She stiffens, realizing he’s not grieving. He’sexcited.
“I mean, a three-book deal.”
The floor feels like it’s tilting. Because she wants it, of course she wants it. She just doesn’t want it withhim.
“This could be a game changer for us,” he says, and it’s that word,us, that makes her snap.
“Us?” she echoes, pulling free. “I’m sorry, did you forget something?” She fights to keep her voice low. The walls look like they’re made of stone, but in a house this big, noise always finds a way to carry. “There is no us anymore, Malcolm.”
He stiffens, as if struck by the news, which isn’t news at all. It’s been a month since she told him she was leaving—leaving Penn Stonely, leavinghim.
A month, and the only reason she’s even here is because he asked—begged, really, got down on one knee in some sordid imitation of a proposal and said, “Please, Sisi. One last time, for me.”
One last time.
So much weight in that one phrase. Enough to drag a body down.
She agreed to come, because she loved him once, or maybe just because she’s the one upending their life. And maybe, in some small part, because she was flattered, because it was the kind of chance she’d never gotten, would never get again. Not toschmooze—that was Malcolm’s game—simply a chance to peek behind the curtain, and in the cupboards, to learn a little more about the most successful writer in the world. But mostly it was a parting gift, an appeasement. It had seemed, at the time, like the least she could do. But now—
“What do you expect me todo?” whines Malcolm.
And Sienna doesn’t know.
What she does know is that writing with him is going to be excruciating. They can’t agree onanythinganymore, so how the hell are they going to agree on the best way to end the Petrarch series? And if by some miracle, theydomanage to agree, and by some other miracle, they manage towin... she’ll be shackled to Malcolm for years to come.
She racks her brain for an answer.
“We could talk to the editor, Rufus. Maybe he’d let us write alone—”
“Not happening.” Malcolm sneers. “They invited Penn Stonely. Not Sienna Buchanan—oh, sorry,Wood.”
He practically spits her maiden name back at her, as if he didn’t beg her to take his name when they got married. His mouth twists into a smirk that reminds her exactly why she’s leaving. Because he’s not always charming, not always warm, not always the life of the party. Sometimes, he’s just an asshole.
If only he had cheated.
It would have been easier if some force had come in and carved a chasm between them. But he never did—and she’d know, she’s certain she’d know, or rather, she’s certain he’d tell her, unable to keep the secret to himself—and somehow that makes everything worse.
Because there’s no one else to blame.
She looks at Malcolm and wonders when it changed, when the sight and smell and touch of him turned sour, the love spoiling like milk.
“Look.” He runs a hand through his salt-and-pepper hair. “The only way we have a shot at this is if we work together. After it’s over, if you still want to leave—”
“If? What do you think’s going to happen, Malcolm? That we’ll win this contract, and I’ll suddenly fall madly back in love with you? Are you thatfucking dense?”
His hand twitches, and for an instant, she honestly thinks he might hit her. Not that he’s ever done it before, but the air is electric, and in this moment, she wouldn’t put it past him. She wonders what she’d do. Whether she’d strike back, or sob, or feel smug, because he’d finally given her a reason to go.
But the moment passes, and his shoulders slump. “I know our book sales haven’t been strong enough—”
Sienna shakes her head. “I’m not leaving you because ofsales, Malcolm. I’m leaving because you care more about your face on the book than you ever did about actually writing. I’m leaving because you take me for granted. I’m leaving because you don’t listen. I’m leaving because it’s been years since you showed me as much interest as you did the stupid invitation from Arthurgoddamn Fletch.”
She sways, feeling empty in the wake of her outburst.
Malcolm’s face has become a house, windows shuttered against the storm. “You’re forgetting, Sienna...” She winces and looks down. At some point, his hand wrapped around her wrist. At some point, he started to squeeze. “... that we made a deal.”
Oh, thedeal. The deal came after the begging, theOne last time, Sisi, please. The deal was that there’d be no ugly drawn-out divorce, no legal battle over who got what and when and where. That Malcolm would draw the line right down the middle, fifty-fifty, and she’d get half—of his dwindling trust fund, of everything they’d ever made. And all she had to do was come, play nice, and keep Penn Stonely alive for one more weekend.
The safe flashes up in her mind.
