The Villain: A Billionaire Romance: Chapter 17

Three months had passed since Persephone moved in.

Three months of irritating daily dinners, text messages full of pointless cloud pictures, and an unholy amount of sex.

Physically, I’d never been this satisfied in my life. Mentally, my disposition and ideologies shriveled into themselves and shut the windows every time I stepped into my house.

If Flower Girl thought we were making progress on our way to marital bliss, she had another thing coming.

I wasn’t an inch more in love with her than I was three months ago and didn’t care for her an ounce more than I had the day she burst into my office, asking me to be her knight in shiny loafers.

Yet.

Yet.

My new lifestyle had a price, and I was not happy to pay it.

I cracked my knuckles behind closed doors so frequently I was surprised my fingers were still attached to my hands, and I spent double the time at the gym taking my energy out on a punching bag to blow off steam.

It didn’t help matters that Sailor was sporting an impressive belly.

She’d stuck it out every weekend when we’d all gathered at my parents’ house, patting it to make sure no one forgot she was with child. My parents’ initial euphoria with my nuptials had died down, and they were back to cooing and fawning over Sailor’s stomach.

I needed an heir and fast. My sole motivation was to lead the Fitzpatrick clan and sire someone who would do the same. I didn’t want to see Hunter’s spawn hijacking my hard-earned company and with their DNA, pissing it away on flashy cars, drugs, booze, and a spaceship full of sorority sisters.

Having said that, each month my wife informed me that she had gotten her period, I found myself content.

A baby did not fit into my world.

Not yet, anyway.

I needed to get rid of the Andrew Arrowsmith problem, make sure Royal Pipelines was lawsuit-free, and ensure the exploratory drillings in the Arctic were fruitful.

Besides, knocking Flower Girl up meant I no longer had an excuse to keep her around, and having a steady lay turned out to be convenient. So much so, that I was toying with the idea of taking a local side piece after this was all done and dealt with.

Not too local, but local enough to be on the same continent as me. Someone I could stash close enough for comfort and too far away for dinner dates.

There were other merits to getting rid of Persephone, of course.

Namely, the fact that sometimes (although not very often, and in a completely manageable way) she made me feel like I was falling through an endless abyss full of glass ceilings.

Next time I chose a mistress, I’d do my due diligence. Get Sam on the case. Find someone less attractive than my wife, and not half as stubborn. Chances were, I’d never have to deal with the discomfort of wanting someone physically so much again, simply because Persephone had always stirred in me what no other woman had.

Now, I played the memory of last night in my head while I entertained my friends during our weekly poker night.

Of my wife in her lacy white nightgown. How we met halfway in the hallway as we often did. I was coming to see her, and she was coming to see me, neither of us in the mood for that tug-of-war, who-caves-first game.

We exploded on the carpet, fabric ripping, teeth nipping, moans drifting downstairs to the staff quarters.

“My favorite wish,” she had rasped into my mouth when I came deep inside her. “My miracle.”

“Is that a smile on Cillian’s face?” Hunter scratched his head, dumbfounded.

It had only been forty minutes since they’d arrived, and already I wanted to kick them out with my shoes still deep in their ass cracks. Flower Girl was upstairs, having a Zoom conference call with her friends, and my mind was deep in the gutter as to what I had planned for her tonight.

“A smile? Surely not.” Devon squinted at his cards, taking a sip of his brandy. “Perhaps he is having a stroke.”

“Maybe something got stuck in his teeth.” Hunter tapped his cards against the table. “Like, you know, feelings or something.”

“Zip it,” I warned.

“No. They’re right. You’re beaming.” Sam frowned at me in abhorrence. “It’s disgusting. People are trying to eat here.” He dropped his sandwich onto his plate.

“Leave him alone. I think it’s cute.” Hunter took a pull of his beer. “Kill caught a case of the feels, and there’s no vaccine for what he’s experiencing.”

“Are you really one to talk about being pussy-whipped?” I plucked a card from the stack in the middle of the table. “Your balls have been MIA since your wife came into the picture, and no search unit in the world can find them.”

Every head in the room snapped in my direction.

“What?” I bared my teeth.

