I managed to successfully avoid my wife for the rest of the week.
That did not stop her from sending me daily text messages about her dead aunt hiding in clouds every time the sky was clear.
The messages, like my prayers to have a sane wife, remained unanswered.
She had suggested we meet up a few times, despite the radio silence on my end.
The thought of seeing her again disgusted me, so I decided not to consider it until I cooled down.
But seven days in, and my traitorous body made no sign of settling down.
The memory of her writhing beneath me burned hotter at night.
Statistically speaking, limiting our encounters to once a week would still ensure a pregnancy within the next few months.
To be on the safe side, I’d created a chart with her potential ovulating dates and decided to alternate the days in which I saw her each week in order to cover all the bases. But I knew next time we met, I would have to do a better job at reeling in the monster inside me.
No part of me had meant to lose control the first time we had sex, but when I saw her naked tits bouncing to the rhythm of my thrusts and her pink, O-shaped mouth hanging open in desire, I’d lost the self-possession I’d clung to like a desperate Belieber meeting her tattooed, acne-ridden hero and came apart.
I blamed her for the mishap. She was the one who insisted I stop visiting my side pieces and deprived me of a chance to rid myself of my animalistic nature.
Luckily (and I used that term very loosely), I had no time to think about my bride. I had a shitstorm to prepare for in the form of Andrew Arrowsmith.
Upon filing the lawsuit, Arrowsmith had sent me a formal letter through his lawyers, accusing me more or less of single-handedly ruining planet Earth. He had made sure the letter would leak to the press, and all the positive news I’d garnered since marrying Persephone, aka Little Angel Baby Jesus, went down the drain.
Andrew didn’t stop at that. Blind items about a powerful, Boston-based CEO visiting European prostitutes began to pop up like mushrooms after the rain in the tabloids, and I had no doubt he was the one who fed the journalists these pieces.
He had me followed.
Did his homework. Uncovered my secrets. All of them.
Which was why I’d decided to gather Devon, Sam, and Hunter on my ranch for a weekend of brainstorming, horse riding, and planning the demise of my archnemesis.
Bonus points: going to the ranch would put some mileage between Persephone and me.
We were in my car, heading out of Boston, when Devon said aloud what Sam and I were thinking.
“I’m surprised Hunter agreed to spend an entire weekend away from his missus.” He was in the passenger seat next to me while Hunter and Sam sat in the back.
“What can I say? I’m full of surprises.” Hunter slouched back, grinning.
“And shit,” Sam spat out.
“And yourself.” Devon smirked cockily.
Frost covered the narrow, winding road, the same shade as my wife’s eyes.
“Dev, can you check Kill’s temperature?” Hunter nudged the back of his seat. “He just missed a chance to slag me off, as your people call it. It’s unlike him.”
“Very few things would make me touch your twat of a brother, and you are definitely not on the list,” Devon quipped.
Once we parked outside the ranch, my stable boys shot out of the barn like bullets to help us with our suitcases.
Ignoring their toddler-like blabbing, I removed my leather gloves as I made my way into the main cabin. I stopped dead in my tracks when I noticed Sailor’s Porsche Cayenne parked in front of the door. I shot my brother a dirty look.
He raised his palms in surrender.
“In my defense, you shouldn’t have trusted me. I can’t stay celibate for an afternoon, let alone an entire weekend. Everyone knows that.”
Sam flicked the back of Hunter’s head as he marched in my direction with his duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
I didn’t have to ask Hunter if he extended his invitation to his wife’s friends and our sister. These women were attached by the hip.
I was glad I didn’t care what Persephone thought about my performance in the sack because she was sure to share her final score with her BFFs.
Disinterested in coming face-to-face with my wife, I disposed my bag with Hunter and headed straight for the stables.
Checking on my horses, I fed and brushed their coats, then took them out, one by one, and cleaned their hooves. I sat on a barrel, my back facing the cabin, and got right down to it, still in my pea coat and eighteen karat F cuff links.
The air turned chilly by the time I heard the soft sound of hay crunching under boots.
Seconds later, she stood in front of me, next to the horse I was tending to, wearing a yellow dress that complemented her blond hair.
She looked like a swan with her long, delicate neck, and her head tilted down in elegant resignation.
My gaze hardened on the horse’s hoof.
“What’s his name?” She put a gentle hand on its back. The sweetness of her skin drifted into my nostrils, even under the overwhelming stench of the stables.
“Washington.” I raised the hoof pick, pointing it at the stalls behind him. “The rest of these rascals are Hamilton, Franklin, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, and Jay.”
“The Founding Fathers.” She sashayed to the barn, leaning against its wall with her hands tucked behind her back, watching me.
“Congratulations, you just passed a third-grade history exam.” I patted Washington’s thigh, signaling him to raise his other leg.
“Fifth,” she corrected with a grin. She was always happy to spar with me.
“I studied abroad,” I muttered. All my American history studies were given to me by tutors.
“I know,” she said softly. “Unlike our children, who will be staying right next to us until they are old enough to make up their minds about where they want to study.”
Uh-huh. You keep telling yourself that, sweetheart.
“Over your dead body, huh?” I groaned, digging deeper into the hoof with the pick.
“No,” she said calmly. “Over yours.”
My gaze shot up to hers, before returning to my work.
“That’s a lot of horses for one man,” my wife commented. “They’re beautiful, but some of them seem quite old. Gray-faced. Do you ride all of them?”
“Yes. They’re all in pristine condition.”
I dropped the pick, then grabbed the brush and moved it over Washington’s hoof.
“My father gifted me a horse for every year I finished top of my class, starting in middle school.”
She strode over to me.
