even notice anything wrong. She isn’t swapping plates, either, obviously not comfortable enough to do that with him.
If I were there with her, I would’ve tasted both her cake and her coffee. Then I’d offer to pay for whatever she needs because she’s my wife and she shouldn’t have to beg.
Fury sweeps through me like a powerful storm.She should’ve never hired Beckman.She shouldn’t have let him get near her, and she shouldn’t be relying on him so much.
I step inside the café. The bell over the door chimes. The lanky guy at the counter starts toward me, but I ignore him and turn toward the booth where my wife is.
“I can use my trust as collateral to borrow the money,” she says, not noticing me at all since her eyes are so intent on Beckman, like he holds the solution to her problem. Raw, bitter possessiveness bursts through my veins. She’s mine—my wife. She shouldn’t look at some other man like he can fix whatever’s broken in her world. That’smyjob,myprivilege andmyprerogative.
“We can probably—”
“You don’t have the money for it,” I say coldly. “Give it up before you embarrass yourself, Beckman.”
“Ares,” Lareina says. “What are you doing here? How did you know I was here?”
“Easy. He told me.” I jerk my chin at Beckman. “Your lawyer has a big mouth.”