“You said pussy-whipped.” Devon’s forehead creased. “You never curse.”

“Pussy is not a curse word.”

“I have a gay joke on the tip of my tongue.” Hunter squirmed as though he was trying hard not to pee.

“Swallow it,” I snapped.

“That’s what he said.” Hunter couldn’t help himself. I shot him a look. He zipped his lips with his fingers, making a show of throwing the key across the room.

“Sorry. Had to get it out of my system. I’m done now.”

Jokes aside, I knew I’d have probably not used the word six months ago. The necessity to utter profanity did not appeal to me, but how else could I direct my wife to park her pussy on my face? To ride my cock? Bend down and let me rope her ass?

Calling what she had between her legs a vagina would make me one. I wasn’t her OB-GYN. I had no business calling pussy anything other than pussy.

“Anyway, point is, you say you’re immune to feelings, and I call bullshit on it.” Hunter laughed.

“I’m not immune to feelings,” I countered. “I have two: pleasure and pain.”

“Your wife’s pussy gives you pleasure,” Devon, who had assumed the role of Captain Obvious for the night, supplied. “But when was the last time you felt pain?”

“Very soon, when Persy finally realizes she married a robot and kicks him to the curb.” Hunter chuckled, tossing his cards at the center of the table. “I fold.”

“Kill,” Sam lit up a cigarette, “I need a word in private.”

“Perfect timing. Game’s over.” I threw my cards.

“We’ve only just started.” Devon frowned. “I have a good hand going.”

“Mine’s about to snap your neck if you don’t get out of here.” I smiled politely. Hunter and Devon left. Now all I needed was to get rid of Sam, and I could visit my wife’s bed.

“What’s up?” I leaned back in my chair.

“It’s about Andrew Arrowsmith.”

I’d lawyered up since I’d heard about the lawsuit, did my due diligence regarding Green Living, and made sure to show my face at charity events with my wife on my arm and sign fat checks to nonprofit organizations.

I’d also paid some local media outlets handsomely to run less than flattering items about Andrew, lured potential donors from investing their money in Green Living, and made sure I choked Andrew’s workplace financially the best I could.

I did everything by the book ahead of the court date, which was scheduled for September twenty-third, still a couple of months away, but I knew Arrowsmith had a strong case and the public’s sympathy.

Taking a dump on one of the world’s most delicate natural resources was apparently severely frowned upon.

“I did some digging. Spoke to one of his lawyers.” Sam handed me his iPad from across the table. “One of the angles they’re going to use in court is defamation. Specifically, the poor state of your marriage. They’re going to imply your character is flawed through your estranged relationship with Persephone. Basically, they’re going to heavily suggest you’re an abusive husband. Your wife is employed by them and receives a salary from them. She visits their house three to four times a week, which I’m sure you are aware of.”

I’m not, goddammit.

What did you do, Persephone?

“Not only is Persy spending most of her time with the Arrowsmiths, but you don’t have a family life to speak of. It looks bad. The apartment you’re still renting for her, your separate bank accounts…”

I held up a hand to stop him. “Rewind. Separate accounts?”

Persephone signed an NDA and was definitely in no position to tell anyone about that.

Sam puffed on his cigarette, eyeing me wryly.

“Don’t tell me you were dumb enough to add her to your bank accounts, Kill.”

“No,” I gritted out. “But I deposit a sixty-thousand-dollar monthly allowance into her checking account. Seeing as she lives under my roof, eats my food, and generally lives at my expense, I figured this would be a sufficient amount for her not to look for any side gigs.”

“Well, that’s what she told the Arrowsmiths. You did know she works for them, correct?”

I did, and I didn’t.

Persephone told me months ago that she was planning on doing so but never followed up. I assumed—fine, hoped—her declaration to tutor Tinder Arrowsmith was just another way to get on my nerves. Trying to milk a human emotion out of me was her favorite hobby.

I didn’t think she would actually follow through.

That Tinder kid was a pathetic excuse for a…

“Cillian?” Sam slanted his head. I cleared my throat, tucking my hands under the table and cracking my knuckles.

“I knew,” I lied.

“Why didn’t you stop it?”

