I slowly replace the receiver and sit at my desk until all my shaking has stopped and the dust has settled on my chaotic thoughts. Then I pull the batphone from my handbag, set it on the floor, and stomp on it until it’s nothing but bits of smashed metal.
I find the main number for McCord Media on their website and dial it from the desk phone, telling the operator to put me through to the CEO.
“Tell him his wife is calling,” I say, my voice hollow. “It’s an emergency.”
Callum comes on the line sounding convincingly concerned. “Emery? What’s wrong? What’s the emergency?”
“No, Callum. I’m the one asking the questions. Number one: who did you hire to pretend to be David Montgomery from the tax board?”
When his pause draws out too long, I warn, “If you ever want to see me again, you’ll tell me the truth.”
There’s a sound on the other end of the line. Footsteps. He’s started to pace. When he speaks, his voice is tense. “An old acquaintance. Someone who owed me a favor.”
Oh fuck.
Adrenaline floods my body. I start to shake again, and I can’t catch my breath.
Until this moment, there was still a tiny possibility it was all a misunderstanding. Some terrible, but explainable, mistake. But with his admission, everything has become painfully, horribly real.
I have to moisten my lips before I can speak again. Trying desperately to keep the tremor from my voice, I say, “And the bogus lawsuit? Was that the same acquaintance?”
“Listen to me, Emery. Let me explain.”
“Not one more word from you unless it’s an answer,” I say hotly, unable to control my anger from filling my voice. “Who filed the lawsuit?”
When he speaks, it sounds as if it’s through a clenched jaw. “A junior clerk at William’s firm filed it.”
“On behalf of?”
“No one. The plaintiff doesn’t exist. I made him up.”
My God. The treachery is staggering.
Unable to stay seated any longer, I stand and start to pace too, going as far as the cord on the desk phone will allow before spinning around and walking the other direction. “And Ryan? You had him fired from his job, didn’t you? You knew I’d ask you to hire him at your company so you could look generous when you agreed.”
“Yes.”
He didn’t even hesitate that time. The adrenaline running through me turns to fury. My hands shake so hard, it’s difficult to keep my grip on the phone.
“What about my apartment building being condemned? Did you arrange that so you could swoop in like a superhero and save the day?”
“No, but I wish I’d thought of it. You might have moved in with me sooner.”
His utter lack of shame in that admission makes me stop dead in my tracks and stare at the wall with my mouth hanging open. When I’ve recovered, I start to pace again.
“Your inheritance,” I snap. “Let’s talk about that. The thing that got this whole shit show on the road in the first place. Your father never gave you an ultimatum that you had to marry or lose everything, did he?”
“No. He’s much too sensible to disinherit his eldest son.”
“Okay, Callum. One final question.” This part I holler. “What the actual fuck?”
“You’re not prepared for the answer.”
“You better goddamn give it to me anyway!”
“We should talk about this in person.”
“How are you so fucking calm? You’re admitting you sabotaged my entire life to get me to marry you, you asshole!”
“I assure you, I’m not calm. But shouting won’t change anything.”
My chest heaving and my eyes filling with tears, I take a moment to catch my breath. “Why? Just tell me why. Why the hell would you go to all that trouble when you could’ve just asked me out on a date like a normal person?”
“I did ask you out on a date. You told me you’d rather be forced to do a naked shame walk through crowded streets while onlookers screamed curses at you and threw rotten cabbages in your face like Cersei Lannister in Game of Thrones than go out with a smug rich prick like me.”
I take that in, the whole preposterous story and the way he so matter-of-factly recounted it, and have to laugh.
It’s a sick laugh, a demented one, but a laugh just the same.
“You’re mixing me up with someone else, billionaire. I never laid eyes on you before the day you walked into my store with your insane proposition.”
“Yes, you did. It was at a Halloween party in the Hollywood Hills. You were dressed as Catwoman, and I was the Big Bad Wolf.”
I stand with my mouth open and my heart hammering like mad.
I remember that party. I remember it very clearly. My outfit, shoes, what I had to drink, who I went with, everything.
And yes, I remember the Big Bad Wolf. How could I not?
He was utterly unforgettable.
A black fur wolf mask covered most of his face. Only his chin and eyes were exposed, eyes that gazed out from behind the mask with the feral hunger of a nighttime predator peering out from the woods. The mask was accented with gold paint across the cheekbones and bridge of the nose like some Egyptian pharaoh. Its big pricked ears resembled demon horns.
The wolf wore tight black jeans that showcased the size of his muscular thighs. He was shirtless, his incredible chest and biceps on plain display for every female in attendance to ogle. He had no tattoos or identifying marks of any kind then, other than those piercing nocturnal eyes that kept following me.
The house belonged to a friend of a friend of a friend, some guy Ryan knew from work. I don’t know how we wound up with an invitation, but I clearly recall being impressed by the size of the home and the obvious wealth of its occupants.
Until the homeowner made a drunken pass at me and called me a cheap little piece of trailer trash when I refused to kiss him.
The way I felt when he sneered that at me…I’ll never forget it.
He made me feel worthless, like I had no right to even exist because I clearly wasn’t of his social position.
If he was a king, I was a cockroach.
I think it was my shoes that gave me away.
Rich people don’t wear clothing with designer logos because they consider it in bad taste, so lacking other more obvious status symbols like your car or house, they look at your watch, your handbag, or your shoes. None of which will bear obvious logos, either, but when you’ve been brought up to know the difference between a Patek Phillipe and a Vacheron Constantine, you can spot a person in the lowest tax bracket a mile away.
