She shot me a look that said she wasn’t happy with me. A look that, for reasons unbeknownst to me, I couldn’t stand. She produced something from her Valentino clutch. A piece of paper. She unfolded it. A ten-dollar note rolled out of it. Also a pen. She handed me all three.
“This is for you, by the way.”
“What am I looking at?” I scanned the paper in her hand without taking it.
“I saw this on a TV show. Billions. It’s a contract in which you sell your soul to me.”
I really should’ve made her take a drug test before I put a ring on her finger.
The amount of nonsense spewing out of that pretty mouth could keep the entire Senate busy for a century.
Then again, deep down, I knew even if the results came back saying she was hooked on meth, cocaine, heroin, and every homeless dick downtown, I still would have married her, and that was a problem.
A huge problem.
“Sign it.” She released the ten-dollar bill in my lap like I was a B-grade pole dancer. I didn’t make a move to pick it up.
“What’s the problem?” She frowned. “You already told me I can never have your heart and mentioned you don’t believe in souls. That means selling yours to me shouldn’t be too hard, right?”
The fact she was trying to philosophically challenge me made her cute enough to eat. Then again, I didn’t need much incentive to want to eat her out. Wondering how my wife’s pussy tasted was something I did often.
I’d licked my fingers after the card game on the ranch. Her scent hitting my system alone had made me painfully hard.
“It’s okay if you don’t want to take any chances.” She withdrew the contract, about to tuck it back into her purse.
“There’s no such thing as a soul,” I repeated dully.
“In that case, I’d like to buy yours.”
“How’d it end on that TV show?” I sat back, twirling the cigar between my fingers.
“Billions?” She frowned. “The girl—who has a similar set of beliefs and views on the world as you—signed the contract, proving she truly didn’t believe in her soul’s existence.”
“Amateur mistake.” I clutched my cigar between my teeth to free my hands, adjusting the necklace on my wife’s neck so the clasp wouldn’t show. “First rule in business is supply and demand. You put a price on something in accordance to how other people value it. My set of beliefs is irrelevant. You think souls exist, and therefore I will sign mine over to you for the highest price.”
“What would that price be?”
“Your full submission to our arrangement.” I plucked the pen and paper from her hand, tucking them into my breast pocket. “More on that when I figure out what that exactly entails. Subject closed.”
The need to own, conquer, banish, and discard her made me lose sleep.
It didn’t even make sense, and sense was the compass I could always count on.
Persephone made me swear, and nothing made me swear. Yet when we were on that trail, I said the word fuck. Not because I cracked two ribs—which, by the way, happened—or because I was bloodied and wounded, but because she looked scared, and I never wanted to see that emotion on her face again.
She smoothed her dress, examining me under a thick curtain of lashes.
“I’m glad we’re going to this charity event. We haven’t gone out as a couple since we got married. Paxton and I used to have date nights all the time. I miss that.”
“Where did Paxton take you?” The question slipped out before I could shove it back into my throat and choke on it. Which was what I deserved for even thinking about it.
She blew a lock of sunflower hair that flopped over her eye.
“We had an annual Disney pass. I love a good fairy tale. We used to go to restaurants, dance clubs, football games. Oh, and have picnics, sometimes. Our dream honeymoon was to go to Namibia, but we were too broke to do it.”
“Why Namibia?”
Why ask her more questions?
“I once saw a picture of the Namibian desert in a journal. The yellow dunes looked like velvet. I became obsessed with lying on one of those perfect dunes and looking up at the sun. It looked like the height of being alive. So poignant. So pure.”
So stupid.
She had the good sense to blush.
I turned back to the view zipping through the window, having heard enough about her previous relationship.
“We had a good run.”
An unfamiliar needle pricked my chest. Maybe I was having a heart attack. Spending a night in the ER would still beat Arrowsmith drooling over my wife like a horny tenth grader publicly.
“A man named Andrew Arrowsmith is going to be at the charity ball. He’s the one filing a lawsuit against Royal Pipelines.” I changed the subject.
“I know him from TV. He does morning shows and environmental panels.”
“I expect you to be on your best behavior. He’ll examine us closely, look for cracks in the façade.”
