“Shut up, Dad,” I snap. “If you really cared about me, you'd be asking me how I'm feeling, not yelling at me to eat walnuts for some goddamn reason. I'm not your pawn or your broodmare. I'm your daughter, and I don't want to hear from you again until you can talk to me like a father.”
I hang up the phone, and this time, I really do throw it across the room. Let it break. It’s not like anyone will care if I buy a new one, or a thousand new ones. Hell, I could buy the whole goddamn phone manufacturer and James wouldn’t bat an eye.
I’m done bending to what the men in my life want. My marriage contract declares that my child will inherit Pages and Sequel. I know my father thinks that he'll be able to raise my son to be just like him, grooming him into the perfect heartless CEO, but there's nothing in the paperwork that says my father is entitled to any emotional or moral influence on my child. I'm not even obligated to give them time together.
So I won't. I never have to live under Victor's roof again, which means he has no power over me. He won’t raise my son in his image. I won't let him.
17
JAMES
The unanswered texts are the first sign of trouble.
James
Building management might come in to change the batteries in the smoke detectors.
Nate mentioned that Cat’s home for the afternoon. She might stop by.
Should I order sushi for dinner tonight?
Normally, Maura responds promptly to texts like these. If she's busy in her studio, there might be a delay of an hour or so. Since she hasn't responded to any all day, not even with a sarcastic remark about my diamond order, I can guess that she hasn't forgiven me for my optics comment yet.
If I'm honest with myself, I wouldn't have even texted her in the first place if it weren’t for the gnawing guilt in my stomach. My reasonable, grounded wife was upset enough about my comments to go on a spending spree designed to make me angry. That wouldn't happen if I hadn't been so careless.
Not only was I cavalier with my words, I was unforgivably stupid with my timing. Two weeks have passed since Maura's fertile window. She would have told me if she was pregnant, which means she must know by now that she's not. Instead of being sensitive to that, I fucked her and I acted like it meant nothing.
Our marriage might be based on a contract, but that doesn't give me the right to ignore her feelings. I have an idea for a gesture that might make it up to her, but I owe her an actual apology.
I'm not surprised to find her in her studio when I get back to the penthouse, but I’m not prepared for the full chaos in the room. Only half the boxes have been unpacked, and the other half have been opened and strewn around the room. Paint cans are open everywhere, with drips scattered across the drop cloths below. Half a dozen half-finished canvases stand propped against the wall, their discordant colors clashing with each other.
Maura stands in the center of it all, her shoulders tight. She grips a paintbrush tight in her hand, black paint dripping from the tip onto the floor. She’s wearing another paint-stained jumper, making me marvel that she has more than one monstrosity like it.
“Maura?” I ask tentatively.
Her head turned sharply to look at me. Her eyes are red, emphasizing the red blotches on her face. She's obviously been crying, but the reaction might be exacerbated by paint fumes.
“No,” she snaps at me. “I'm not in the mood, James.”
I take a step forward. “We should talk.”
“You don't want to hear anything I have to say,” she says darkly.
If I were anyone else, I would walk away. She's obviously in no mood to have a rational conversation, but my apology can’twait. Any relationship we've built is eroding with every hour from my toxic words.
“There's something I have to tell you,” I say.
“What? Am I not holding up my end of our contract?”
My brow furrows. “What?”
“Save it. I already heard enough from my father. I’m letting you both down. Maybe if I rested or took the right vitamins or ate a fucking pound of walnuts, I’d be pregnant,” she snarls. “Sorry to disappoint you all.”
Shit. The way I acted was bad enough, but whatever insane idea Victor put in her head has driven her beyond reason.
“I’m not disappointed,” I say.
“You’re not, huh?” Her brown eyes flash with hurt. “That’s not why you offered to schedule extra pity fucks to help knock me up? Or was that just foroptics?”