Only a few minutes after that humiliating encounter, I stumbled across the Big Bad Wolf. Literally stumbled across him when I rounded a corner and bumped into him, catching my foot on one of his giant black shoes.
A big hand shot out and grabbed my arm, steadying me before I could fall flat on my face in front of everyone.
He stared down at me with perfect dark focus, his eyes locked onto mine. He didn’t let go of my arm.
The first thing he said to me, in a low, gruff voice that sent a tingle up my spine, was, “Who are you?”
It sounded like an accusation. Like a demand. Like he knew I didn’t belong in that house with its grand piano, art collection, and sliding walls of glass that opened to the spectacular view of Los Angeles sparkling like jewels strewn across black velvet far below.
Even if he didn’t mean it that way, that’s how I took it. Having just been called a piece of trailer trash, my temper was high.
I yanked my arm from his grip, propped my hands on my hips, and stuck out my chin belligerently. “I’m the one your mother warned you about, that’s who.”
Heat flared in his eyes. He leaned closer. “In that case, I need to get to know you better. I’m taking you out.”
I remember how arrogant that seemed. Not “Will you go out with me?” but “I’m taking you out.” As if I had no choice in the matter. As if I were already a foregone conclusion.
Which is when I decided he was another rich asshole who felt entitled to something he didn’t deserve. Namely, me.
“Not a chance in hell,” I said.
Then I proceeded to make the melodramatic declaration about Cersei Lannister in Game of Thrones and stormed off like a diva.
I was twenty-five when I attended that Halloween party with Dani and Ryan. It was five years ago.
Five years.
“Do you remember now?” Callum asks, his gruff voice an echo of the one in my memory.
I whisper, “Yes.”
“That was the beginning for me.”
“The beginning of what?”
“My obsession with you.”
I close my eyes, swallow, and decide that if a single tear escapes my eyes, I’ll never forgive myself. “You don’t sound the least bit ashamed.”
“I’m not.”
I cry, “Jesus Christ, Callum. What’s the matter with you?”
His voice drops an octave. “You. You’re what’s the matter with me. You have been since the first time I laid eyes on you and every day since.”
My pulse crashing in my ears, I say, “You spied on me.”
“Yes.”
“You set this whole thing up so I’d have to marry you.”
“Yes.”
“You manipulated me! You lied to me and manipulated me and you somehow think that’s okay?”
“I would have killed to have you if it had come to that.”
“Oh my God! Are you even listening to yourself? You’re insane!”
“No, I’m in love. There’s a difference. And let’s not get too dramatic about it. You’re in a much better position now than you were a few months ago. And so are all your friends. Because of me.”
“My friends?” I repeat, brand new alarm bells ringing in my head. “What about my friends?”
“Ryan is the obvious example. Dani benefitted from his salary increase, too, as did their daughter. Then there’s all your employees, who you so generously gave raises to. Now Vivienne can move out of her awful apartment someone was always vandalizing, Taylor doesn’t have to follow her mother to Florida to live with her grandparents in Sunnyside Retirement Village, Harper can afford to hire a good attorney to take her deadbeat ex back to court for more child support, and Mr. Murphy can afford all that expensive medication he’s on.”
My body can’t decide if it wants to freeze or drench me in sweat, so it does both.
Stunned almost speechless, I manage to say, “You were behind the vandalism at Vivienne’s apartment?”
“Don’t sound so upset. She was never in any danger. It was just a few broken windows.”
I sputter, “And…and Taylor? Her parents’ divorce?”
“I might have given that piece of shit stepfather of hers a little incentive to leave his wife and stepdaughter alone.”
My head is spinning. I can barely stand up. The scope of what he’s done is mind-boggling. Something else occurs to me, and I gasp.
“Ben.”
That’s all I can get out, but it’s enough. Callum knows exactly what I’m talking about.
His tone disgusted, he says, “Yes, your worthless ex-boyfriend. Speaking of pieces of shit, he takes the cake, that one. He didn’t deserve you.”
Nearing hysteria, I demand, “What did you do? Did you threaten him? Did you hurt him?”
“I showed him pictures of him and the girl he was fucking behind your back and told him if he ever spoke to you again, I’d slit his throat. I was holding a rather large knife to his jugular at the time, so he wisely decided to believe me.”
Stars burst in the corners of my vision. The room starts to spin. “Oh my God. Oh my God. You’re…you’re…”
“Your husband,” he finishes, making it sound like a death sentence.
“I was going to say evil!”
There’s a pause, then he comes back on sounding exactly like what he is: a ruthless, charismatic liar.
“There are a million shades of gray between good and evil, love. Am I on the darker end of the spectrum? Yes. Am I a bad man who does good things or a good man who does bad things? Both. But you made this monster your slave. All of what I am, good and bad, light and dark, belongs to you.”
My brain has had enough of attempting to deal with this rationally and finally allows my temper to take the helm. I shout, “Well, whoopdie-fucking-do for me! I won the psychopath lottery!”
He chuckles. “I might have ambiguous morality, but I’m hardly a psychopath. What time will you be home?”
“Never!”
I slam down the phone, seething. Then I bring up the trust account balance on the computer.
It’s all there. Twenty million minus what I’ve paid in bills and operating costs since I wed my darling husband.
My face burning and my heart in shreds, I fax a copy of the marriage contract to my lawyer with a note asking him for a recommendation for a good divorce attorney.
On my way out of the office, I remove my wedding band and throw it into the trash.