“Because I don’t care much what she does in her free time as long as she doesn’t nag me to spend time with her.”

“Well, start caring if you want to win the case against Arrowsmith. Tell your wife to drop their asses, pronto. If there’s one thing you don’t need right now, it’s for Persephone to give Arrowsmith ammo.”

“How much does her word really weigh?” I snarled. “She is just a stupid kid.”

“A stupid kid you’re married to,” Sam reminded me. “Dismantle her.”

“I will.”

“Why don’t we tail Goldilocks?” Sam flicked his cigarette straight into the ashtray, scanning my face for a reaction. “See what she’s up to.”

Because I contractually promised her I would never have her followed, and even though she enjoys taking long shits all over the contract she signed and break it time and time again, I’ve a feeling I won’t be able to get away with doing the same.

“Why would I waste my precious resources on my wife?” I asked dryly.

“Don’t you want to know if she still visits Mrs. Veitch?”

“She does.”

“And you don’t care?”

“For all I care, Persephone can go back to her loser ex after she’s done having my children.” I stood, collecting my phone and shoving it into my back pocket.

“Remind her you will drop her ass if she breaks your agreement,” he warned, his arms hooked behind the back, his thighs spread.

“Anything else?” I checked the time on my watch.

“Yes.” He stood, pointing at me. “Get your shit together. I’ve never seen you lose a poker game unintentionally. These assholes ripped you a new hole today, and it hasn’t even been an hour. I’ve never seen you at home before nine o’clock in the evening before, either. Guess what? Last week, I dropped by your office at half past six and was told you’d gone home early.”

I wouldn’t call six thirty early, exactly, but Persephone sent me a text with a picture of her wearing nothing but a nightgown the peachy color of her clit, and my dick all but signed Royal Pipelines over to Arrowsmith in a bid to go home early.

It infuriated me that Sam had a point, even if I was sure it was nothing but a phase to get my wife out of my system.

“I said I’ll talk to her. Know where the door is?”

He shot me a confused look. “Of course.”

“Use it.”

With that, I turned around and stomped up to the second floor.

It was time to teach Persephone that in the underworld, everything outside the narrow scope of what I found acceptable was bound to perish.

I fucked her first.

I knew the conversation was going to turn things sour between us and didn’t want anything to hinder my attempts to impregnate my wife.

Since she was senseless enough not to use fertility tests, I had to do it every day.

I tied my wife to the bedrails, ate her out, then ravished her several times until she was sore and tender everywhere.

I’d waited until we were both spent and lying on her bed before I opened the cigar box, which I had moved to her room, seeing as I’d spent most of my time there, and lit one up.

“You’re going to stop tutoring the Arrowsmith kids starting tomorrow morning,” I announced.

Persephone was still wrapped in her blankets, her golden hair fanned over both of us, her skin dewy like a spring morning.

She rolled toward me, her big blue eyes settling on my face.

“Excuse me?”

“I know you’ve been tutoring them. It stops right now.”

“Have you been following me?” Her voice turned from sweet to cold in seconds.

I flung the blanket off me and sat up, jamming my legs into my briefs.

“Sweetheart, let’s not pretend I care enough to have you followed. Sam follows Andrew, and he saw you going in and out of his house.”

“Sam’s an asshole.” She jumped off the bed as though she’d been burned.

I pulled a V-neck shirt over my head, ignoring her hysterics.

“What Sam is and isn’t is not my concern. I’m not married to him. You, however, are currently breaking a contract you signed. The non-compete clause. You went and ran your mouth to my enemy like the little idiot that you are, telling him we have separate accounts. Now Andrew is going to use your employment in court to show that I am an unloving, neglectful husband in order to establish my bad character.”

“You are an unloving husband.” She threw her hands in the air, laughing bitterly.

“Love wasn’t in the contract.”

“Screw your contract!” she screamed, losing her usual, saintly patience.

“Why? Screwing you is so much more enjoyable.” I was already making my way to my room. I was pleased with myself for not allowing us to sleep in the same bed since we’d gotten married. It gave me some semblance of control.

I stopped by the door.

“Quit tomorrow morning. I won’t ask twice. This is non-negotiable.”