“Isn’t being perfect all the time tiring?” Her hand was on my shoulder now. My muscles flexed. I focused on my task.
“What kind of question is that?”
“One I’d like an answer to.”
“Is being average boring?”
“No,” she replied, no trace of bitterness in her voice. “Then again, I don’t think I’m boring at all. I think I’m exactly who I was supposed to grow up to be, flaws and all. My parents always encouraged me to pursue my dream, and my dream was to raise children. Other people’s as well as my own.”
“Well, I enjoyed the opposite treatment. Everything about my arrival in this world was carefully planned. I came first, and I was male, which meant the expectations from me were complete and utter perfection in all aspects of my life. I knew I was going to carry the Fitzpatrick bloodline, take over Royal Pipelines, continue the lineage. My existence has always had a purpose, and nothing short of excellence will do.”
“You’re not perfect with me.”
“What you witnessed last week was lack of discretion.” I cracked my knuckles. “It wasn’t pretty.”
“No. But we’re all ugly in certain parts, and I’m still here.”
Because I paid for you.
“Come inside.” She ran a hand over my hair, like a mother would. If nothing else, she was going to be good for our children. Better than Jane ever was. “Food’s ready.”
I took her hand and dropped it gently.
“Not hungry.”
“Where are you going to sleep tonight?”
“The master bedroom.”
“Where am I going to sleep tonight?”
“Any of the six guest rooms. I own this place, so you get first choice.”
“I choose your bedroom,” she said without missing a beat.
“First choice other than my bed,” I clarified.
“Our friends will talk,” she warned.
“They have the irritating tendency to do that. Everyone knows ours is a sham marriage. No one’s going to buy your charade.” I stood, leading Washington back to his stall.
After locking the stall behind the horse, I turned around, watching her.
Despite what she thought, I was doing us both a favor. Entertaining her need to make this relationship feel normal would only cause disappointment in the long run. Even if I yielded to the temptation of sharing a bed and the occasional meal with her, she would eventually outgrow the detached arrangement I had to offer her and resent me even more.
“I made a mistake coming here.” She tilted her face up, staring at the moon under a star-filled sky. She was so gorgeous at that moment, so uniquely Persephone, that I wanted to ignore all the facts, scoop her in my arms, and fuck her all night.
Watching her from a safe distance—far enough to prevent breathing in her drugging scent or touching her velvet skin—I agreed.
“You did. I will only have you on my terms, Flower Girl.”
My wife turned her head to face me.
“That wasn’t a part of our contract.”
I hitched up a shoulder, giving her the same answer she gave me when I complained about our agreement.
“Sue me.”
“The lawsuit is airtight. I read through it several times.” Devon passed me a stack of papers the next day over coffee, omelets, and pastries. We sat on the back porch, watching the horses gallop in the field, warming up ahead of the day.
I put my coffee to my lips, skimming through them.
“I’ve spent an unholy amount of money on the Arctic offshore development. I’m not canning this project because Arrowsmith has a hard-on to see me go bankrupt.”
“We won’t go bankrupt,” Hunter interfered, spooning fig jam to smear it over a warm croissant. My clown of a brother had agreed to leave his wife behind for the duration of the breakfast so we could talk shop. “I looked at the numbers. Stopping the drilling in the Arctic is going to hurt our pocket, but we can take the blow. The capital growth will stop for the next four years, but we will still be making money.”
“I’m not here to make money. I’m here to take over the world.” I put my foot down.
“You might not have a choice,” Devon pushed. “If you lose the lawsuit, you’d have to stop anyway. And have plenty of legal bills to pay, another PR disaster on your hands, and a father who’d kick you out of the CEO position, turn the board against you, and appoint Hunter to run the show. No offense, Hunt.”
“None taken.” Hunter shrugged. “I don’t want to be CEO. You know what this kind of pressure can do to my skin?” He rubbed his knuckles over his jaw.
“We can always think outside the box. And by that, I mean put Arrowsmith in one.” Sam lit up a cigarette, not touching any of the food. I doubted he could digest something that wasn’t meat, beer, and nicotine.
Devon smiled politely. “I’ve a feeling I don’t want to be here for this conversation. Allow me to excuse myself, gentlemen.” He stood and walked back into the cabin.
Sam shot me a sidelong glance. The bloodthirsty bastard was always in the mood for breaking spines.
“Regretfully, you can’t kill Arrowsmith. The blowback would be huge, all arrows would point at me, and the media would have a field day. Not to mention, Arrowsmith has children.”
“When did you grow a conscience and start caring about children?” Sam asked.
“You haven’t met the little devils. If something happens to their parents, no one would want to adopt them.”
“Fine. He can live. I can still throw my weight around.”
“Physical extortion won’t get you far.” I dropped the papers on the table. “He’s got something on me, and I’m waiting to see how he’s going to use it. We need to play this carefully.”
“What does he have on you?” Hunter leaned forward. “You’re disgustingly perfect. Dad’s fucking mo òrga. What could it possibly be?”
I smiled. “We have to keep it clean. Let’s leave it at that.”
“In that case, I’m with Whitehall on trying to squash that beef,” Sam admitted, tossing his lighter on the table. “He is going ahead with the lawsuit. You can get him in a few months when things calm down. In the meantime, your best shot is finding common ground with Green Living.”
“Cillian will never cower.” My brother shook his head.
“Retreating is not submitting.” Sam stood. “If Kill wants to win this thing, he has to play it smart. This is round one out of many. History doesn’t remember the battle. Only the name of the man who threw the final knockout.”
Sam wasn’t wrong.
What he didn’t know was that Andrew Arrowsmith was the last man to throw the punch before we parted ways many years ago.
And this time? I wasn’t going to stop until he saw stars.
