Total pages in book: 158
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 156392 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 782(@200wpm)___ 626(@250wpm)___ 521(@300wpm)
“Can you give more detail?”
“Like?”
“Why did he leave early?”
“You’ll have to ask Henderson. I manage the household, not his schedule.”
“Speaking of the household, why don’t I see half of the staff? The men, in particular?”
“They were sacked. The replacements will be women.”
My mouth hangs open. “Don’t tell me Eli did that?”
“Who else has that type of authority here?”
The fucking tyrant. He really kept his word about the male staff.
“By the way.” Sam reaches into her apron and retrieves a small box. “He left this for you.”
I clutch it with a questioning look until I see the label.
The morning-after pill.
The ticking bomb reaches the explosion point, and the burst shocks me to my bones.
That’s it.
I’m going to unleash all hell loose on the bastard.
That afternoon, I change into the raciest, most revealing black mini skirt I own that barely covers my arse and pair it with a deep V-neck pink top that reveals a generous portion of my breasts. Just to be extra, I finish the outfit with knee-high pink boots.
Then I head to King Enterprises, armed with pettiness, rage, and my husband’s least favorite theatric—drama.
I walk into the company’s grand reception hall, smiling and waving at anyone who looks at me. Once I’m by the reception area, I demand family access. The guy ogles my chest for a solid ten seconds.
His colleague, a black woman who looks young enough to have freshly graduated from uni, stares at him uncomfortably.
I knock the counter. “I’m over here, Mr.…” I trail off and read his tag, “Tyler.”
“Certainly, Mrs. King.” He looks at the girl, who smiles at me shyly. “Do your job properly, Hailey! Call the security team and ask for an access tag.”
“I’m sorry, sir.” She falls over herself with apologies and grabs the phone with a shaky hand.
I narrow my eyes on him. “You do it, Tyler.”
“Mrs. King, Hailey is a junior receptionist…”
“Did I ask you to talk back? Pick up that phone and do your job.” I stare at him, unblinking.
“Certainly.” He cowers and takes the phone from her still-trembling hands.
Pricks like him only bark at those lower than them. It makes them feel grandiose about their miserable lives.
As he speaks on the phone, I lean over to Hailey and smile. “Love your earrings. They’re so pretty.”
She blushes and smiles tentatively. “Thanks. They’re actually my late gran’s.”
“Your gran had fantastic taste.”
“She did. She was a fashionista.”
“Badass.”
“I love your boots,” she says in a low voice, surveying her surroundings. “You look like Barbie.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet. Thanks, Hailey.”
Her smile widens, but it soon disappears when Tyler speaks. “I’m afraid Mr. Eli King and his assistant joined Mr. Aiden King and Mrs. Teal Astor for a site inspection today.”
“I didn’t ask you to inquire about his whereabouts. I only need the access. Or do I have to repeat that slower so you’ll understand?”
He purses his lips, but he nods again. “Certainly.”
Soon after, a big buff security guy smiles at me and gives me a tag that he says gives me access to the management floors. Sweet.
I start to walk, then stop and smile at the girl. “You look after yourself, Hailey. It was nice meeting you.”
“You, too, Mrs. King.”
“Call me Ava. We’re about the same age, girl.”
I offer Tyler a disappointed shake of my head and saunter to the lift. Naturally, I go to snoop in Eli’s office. Leo’s assistants—he has two—don’t even attempt to stop me.
If anything, the middle-aged woman and the young guy stare at me with unmasked fascination as if I’m an exotic animal.
I smile, compliment the guy’s tie and the woman’s beautiful lipstick shade and ask her for the brand’s name. After I make a mental note to add it to my extravagant shopping cart, I walk inside.
My husband’s office is as cold as his soul. Neutral beige colors, a skyline view of the City of London, and rows of horrific books about management, finance, and things he can bullshit his way through better than Machiavelli.
I walk to his desk and stop when I find a framed picture from our wedding. Lifting it up, I sit in his chair and stare at it.
He’s kissing me at the altar, a possessive arm wrapped around my waist and his lips almost eating my face.
My eyes are closed and I look happy. I think.
For some reason, I don’t like that I don’t remember that kiss. It seems vital to.
A question nags in the back of my mind. Why would he have it on his desk? He has no pictures of our wedding in his home office.
Not ones that I’ve seen, at least.
After what seems like half an hour of useless pondering, I slide it back to its previous position.
Hmm. What can I do to inject some life into this mechanical space?
I mess up the pens on his desk, mix the papers together, and wish I’d brought my candy floss to dirty his sofa.