She flashed me a curious look. “Why do I get the feeling there’s more to this story than a lawsuit?”
“We go back. We grew up together, went to the same schools for a while. His late father worked for mine.”
“I’m guessing his departure didn’t include any employee of the year awards.”
“Athair made him do the walk of shame and blacklisted him from working at any reputable company on the East Coast. Arrowsmith Senior had a knack for embezzling.”
Persephone crossed her legs. “So this lawsuit is personal?”
I offered her a curt nod. “Arrowsmith Senior died recently.”
“Which opened the old wound, making Andrew take the job at Green Living.”
She caught up quickly. Flower Girl had been a lot smarter than I gave her credit for before I asked her to marry me.
“How come the media hasn’t picked up on it?” She readjusted my tie. This time, I didn’t move her hand away. “His hidden agenda, I mean. He’s a highly public figure.”
“I haven’t leaked it yet.”
“Why?”
“Arrowsmith’s got something on me, too. We’re hanging our sins over each other’s head, waiting to see who blinks first.”
“Let’s make him flinch then, hubs.”
“There isn’t a we in this operation. You worry about giving me heirs, and I’ll worry about Arrowsmith.”
She studied me; her blue eyes tranquil. I could tell she was no longer fearful of me, but I wasn’t sure if that satisfied or annoyed me.
“I mean it, Flower Girl. Don’t butt into my business.”
She was still smiling.
“What are you looking at?” I glowered.
“You held my hand in yours the entire length of the drive. Since you took the contract from me.”
Dropping my gaze, I immediately withdrew from her.
“Haven’t noticed.”
“You’re handsome when flustered.”
“I swear, Persephone, I’m going to relocate you to your precious Namibia if you don’t stop grating on my nerves.”
“So now I annoy you constantly.” Her blue eyes shone. “That’s one, steady emotion. Twenty-six more to go!”
There were twenty-seven emotions? That seemed completely unmanageable. No wonder most humans were categorically useless.
The driver opened the back door. I slid out first, taking my wife’s delicate hand in mine as the cameras clicked, devouring us, wanting more from the woman who had decided to lock her fate with The Villain.
I tucked my wife behind me and marched past them, blocking the blinding flashes with my body so she wouldn’t trip and embarrass me.
It was showtime.
The charity ball reminded me why I didn’t do people.
Out of the bedroom, anyway.
A rancid cloud of perfume hung over carefully sprayed hairdos. The checked marble floor of the nineteenth century hotel twinkled, and the aristocrats immortalized on the paintings framing the ballroom glared at the guests disapprovingly.
Everything about the event was fake, from the conversation, to the veneer teeth and crocodile tears over what we were raising money for—clowns for kittens? Ant sanctuary? Whatever it was, I knew I stood out like a sober guy at a frat party.
I led Persephone inside, ignoring the few people who were dumb enough to approach me.
That was the beauty in being Boston’s most hated businessman. I didn’t need to pretend I gave a damn. I wanted a private word with the man who was suing my company, so I came here with a check the organizers couldn’t refuse. But my willingness to socialize or play the game was below zero.
I snatched a flute of champagne from a waitress’s tray for Persephone and a cognac for myself, snubbing a hedge fund manager who came to introduce himself with a boring-looking woman I assumed was his wife.
Something fast and hard bumped into my leg. It stumbled backward, landing at my wife’s feet in a tangle of pudgy limbs.
Persephone lost her grip on the champagne, spilling her drink all over her dress. She let out a breath while I grabbed the stupid thing and scooped it in the air. It was kicking and screaming.
“What in the—”
“Let him go!” my wife cried out, swatting my hand away. She crouched down, giving everyone in the room a front-seat view to her cleavage, and righted the thing—fine, child—who’d crashed into us, helping him to his feet.
“Are you okay, sweets?” She rubbed his arms.
The child looked vaguely familiar, but since I wasn’t acquainted with any kids, I figured they all looked the same. Like squirrels or Oreo cookies.
The little boy screwed his nose, shaking his head. His right eye ticked twice…no, six times.
Tick. Tick. Tick, tick, tick, tick.
My gut twisted. I stepped back, popping my fingers one after the other.