Total pages in book: 138
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 652(@200wpm)___ 522(@250wpm)___ 435(@300wpm)
In lieu of using my brain cells to do something productive like work, I wore down my gum and tidied up my already pristine office space. As though neatness was something she appreciated. When ten minutes became twenty, I began to ponder the eternal question—what the fuck? Yet, calling Alan and nagging him about my wife’s whereabouts was beneath me. Perhaps they’d hit traffic. Gnarly car accidents were not out of the ordinary in my neck of the woods. Plenty of foreign envoys protected by diplomatic immunity, whose extracurriculars included running over people as if it were a GTA assignment.
When twenty minutes turned into thirty, my fingers itched to call Alan. As it happened, my phone danced on my desk, his name appearing on the screen.
I picked up. “Yes?”
“She reached her destination, sir.”
Impossible. Had she truly reached her destination, she would be on her knees under my desk, sucking my cock.
“Is that so?” I smashed my gum between my molars, rightfully wary, given the sovereignty with which Shortbread conducted herself. “Where is she, exactly?”
“She just walked into Le Bleu. Got a street-facing seat on the balcony and a bottle of champagne. Looks like she’s waiting for someone.”
She sure as all hell wasn’t waiting for me. Le Bleu was a two-Michelin-star restaurant right across from my building. In fact, Bruce’s office offered a direct line of sight into the place.
Two things became immediately clear to me: 1) This was another power move on Dallas’s end, designed to piss me off. 2) This was the last time she would tamper with my life. There’d be no more second chances. No wiggle room for negotiation.
“Check if there’s paparazzi nearby.” My jaw locked around my gum. I’d bet my entire personal wealth and right testicle there was.
Alan cleared his throat, taking a moment, presumably, to search. “Yes, sir. There is. Across the street.” Another company’s headquarters all but kissed the Costa Industries building. Licht Holdings. “Sir, someone is approaching her. I’m going to hang up and initiate a video call, so you can—”
“No need.” I stood, shouldering into my coat. “Let me guess—tall-ish man, blond hair, and busted-up nose, sporting a tailored suit and zero charisma?”
“Wha—how did you know?”
“I’ll be there soon.”
I hung up, proceeding to the conference room across the hall. Somehow, Shortbread had spotted her tail, didn’t like it, and retaliated by meeting with Madison somewhere public.
Message received.
Now it was time to deliver mine.
Madison’s objective in this arrangement could be spotted blindfolded from the top of the Washington Monument. Being seen with my wife—documented by the local tabloids, no less—humiliated me. But I played the long game. Besides, every passing minute I didn’t burst into the restaurant and cause a scene would increase their discomfort.
My index finger sank onto the intercom button. “Cara.”
My assistant materialized, scurrying behind me on high heels, an iPad clutched between her manicured fingers. “Yes, Mr. Costa?”
“I’ll send you a list of people I need to be put through with for an urgent call.”
“Urgent when?”
“Urgent now.”
For fifty-five minutes, Dallas and Madison simmered in their own awkwardness as I finished a conference call, followed by a full plate of Brussel sprouts and chicken breast prepared by the company chef. Alan’s texts buzzed through in periodic increments.
Alan Reece: Very odd, sir. They’re just staring at each other without talking.
Alan Reece: Looks like they’re waiting for something?
That something was me.
Alan Reece: They’re both eating bluefin tuna. The man is checking his watch every two seconds.
If Madison hoped for me to beat the living lights out of him in public, he was in for crushing disappointment. I’d give my young wife one thing. For a man who prided himself in having a flatlined range of emotions, she somehow made me feel. Anger, frustration, annoyance, and disgust—but feel nonetheless.
Finally, an hour after Dallas and her ex-fiancé paraded into Le Bleu, I made my way there. I met Bruce in the elevator downstairs.
“Seems like there’s more drama with your little Southern belle.” He pressed the lobby button, watching the numbers atop the sliding doors roll down. He must’ve seen Madison and Dallas from his office. Hard to miss the sea of paparazzi out front. “Can’t be good for your reputation.”
I smoothed a hand over my suit. “Neither would a Page Six item about a certain CEO candidate’s affair with a golf-course attendant.”
His smile disappeared faster than a complimentary breadstick basket in front of Dallas at the Olive Garden. “That is a blatantly malicious rumor.”
“Tell it to little Ginny, who promised me she’d write a tell-all about you if I cover her student debt.”
As soon as I marched through the revolving entrance door of Costa Industries, the paparazzi circled me like hungry piranhas, snapping hundreds of pictures. Sixty minutes of smug anticipation melted together as I crossed the street. Shortbread was slouched on the edge of a Wassily chair atop Le Bleu’s balcony. At the sight of me, her back went ramrod straight. She pored over every inch of me, hawkish eyes desperate to read my blank face.