Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
“Your secret’s safe with us,” Belle assured her.
The question was, was my husband’s secret safe with Andrew Arrowsmith?
One thing was for sure: I wasn’t about to wait to find out.
Later that day, I walked into an empty apartment.
The nakedness of it didn’t register at first, maybe because I never considered it fully mine.
The furniture remained in place, shiny, futuristic, and cherry-picked by the interior designer. The kitchen appliances twinkled, the quirky family pictures and scented candles I’d brought with me when I moved in were still perched over the mantel.
I strode into my walk-in closet to get ready for a yoga class and realized it was empty.
My clothes were gone. So were my shoes, my toiletries, and the few personal belongings I’d stashed in one of the guest rooms. I tiptoed through the apartment, my pulse stuttering against my wrist. Had I been robbed?
It made no sense. Byrne and Kaminski exited my life, leaving skid marks in their wake. I knew I was under Sam Brennan’s protection for as long as I was Cillian’s wife, which had added a perverse sense of invincibility to my existence.
Besides, burglars would have taken the expensive Jackson Pollock paintings and flashy electronics I hadn’t even bothered to learn how to use.
I padded barefoot to the kitchen and found a note on the granite island.
In the spirit of trying to knock you up and get rid of you as soon as possible, I am moving you to my estate until you are with child.
Faithlessly,
Cillian
My initial instinct was to pick up the phone and inform my husband, in decibels more fitting to an Iron Maiden concert, that the pigs called—they wanted their chauvinism back.
I bit my tongue until warm, thick blood filled my mouth, then drew a ragged breath and decided—again—to beat Kill at his own twisted game.
Cillian was concerned about his position in my life and wanted to keep me close. Whatever bullshit excuse he gave himself for moving my stuff into his mansion—the Arrowsmiths, my visiting Mrs. Veitch, the shape of the moon—didn’t matter. The bottom line was, he was breaking his own rule—no living under the same roof—to keep me close.
It surprised me that he had let me get away with breaking the non-compete clause. When I’d told him I was going to work for Andrew Arrowsmith, and that if it didn’t suit him, he was welcome to file for a divorce, I was almost certain he’d kick me out of his mansion and life.
It had also surprised me how he seemed to accept that I kept in touch with Greta Veitch. Not that he had any say in the matter, but I figured he’d put me through hell once he’d realized I wasn’t going to cater to his whims like everyone else did.
I probably should have told him about my weekly visits to Greta. Then again, Kill never gave me a chance to talk to him. Since he hadn’t asked me about my relationship with Paxton even once, I hadn’t offered any information.
In truth, Pax and I were done before I’d even found out that he lost all our money.
Before I’d set eyes on my ex-husband for the first time.
Before I’d tugged Paxton behind a living sculpture for a make-out session, frantic and full of vengeance, in a pathetic attempt to forget how Cillian rejected me.
Move on.
Marry someone boring, like you.
Paxton had worked at the wedding as a part of the security staff and enjoyed my attentions the entire night. Every time I bumped into Kill, with his frosty detachment, I ran back to Paxton’s arms. By the time the sun rose the next morning, with Sailor and Hunter off to their honeymoon, Paxton was tucked inside my bed, arm flung over my naked back, snoring contently.
He’d stuck around, and I’d never questioned his existence in my life.
I just thought Auntie Tilda had worked her magic and sent me a love to help me forget the one I was never meant to have.
Grabbing my bag, I slid into my Tesla and drove the short distance to Cillian’s house. Petar opened the gate and directed me to my new parking spot. He led me to a room on the second floor, right next to the master bedroom, blabbing happily about the home theater system, jogging trail that framed the property, and indoor pool like an eager realtor.
“Petar, can you show me the demon fountain?” I asked him when we climbed up the stairs.
He froze, then shook his head. “Mr. Fitzpatrick wouldn’t want me to. No.”
Dang it.
I wasn’t surprised to find all my things in my room. My possessions were unpacked, and my clothes folded, hung, and arranged neatly in a walk-in closet.
“Anything you need, just let us know.” Petar bowed his head, an impish beam on his face. “Seriously. A home-cooked meal, extra pillows…the name of a good shrink. I’m at your service, Persephone. On call twenty-four seven.”