“Or else?” She jutted her chin out. “What are you going to do if I decide to continue tutoring these kids—Tinder especially, a boy who needs me, who relies on me, who is attached to me?”

I turned around. Stared her down with the same, cold disdain I’d used with everyone else in my life.

She was just a warm hole.

A distraction.

A means to an end.

Getting attached to someone who’d been bought to save her life was a special kind of stupid. The type of cautionary tale I was supposed to pass on to my own son as my father had done to me.

“Disobey, and I will give you what you’ve been begging for.”

Divorce.

She’d been throwing the word around often enough. Like I was the one at her mercy.

“Say it,” she hissed, her eyes challenging me. “Tell me what you’ll do. Tell me I mean nothing to you.”

I gripped the back of her neck, feeling my dick hardening in my briefs as I did. I couldn’t allow it to turn into makeup sex. The daily dinners were enough. Her constant presence pushed me to my limits.

“If you continue to ignore our contract, I’ll have to break my part of the bargain, too. If you still work for the Arrowsmiths by mid-week, I’m putting Sam on your ass to tail your every movement. Next, I’m taking a flight to Europe, to fuck every abled body in my vicinity. Then—without taking a shower to wash them off—I’ll come back to put a baby in you, with ovulation tests.” My lips touched hers as I spoke, and I felt her trembling against me, both with anger and lust. “Their smell and juices inside you. To remind you that you are nothing but a plaything to me. The sad part is that we both know you’d let me, Flower Girl. You’ve been hot for this dick since the day you saw me. But you’d hate yourself for it, and every time you would look at our child, you would see what I’ve done to you. Know your place, Persephone. You are not here to co-rule the kingdom by my side. Merely to help me continue it.”

She ripped her mouth from mine, pushing my chest as hard as she could, her teeth chattering.

“You wouldn’t touch someone else.” She pounced forward, pushing me again. “You wouldn’t.”

“Really?” I raised my eyebrows, feigning interest. “What makes you say that?”

It was bad enough I couldn’t spit the word divorce out of my mouth. Now I had to stand here and listen to why I was apparently in a monogamous relationship.

My life certainly took a turn for the worse since our genitals became acquainted.

“You will never find what we have elsewhere,” she seethed. “And you’re the stupidest smart man alive to think that you can.”

“Are you done being dramatic?” I leaned a shoulder over the doorframe of her bedroom, crossing my arms like an exasperated father.

“Are you done being heartless?” she countered.

“No. Which brings us to the only reason you’re still here—you’re not pregnant yet.”

“Have you considered I might not be able to have children at all?” She began putting her clothes on. Panties first, then an oversized shirt.

“I have,” I said. “The minute I came up with this plan, I made a list of pros, cons, and potential complications. Possible infertility was at the top of the cons list.”

“And?”

“And everyone is replaceable.”

She froze, not moving an inch.

“I see,” she said carefully. “In that case, don’t let me waste your time.”

She had already taken months of my time but telling her so would be counterproductive to us reproducing.

“I’ll be continuing my employment with the Arrowsmiths. You can find another suitable candidate to have your precious children,” she said matter-of-factly, plucking a brush from her nightstand, running it through her hair.

Perhaps I misheard. No one was as stupid as to throw away wealth, mind-blowing sex, and freedom for a stupid principle. What we had was different. It was…

What? A voice inside me chuckled. You just told her you were going to visit your paid-for flings if she doesn’t comply, then added that, by the way, if she can’t get pregnant, you will replace her with a 2.0 version.

I knew I needed to turn around and walk away, but something told me I wasn’t going to get a good night’s sleep if we left things as they were, which was absurd. I’d always slept like a baby. Came with the territory of not having any regrets, worries, or a soul.

“You’re still here.” She flung her magnificent hair to one shoulder, parting it into three sections and braiding it as she got ready for bed. “Why? I told you my decision.”

“Don’t be stupid,” I warned her.

“The only stupid thing I did was marry you.” She stopped mid-braid to lunge forward, pushing me the rest of the way out of her room, then slammed the door in my face.

