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“Can you imagine? He was screwing the daughter, a younger model!” The guy slaps his hand on the table, and I grimace at how accurate his words are to my situation and to Massio’s. He did, after all, fall for his ex-wife’s daughter.

Amanda is enthralled with the story, resting her hand on the arm of the guy next to her as she practically mounts his lap. If I cared about my wife, I would be chastising her, but I don’t give a shit. Though I don’t appreciate the open disrespect, it’s something I’ve become accustomed to, to get her to concede with what I want.

My phone pings again, and I smile to myself, imagining what the hell she’s sent me now.

Miko: They left approximately three minutes ago.

I snort. Approximate, my ass. The man will know their every move by the second—Fern’s, in particular. I’m not sure why she holds such power over him, but when he goes into a rage, only she can calm him down. It’s always been the same with the two of them, but lately, it’s clearly become something stronger, and judging by the way Miko is, I’d say that something is obsession.

Zane: Thank you for the accuracy.

I chuckle, pulling Amanda’s attention to me. She glances down at my phone, then back in my direction before she clucks her tongue and throws her hair in my face when she turns back to the dipshit she’s fawning over.

Me: When do we leave?

My blood is alight with the need to not only run from this place but to see Immie. Leaving her in her bed is becoming increasingly difficult, especially when I know I might not see her until the following day.

There’s no way I’d be able to leave for a job, not when my heart is here now.

The fight club might have its pitfalls, but it sure as hell has its advantages too.

Miko: We leave in twenty.

I tuck my phone away and pull on Amanda’s arm. Her eyes are glazed, and her face is contorted into a drunken droop. Oh great, she’s completely wrecked.

“We need to leave. I have to go to one of our clubs,” I whisper into her ear.

She jerks her arm from me, making a show of pushing me, and her drink sloshes over onto the tablecloth. I grit my teeth at her drunken state. “I’m staying here,” she screeches, and I wince at the gazes casting over our table.

I lean closer to her ear. “I’d prefer it you let one of our drivers take you home.”

“Ugh, you’rrre so borrring, Jensssen.” She pushes her tits out, then wobbles from side to side on her chair in a performance I would normally deem as something comically pathetic if she wasn’t so irate and in public for all to see. “Oooh, look at me, boring Jensen going to work again. Go fuck yourself!”

My temper skyrockets at her behavior and disrespect. I scrub a hand over my head, tempted to leave her sorry ass here, but with how drunk she is, it would be completely unacceptable for me to do it. The last thing I want is her drawing more attention to herself and, therefore, me and my family. She’s already making a mockery of us; I’ll be damned if I allow this to continue. Like many other times, I decide to shoot a text off to Clint, one of our guards who escorted us here today.

Me: Come and take Amanda from me and then deliver her home.

Clint: Yes, sir.

I push back in my chair and bend down to Amanda. Jesus, she’s embarrassing. If she pushed her tits any farther in the guy’s face, she’d smother him to death.

“Excuse me a moment, I need to speak with my beautiful wife in private,” I seethe through clenched teeth, and give the guy she was talking to a polite nod. Then I look around the table with a smile that hurts my molars before my gaze lands back on my drunken ass wife. Her eyelids flutter at the praise I bestowed upon her, and she allows me to help her from her chair.

As soon as she stands, I guide her from the room. The chatter grows as we leave, and finally, fucking finally, I pull the bowtie from around my neck and stuff it into my pocket while I pass Amanda over to Clint with a sharp nod.

Now I get to see my girl, and she has some explaining to do.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

IMMIE

“Okay, so this is the last time I’m going to say it because I’m probably sounding really naïve right now, but holy hell, you guys don’t have to pay for drinks at all?” Marlie’s eyes bug out, and I choke on my cocktail.

“Our family owns the place,” Fern tells her for the hundredth time tonight, then takes another drink of her cocktail.

“I know.” Marlie wafts her hand. “You said that before. But, girls, my dad owns a truck, and I still have to pay him to use it. Oh, and don’t get me started on the gas.” She rolls her eyes.

I giggle into my drink, and Fern throws her arm around Marlie and tugs her against her. “I love you so damn much, Marl.” She kisses the top of her head in a sign of affection that’s normally absent from her.