The three weeks after my wedding day were littered with almosts.
I almost called Persephone when the urge to go to Europe and satisfy my needs torched my blood. It was nothing short of a miracle I’d managed to take care of business in my shower with a hand propped over the mosaic tiles, rubbing one out like a crazed teenager.
I almost drove straight to her apartment when I spotted Sailor prancing around my office with her tiny baby bump, bringing Hunter lunch and finally looking like an expectant mother and not like a six-year-old scrawny boy who had an extra serving of Brussels sprouts.
I almost texted my wife when I saw a paparazzi picture of her in a local gossip column Devon had sent me in which she headed to a hot yoga class with her sister clad in tight yoga pants and a sports bra.
And I almost used her as a consolation prize this morning when I arrived at the office to find a billboard the size of a goddamn building—one that was directed to my office window—with my face on it, fake blood dripping from the corner of my mouth.
The #1 Western World Villain is here to kill the polar bears
And your planet.
Goddamn Andrew Arrowsmith.
Every time I was about to make a move, I remembered how she deliberately tried to anger me the night I dropped her off at her new apartment.
Everything about my wife was messy, annoying, and inconvenient. The worst part was that somehow the docile little creature had managed to put me at a spot of disadvantage.
In order to impregnate her, I needed to see her.
Which I very much didn’t want to do.
The ball was in my court, and I wanted to kick it across the world where I wouldn’t have to see or hear her. Where I wouldn’t have to taste her.
I was struggling to remember what made me agree to stay celibate.
I was even more puzzled by the fact I had kept my word.
With a trip to my mistresses firmly off the table, I drowned myself in work while trying to think of loopholes of how to impregnate her without touching her. She and I had very different ideas of what sex should entail, and tarnishing her with my filthy hands and mind was not something I was willing to entertain.
My phone danced across my office desk.
“Devon.” I hit the speaker button. “To what do I owe the displeasure?”
“I’d say to being a world-class cunt and collecting enemies around the globe like they were Royal Mail stamps.”
“I pissed someone off,” I concluded.
“Correct.”
“You’ll need to specify.”
“Look out your window.”
“Already did. Not my best picture, but I just redirected three mill to PR and advertising to buy this spot—and all the others in the city—and replace it the moment Andrew’s lease is done with positive ads.”
“The sodding billboard is nothing. Your old mate, Andrew Arrowsmith, went for a grander gesture to profess his hate for you. Look down.”
I sauntered to my floor-to-ceiling window. There was a demonstration outside the Royal Pipelines’ building.
No. Not a demonstration. Complete chaos, consisting of hundreds of activists waving Green Living flags and holding Strike for the Climate signs and giant cardboard prints of the melting Arctic.
Some of them marched with enlarged printouts of penguins standing on melting icebergs, starving polar bears with ribs poking out of their fur, and various dead oceanic animals smeared in oil.
I took a deep breath. I knew my pulse would stay in control. It always did.
“How did I not know about this?”
“It’s a spontaneous demonstration. They didn’t clear it with the police. It’ll disperse in the next hour or so. I already made some calls.”
“And where is Arrowsmith?” I gritted out.
“Town hall.” The soft click of Devon’s smart shoes told me he was walking somewhere and fast. “He’s filing a public lawsuit against Royal Pipelines for drilling exploratory wells in the Arctic. He wants them shut down.”
“How worried am I?” I grabbed my laptop, getting ready to go down to the fourth floor and rip my legal team a new one for not smelling this from a hundred-mile radius.
“Considerably. You own the land, but Andrew is suggesting some amendments to international laws,” Devon admitted. “What’s your game plan?”
“Make him lose his pants by prolonging the trial until Green Living won’t be able to afford a package of lettuce,” I said right off the bat.
“That’d stall him, not stop him.” Devon sounded thoughtful. “I’m on my way. Meet me on the fourth floor.”
I stormed out of my office, passing a desperate Casey, who flailed on her heels, trying to chase me down to figure out what I wanted for lunch.