I trudged back to my bedroom, too angry to think straight. I said divorce wasn’t an option, and I’d meant it. If Persephone wanted out of this marriage, it’d have to be in a coffin. Whether I was the one inside it or her was the real mystery.

Once I got to my room, I noticed my phone was flashing with new text messages.

Sam: Stop her before she costs you this fucking lawsuit.

Sam: Don’t let anything fuck it up. Least of all a woman.

Cillian: Have her followed, tracked, and surveyed at all times starting tomorrow morning. Track her phone and text messages, too. I don’t want my wife to take a piss without knowing about it.

Sam: Whatever happened to not giving a shit?

Cillian: Business is business.

Sam: Finally, you got your head screwed right. Consider it done.

The next day, I emptied all of Andrew Arrowsmith’s British Virgin Islands accounts. The money Sam told me he’d stolen from his father-in-law. The sum came up to a little less than eight million dollars.

Andrew showed up at my office door less than an hour after I moved all the money to numerous charities across the globe, making anonymous donations.

“So this is how you chose to play this?” He stormed into my domain, running his fingers over his hair, nearly ripping it from his skull.

I swung my chair around, ripping my gaze from a monthly report concerning my new drillings.

“Play what?” I asked innocently.

“You know exactly what went missing.”

He advanced toward my desk, crashing his palm over it, expecting a reaction.

He got one, all right. I yawned, wondering what caused my restless stupor last night.

It was probably the linguini. I should never have eaten carbs for dinner.

The alternative to what had caused my restlessness was too ridiculous to consider.

“Where is it?” he fumed.

“Where’s what?”

“The thing you stole from me.”

Of course, uttering the words aloud was admitting misconduct.

I rubbed at my chin. “Still doesn’t ring any bells. Care to be specific?”

“Cut the bullcrap, Fitzpatrick. Where’s my money?” He tried to grab the collar of my dress shirt, leaning over my desk, but I was quicker. Pushing back in my seat, I made him dive headfirst onto my desk, his eyes landing on the mouthwatering numbers that came back from the monthly report.

I stood, buttoning my suit.

“What’s money in the grand scheme of things, Andy my friend? You have the Arctic to save.”

“You won’t be so smug when I knock on the FBI’s door and tell them how much money you stole from me.” He scurried to his feet, straightening his tie.

“Please let me know when you do that, so I can pay a visit to the IRS and inform them you’ve been keeping undeclared millions in offshore accounts. A sure way to kill your nonprofit career faster than a fish out of water.”

He stiffened, knowing damn well I had a point. Andrew would have to take the financial hit. No one was supposed to know he stashed millions where no one could see or touch them.

He narrowed his eyes at me.

“You think I care?” he hissed. “You think that’d stop me from sending Tinder and Tree to Evon? To give them all the things your family stole from me? You can never touch my personal wealth. My wife is a millionaire.”

“No, her parents are,” I pointed out, striding along the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the human dots going about their day on the street. “Real estate, right? Her daddy is a property tycoon type? Bet there’s a whole can of worms to explore there, too,” I tutted. “Never met a New York real estate mogul who liked to pay his taxes.”

At this point, my arm was shoved so deep inside Joelle Arrowsmith’s family fortune, on the lookout for any transgressions, I could tell Andrew things about his in-laws I doubted they knew about one another.

Andrew realized the noose around his neck was tightening.

“Remember one thing, Fitzpatrick. Your wife visits our house frequently. She talks.”

I could only imagine what things Persephone said about me. She wasn’t a fan unless we were in bed. I had no idea why she tried to burst through my walls so persistently only to ruin my defense against Andrew.

So she can have power over you.

Arrowsmith had used that tactic before. Why wouldn’t she?

“Watch your back, Cillian.” He pointed at me. “I broke you before. I intend to do it again.”

I smiled. “Give it your best shot, Andy. I sure as hell am going to do the same.”

The rest of the week was an elaborate torture.

Sam sent two of his investigators with the combined IQ of a cucumber to track Persephone. He promised they’d do their best to remain unnoticed.

The days following our fight, I received hourly text messages about my wife’s whereabouts. Her predictable routine was the only thing keeping my pulse from exploding.

She was either at work, at yoga class, tutoring the Arrowsmith kids, or with her friends and sister.

One place she was notably missing from was my bed. Even though I couldn’t fault her for not crawling in my lap at night to offer me her sweetness, I hated that she wouldn’t let me in her room, either.

The evening after our fight, I arrived at our moronic dinner as if nothing happened and was even charitable enough to offer a piece of information about my day. I told her I had fired three people that morning—didn’t she say she wanted me to share things with her?—but after I got out of the shower and knocked on her door, she didn’t open it.

I’d knocked again, thinking she hadn’t heard me the first time.

Nothing.

“I know you’re there,” I’d grumbled, loathing myself for pushing it.

I’d never sought out a woman before. All of my companions expressed prior attraction to me before I took them on. I could have gotten what they offered for free. I simply didn’t want to have them on their terms—only on mine.

“I’m not trying to pretend I’m not here,” Persephone had answered from behind the door.

Cracking my knuckles and reminding myself that she had every right to be angry after I declared I would replace her with someone else, I’d rested my forehead on her door.

“You have marital duties to perform.”

“If you think you’re walking through that door, you’re not just a cold fish, Cillian. You’re a dumb one, too.”

Cillian. Not Hubs or Kill.

She also called you a dumb, cold fish. Perhaps that’s the part you should focus on.

I felt my nostrils flaring and my lips thinning as I uttered, “I’ll be quick about it.”

“No.”

“Please.” The word tasted funky in my mouth. I couldn’t have said it more than a handful times in my lifetime.

“Go to Europe, Cillian. Have fun with your little girlfriends. Maybe they’ll give you the child you want so badly.”

My pulse was through the roof now.

I could feel the tension and pressure curling around my neck, and for the first time in years, I knew they were going to win.

Being turned down by my wife wasn’t even one of the worst things that happened to me this month, yet the idea she rejected me made me want to tear off my skin and cannonball it all over Sam Brennan’s house.

It was his idea I throw my weight around with her. Now not only did I have Arrowsmith as a problem but I also had a wife who refused to get knocked up.

I turned around, storming down the hallway, zipping past the master bedroom like a demon, continuing all the way down the hall, to the farthest room on the second floor. My fingertips itched. My eyelids ticked. I could no longer hold it inside.

Could no longer rein it in.

For the first time in years, I was going to let the beast come out.

I flung the door open.

It was an old study room I converted into a spa. Whatever BS excuse I could give the builders to soundproof the room and fill it with soft, unbreakable things.

I slammed the door behind me and let the monster in me take over.

Hoping the bruises and cuts it would surely leave would be gone by tomorrow.

On my seventh day of celibacy (but who the hell was counting?), we met for poker again.

Sam was watchful, Hunter was in his usual devil-may-care mood, and Devon looked like he was trying to work out what crawled up my ass.

Exactly one week from the moment I’d told Flower Girl she couldn’t tutor the Arrowsmith kids anymore, and she proceeded to piss all over my demands and continue about her life, banishing me from her bed in the process.

I’d been on edge all week, channeling my simmering anger toward Arrowsmith. Each day, I found a new way to poke him.

One time, I sent paparazzi cameramen to take pictures of Andrew picking his nose at a restaurant. The other, I had a PI sit in front of his house all night just to mess with his head, and on another occasion, I had an editor of one of the local newspapers run a story of that time Saint Andrew himself was caught in a three-way during his frat years at whatever community college he’d attended.

The issue with my secret was, revealing it would be damaging to Andrew, too. I wanted to push him to a point where he had nothing left to lose. To go to my father and tell him. Expose me. Turn me from the golden child to the fraud he thought I was.

Today, I was particularly sour. So much so I hadn’t even gone to the ranch to visit the horses. It started in the morning when it occurred to me that something was amiss. That something was the lack of cloud texts I’d been receiving (and ignoring) for months.

I couldn’t believe I missed Auntie Tilda.

The old hag never ceased to create problems for me.

Persephone was taking things too far.

I knew I had two choices—either I was going to back down and throw my wife a bone, tell her if she couldn’t get pregnant, or I was infertile, or both, that we could adopt—which I was genuinely open to.