Andrew’s head on a platter.
“Kill?” Devon asked on the other line as I punched the elevator. “Arrowsmith made a bloody good move. We might need to negotiate.”
“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
Besides, I knew Andrew didn’t give two damns about the polar bears or fluffy snow foxes. If anything, he must’ve known drilling the Arctic wasn’t half as dirty and controversial as hydraulic fracking, also known as Royal Pipelines’ method of choice until I came into the picture.
He was after the Fitzpatricks.
Me, specifically.
Unfortunately for him, I had two rules:
I never shied away from a good, gory war.
I always won.
After an urgent meeting that bled into late afternoon, I took the elevator back to the management floor.
Devon and my entire legal team had advised me to bide my time, stay silent, then release a public statement in a few weeks’ time, indicating Royal Pipelines would cease its exploration in Arctic water due to insufficient quantities of petroleum.
In other words, I was asked to retreat and wave the white flag on the grounds that going to war made my knees look bloated as opposed to because I was afraid of losing to Andrew Arrowsmith.
Little did they know, I never lost.
I wasn’t angry or unruffled, but I definitely wasn’t in a giving mood. Just because I didn’t feel didn’t mean I was immune to a bad temper. Andrew was trying to screw me over, and I did not appreciate the way he went about it.
I sauntered past Hunter’s glass office, pausing when I realized he had company.
Sailor sat on his desk, throwing her head back and laughing. Emmabelle was there, too, in heels more fitted for a drag show and a red leather skirt. She probably frequented the same shops as Ms. Brandt.
Then there was my wife.
Persephone wore a designer black chiffon dress with silver stars, swinging a new pair of Gucci boots as she sat on the edge of Hunter’s desk, sucking on a lollipop.
She moved like a siren gliding out of the water. Healthy, radiating, and happy. At least a few pounds heavier than she was at our wedding. The extra weight gave her curves and arches that would make the Pope’s mouth water.
My wife was glowing, content, and gorgeous.
And it made me want to strangle her.
She was living the life while I picked up the tab. New apartment, new wardrobe, cleaners, and meal kit services, plus a full staff waiting for her to snap her fingers and tell them what to do. She still hadn’t fulfilled her part of our bargain.
I got a raw deal, and if there was one thing I wasn’t—it was a bad businessman.
Smoothing a hand over my waistcoat, I walked over to Hunter’s office and opened the door without knocking.
“Hey, bro.” Hunter looked up from something he showed the women on his phone, still smiling. “’Sup? You look like someone pissed in your soup.”
Ignoring him, I moved toward Persephone, who stiffened the minute I entered the room. I leaned down and kissed her cheek, watching the color rising on her porcelain-grained complexion.
“Kill,” she said, bizarrely surprised by bumping into me in my own office building. Was she expecting me to run my meetings at the local Chuck E. Cheese?
“How have you been?” I asked coolly.
“Great.”
I bet, sweetheart.
“May I have a word?”
She looked around us, hesitating as though I’d pounce on her. We both knew we had the opposite problem.
“Is the honeymoon phase over?” Sailor raised a ginger eyebrow. “Oh, that’s right. Kill didn’t take Persy on a honeymoon.”
“Don’t make me take off my earrings.” Belle stepped toward me, folding her arms. “Kill will get killed if he messes with my baby sister. I’ve already told him that.”
That’s right. Emmabelle paid me a visit shortly after news of my engagement to her sister broke. I still mourned the ten minutes I had to listen to her rambling.
First, she’d offered herself as a bride if I’d let her sister go. It had obviously been a test, meant to see if I’d wanted Persephone specifically, or any woman with a uterus and of good health. When I’d told Emmabelle my interest in touching her rivaled my desire to step on every piece of Lego in North America barefoot, she’d proceeded to make idle threats and flex her nonexistent biceps, bullying me with bodily harm.