Or I could flex my muscles and kick her out.

I had the decency to pretend to debate the two options for the sake of my ego as we played.

Hunter kept checking his phone. Sailor wasn’t anywhere near ready to pop—she wasn’t even half-close to delivery—but he acted like she was the first human to give birth to another one.

Earlier today, Sam’s spies had texted me at nine a.m. that Persephone had arrived at the Arrowsmith household. She spent a whooping six hours there before going straight to a nursing home on the outskirts of Boston to visit her former grandmother-in-law. She was still out, probably bathing and dressing Greta Veitch, putting her to bed.

My wife, I had to admit, was either the most naïve or disloyal person alive. Possibly both.

One thing was for sure: for all her traits, she wasn’t the pushover I expected her to be. Not by a long mile.

Snippets of conversation sliced through the air, unable to penetrate my thoughts.

“…ripping him a new one. You have to calm down, Kill. You’ve been going so hard at Arrowsmith. You’re lucky people haven’t noticed yet.”

“Kill thinks luck is just lazy math.”

“Kill is not thinking at all. Check out his face. He looks like he is about to kick all of us out again so he can have a snuggling session with Wifey Dearest.”

Speaking of the she-devil, the door to the entertainment room burst open, and Hurricane Persephone thundered in. Raindrops scattered about her face and lips like tiny diamonds, a telltale sign of the showers pouring outside.

Tiny diamonds.

One premium cunt and I was down for the count.

It had been getting warmer and nicer recently, but this week, it’d been pissing rain.

The strong resemblance to the scene of Persephone accepting my proposal in front of my friends licked my gut, and I grinned, watching her with an air of amusement.

Finally, she’d come to her senses.

My wife slowed to a stop. By the time I realized she was clutching something in her curled fist, she tossed it at my chest. A soaked, heavy cloth slithered down my dress shirt.

I could almost hear Sam’s, Devon’s, and Hunter’s jaws as they slammed against the floor in unison.

“You’ve been following me!” Persephone thumped her open palms on the table and in one movement, wiped it clean of cards, glasses, and ashtrays. The contents of the table flew to the floor. “I found your stupid soldiers waiting by my car when I left Mrs. Veitch’s nursing home, so I decided to chase them. Got one guy’s beanie. The other was too fast.”

“Which one did you manage to catch?” Sam asked conversationally. “So I’ll know who to fire.”

Her gaze bolted in his direction. She pointed at him. “Shut up, Brennan. Just shut the hell up!”

I removed the now identified beanie from my abs, dumping the thing on the floor with a sneer. I knew an apology wasn’t on the table right now.

A Fitzpatrick never bowed down or cowered to his wife.

He married an agreeable woman who sired other agreeable women, and sons who were as impossible as they were awestruck by their fathers.

That was what I’d been taught.

That was what I’d lived by.

That was how I was going to die, too.

Hunter might have been an exception marrying for love, but he wasn’t the eldest. The leader of the pack. The man who’d been burdened with the task of carrying on all the family traditions.

Besides, I had a reputation to uphold.

“Back to hysterics, I see,” I commented blandly, smoothing my shirt. “Care to tell me something I don’t know? I told you about my plans last week. One of them was to have you tailed. Did you think I wasn’t going to follow through with my threats? Did you think you were…special?” I pouted sarcastically, feigning sadness.

Her eyes widened. We were both thinking the same thing. My so-called plans also included visiting my mistresses and humiliating her publicly.

“You’re following through on all your threats,” she said hoarsely. There wasn’t a question mark after the sentence. I knew I should back down. Every bone in my body told me to, but I had to seize the opportunity to prove to myself she didn’t mean anything to me. That she was nothing but a toy.

I smiled cruelly. “All of them.”

“Following me was against the contract,” she reminded me, having too much pride to mention the other thing I promised not to do.

“Actually, I found a loophole. Sam did the following. I only gave the order.” I winked.

“The devil is in the details.” Sam slouched in his seat, thoroughly entertained.

“Now, that’s just bad manners, Brennan. Show some respect to the mistress of the house.” I snapped my fingers in Sam’s direction, still staring at my wife. “Apologize.”

“My sincere apologies.” Sam bowed his head theatrically, laughing, enjoying ridiculing her. He wasn’t capable of loving a woman and didn’t want me to, either. “My heart bleeds for you.”

It was a peculiar choice of words, considering I’d taunted Persephone about her bleeding heart. I’d never told Sam—nor any other living soul—about the time I’d spent in the bridal suite with her.

The day I couldn’t stop thinking about for years afterward.

But Flower Girl didn’t know that.

Her face reddened, and she clutched the sides of her dress in her fists.

Now was a good time to tell her I did not tell Sam what happened.

That he didn’t know she poisoned herself.

Before I could do any of these things, Persephone turned around and disappeared like a fleeting ray.

All eyes were on me.

“Ready for my monster hand?” I leaned forward on the now empty table, fanning the cards I still held in my hand.

Hunter groaned.

Devon rolled his eyes.

But Sam…Sam knew.

He looked at me with his calm, gray eyes that didn’t miss anything, big or small. Important or mundane.

I plastered my kings on the table and sat back.

Hunter and Devon choked.

“Goddamn.” Hunter smacked his cards on the rich oak. “You always win.”

Not always.

I glanced at the empty doorway.

Not this time.

Three hours later, my friends were finally gone.

I climbed up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I was forty-five thousand dollars richer and a million times more likely to stab Sam Brennan in the face for his bad advice.

What on earth made me put surveillance on my wife? I already knew she was going to do as she pleased. And what did Sam know about women, anyway? He loathed the very idea of them unless they were his stepmother and sister.

I didn’t bother to go through the whole pretending-to-get-ready-for-bed-in-my-room routine. I went straight to Flower Girl’s room and knocked on her door.

After three knocks and radio silence, I pushed the door open a few inches.

The room was empty.

“Petar!”

My roar nearly tore my vocal cords and likely caused the windows some damage. My estate manager was there within seconds, having never heard me raise my voice before.

I was sorting through her closet, trying to see if she’d left some of her essentials here. The things she loved and cherished the most.

She hadn’t.

Dammit.

“Sir, do you need anything?” Petar said from the doorway.

I turned to him.

“Yes. I need to know where the fuck is my wife?”

By the look on his face, I wasn’t done shocking people with my recent use of profanity. He snapped quickly, shaking his head.

“I…ah…she…she didn’t say. I figured she was going on a weekend somewhere?”

“And why would you figure that?” I asked through gritted teeth.

“Well, because she took several suitcases with her and didn’t want any help with them.”

“Did she say where she was going?” I demanded.

“No, sir.”

“How many suitcases did she take with her?”

“Quite a few.”

“Do you know how to count, Petar?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now’s the time to use those math skills and give me a fucking number.”

He gulped, doing the math with his fingers.

“Seven. She took seven suitcases, sir.”

“And you thought she was going for a weekend,” I lamented. I was surrounded by idiots. He swallowed hard, about to say something, but I wasn’t in the mood to hear it. I stormed into my room. A part of me wanted to chase her ass and bring her back home, where she should be, but another acknowledged that I’d done quite enough of twisting her arm to my will, and that she could very well decide to testify against me in the Arrowsmith case if I continued pushing her.

The thought shocked me.

The idea of Persephone sitting on the stand telling people how I’d mistreated her sickened me.

I grabbed my oak desk, looking out the window, digging my fingers into it so hard, the wood broke into splinters. I clutched the surface until my fingers were bloodied and shaking with exhaustion. Until the tremors in my body ceased.

Don’t lose it.

Don’t lose it because of a woman.

Don’t lose it at all.

I grabbed my phone out of my pocket, about to text Sam.

He had to tell his men to stop following her.

Then I had to tell her I wasn’t sleeping with anyone else.

I slid my thumb over the screen just as I got an incoming message.

Persephone: You refuse to let me go, but you won’t have me. If you won’t get a divorce, I will. You can’t keep me against my will. Don’t call me. Don’t text me. Don’t come anywhere near me. Don’t worry. I won’t file until after the trial against Green Living is over. Your secret’s safe with me. You wanted to marry a stranger. Congratulations. You just made me one.