I’d stared at her impatiently for the duration of her speech, then sent her back to where she came from.
However much I disliked both my sisters-in-law, they seemed completely unaware of what went on in my marriage, and that was good news. It meant that Persephone had kept her mouth shut. Sure, Hunter, Sam, and Devon were privy to the truth—I uttered it aloud in front of them that poker night—but they were my allies.
My wife hopped from Hunter’s desk, sticking the red lollipop back into her mouth.
“All right, hubs. Make it quick.”
I led her to my office, then continued into the private en suite, where the walls weren’t glass, and no one could see us.
I closed the door behind us, then fixed her with a look.
“What are you doing here?”
“Having lunch with friends.” She popped the sucker out of her mouth. The scent of watermelon filled the air, making my dick stir. “Having a good day, hubs?”
“Not particularly.”
“Yeah, I saw in the local news about the demonstration.” She scrunched her little nose, which I sincerely hoped my future kids were going to inherit. “That billboard up there isn’t your best angle, either.”
I stared at her, not sure why I called her in here. I had nothing to say to her. Yet the need to monopolize her time burned in me. I was the one who deserved her attention.
I got her out of trouble.
I paid for her newly indulgent lifestyle.
I was the one she should be spending time with.
You don’t want any of these things, you moron.
“What you’re doing in the Arctic is…” She put a hand to her chest.
“Terrible?” I finished for her with a smirk.
“Monstrous.”
“Cry me a river.”
“You’ll probably find a way to pollute it, too.”
“A bit of loyalty wouldn’t kill you, Flower Girl. I’m your husband. Although that’s not saying much, considering you divorced the previous one without his consent.” I leaned over the granite wall, crossing my legs at the ankles.
Her eyes widened.
“Are you kidding me? You’re comparing my divorcing my runaway husband to what you’re doing?” The same blaze of fire I saw when we negotiated our terms returned to her eyes, making my semi a full-blown erection. “You’re ruining our planet for financial gain. The Earth is not your wasteland. Not to mention, you’re driving entire animal groups into extinction. The polar bears and the penguins come to mind.”
“I’m sorry you feel that way,” I said robotically. A well-rehearsed reply to the same thing I’d heard over and over again.
“No, you’re not.”
“You’re right. I’m not sorry at all. You can’t run your car on adorable.”
“But I can run it on batteries, thanks to Elon Musk,” she dished back, her tone sweet.
“I know women are fond of battery-operated devices, but they’re never as good as the real thing.”
She choked on her lollipop. I wondered if she had an oral fixation. First the cigar, and now this. It was hard to concentrate when her pink lips were always wrapped around something. Especially when it wasn’t my cock.
I could have told her the truth. That the Arctic wasn’t a long-term plan. That I had a greener environmental plan to put my hands on natural gas. A futuristic, twenty-second century invention that was in the works. But I didn’t much mind to be known as the man who was responsible for ruining the world.
“Why are you really here, Persephone?” I pushed off the wall, advancing in her direction, not stopping until we were flush against one another. While emotions were a liability, getting my wife pregnant was a calling.
The faster we could get it done, the sooner we could cease communication.
Her delicate throat bobbed with a swallow. She was plastered to the wall, cornered like an animal. She licked her lips, her blue eyes dropping to my mouth.
“Lunch.” She stuck to her version. “Why else would I be here?”
I put my arm over her head, crowding her, meeting her eyes. I had a few good inches on her, even with her new heels.
“I think you’re here because you owe me something.”
“I’m giving you everything I signed on for. I live in the apartment you’ve designated for me. I’m available to you. I don’t remember you picking up the phone and asking to consummate our marriage.” She arched an eyebrow.
She had delicate eyebrows. Another thing I wouldn’t mind my children getting from her.
In fact, I’d be glad if they took everything from her.
Everything but that bleeding heart.
And that showed you exactly how highly I thought of myself.
“I don’t beg,” I drawled.
“No one asked you to. But if you want to get into my bed, you’ll need to make the required arrangements. It’s not too much to ask.”
She made sense, and that worried me because usually, I was the pragmatic person in the conversation. Any conversation.
“You’re here now,” I noted.
I wasn’t in the mood for sex, but I supposed I had to get it over with at some point.
She beamed around the lollipop, her lips swollen and achingly kissable. “We’re not having sex in your bathroom. I have more self-respect than that.”
“Are you sure?” I asked, half-sardonic, half-hopeful. “So far, you’ve acted like a glorified mail-order bride. Bending over the vanity would be well within your typical behavior.”
She laughed.
She actually laughed.
Flipping her hair to one shoulder, my wife spun on her heel.
“Goodbye, hubs.”
She strutted her way to the door, all fire, sugar, and temptation. She knew exactly what she was doing, and she did it well. No part of her was meek and naïve now.
Not accustomed to having women leave before verbally excusing them, I watched with fascination mixed with annoyance. I’d never had to figure out how to keep someone close. Usually, my status, power, and fat wallet did it for me.
Watching her leave made me feel as though I’d been robbed of something.
“Persephone,” I barked.
She stopped.
“Turn around.”
“No.”
“Don’t make me teach you a lesson.”
“Why?” she asked brightly. “I’m a good student. Although I think I’m the one who is giving you a valuable class today. If you want me to stay, you’re going to have to ask nicely and not order me around.”
My instincts urged me to disregard her. Put her in her place. But that would be acting out of emotions, and I didn’t do those. Normal Cillian—sane Cillian—would humor her to get what he wanted and then discard her.
Quarreling with her wasn’t going to bring me a step closer to triumph. Or to having an heir.
Swallowing down a juicy curse I couldn’t believe I thought about, let alone could utter, I took a breath.
“Please turn around.”
She did, slowly. And for the first time, I realized how awful it felt to be at someone else’s mercy. The humbleness in my situation made me borderline nauseous.
Knock her up and get rid of her. You’ll be the last one to laugh when she is changing diapers and raising your future heirs while you’re deep inside a French socialite.
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” I spat out.
“Yes.” Her smile was warm like the sun, full of promise. “Tonight okay?”
“Tonight’s fine.”
“Why don’t I cook for us?”
Because it will probably taste horrible.
But these were thoughts I needed to filter at least until my objective was achieved. Not being unbearable was a learning curve.
“I have a private chef. We can also order in.”
She shook her head. “Nothing beats a home-cooked meal.”
“Where do you think my chef cooks my meals? Not the bathroom,” I bit out.
Definitely a learning curve.
She laughed. “Your chef doesn’t cook with their heart.”
“Fortunately,” I scowled, “that would be unhygienic. Any preferences?”
Her eyes traveled down to my crotch. Heat rose up my spine. It was the celibacy. I wasn’t used to being dependent on someone else’s availability.
Was this what monogamy felt like? No wonder the divorce rate in Western countries was through the roof.
“Don’t worry about my preferences. Just let me do the cooking. I have one stipulation.”
There were always stipulations with this woman.
But no matter how much I wanted to regret marrying her and not sticking to my Minka Gomes plan, I had to admit Persephone was an aphrodisiac the carnal side of me couldn’t refuse.
Her biting beauty, easy wit, and warm personality gave her a regal shine. Like all rare jewels, I wanted her for myself for the sake of having her.
Tucking my hands into my front pockets, I shot her a look.
“Well?”
“I want it to be at your place.”
“Done.”
I wasn’t a sentimental man. Bringing her to my bed wouldn’t make me associate said bed with her in it. She wasn’t a goddamn safety blanket.
If she thought she was tricking me into developing feelings toward her, she was gravely mistaken.
“See you at seven.” She turned away, leaving me with a hard-on, a bad mood, and the uneasy sense I’d just made a terrible mistake.
Getting rid of her just turned from a plan to a necessity.
I needed to remove my wife from my life before she trickled into my system.
