Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
It was a picture of a cloud floating in a clear sky.
Cillian: Your aunt paid me a visit. She told me I was a cunt. I did not disagree.
Cillian: Have dinner with me.
I snorted out a laugh.
He was bad, but he was trying, and the fact he did made my heart thaw, no matter how badly I knew I needed to quit him.
Belle stretched beside me in bed, letting out a soft snore.
“Is it Kill?”
“Yeah.” I pressed the phone to my chest, feeling protective of him even after everything that happened.
“Don’t answer.” She shook her head. “He needs to sweat a little. See that you have a backbone.”
I deleted the message before the urge to answer it won and went about my day.
Six weeks had passed.
Six weeks, thirteen pictures from Cillian of Auntie Tilda in the sky, and a request to meet.
Now with the lawsuit out of the picture, Kill had time to put his heir plan into high gear.
I never answered any of his messages.
It wasn’t about punishing my husband; it was about making sure I had my own back. I refused to be owned, even if, initially, I had been bought.
Six weeks after Rooney Fitzpatrick came into this world, I filled out my divorce papers.
I sat at the family lawyer’s office that smelled and bled of the eighties, feeling her eyes on me the entire time as I signed all the paperwork.
“You sure you wanna do this?” she asked for the thousandth time, letting out a smoker’s cough. She reminded me of Joey from Friends agent, Estelle. “I mean, you won’t hear any complaints from me. I’m getting my fee, but the Fitzpatricks aren’t a bad family to marry into, child.”
“I’m sure.” I signed the last page, pushing it across the desk in her direction. “Can you send it to him, please?”
She shook her head.
“Sorry. Your spouse must be served in person. And it has to be by a sheriff, who will then give you proof via return of service.”
A sheriff.
The list of people I knew who would pay good money to watch Cillian being served divorce papers by law enforcement was longer than War and Peace. But I didn’t want to cause Kill any more trouble or humiliation.
“Is it really necessary?”
Just this morning, Cillian left me another message with a cloud.
Cillian: Spoke to your aunt (if you tell anyone I conversed with a cloud, I will flat out deny it). She said I should take you on a honeymoon. I bought tickets.
He seemed undeterred. At the same time, I appreciated him giving me my space. He never once showed up on my doorstep or bulldozed into my life like he used to.
“Yes,” said the lawyer, bobbing her head like a dashboard dog. “Maybe you should talk to him if you’re so unsure. If you’re going to divorce a man, at least give him the courtesy of expecting it.”
I stood, collecting the papers.
“I’ll let him know.”
I had to.
I wasn’t going to stay in a loveless marriage.
Even if it was to the love of my life.
“Can I turn on the local news?” Ms. Gwen swooped the remote control from one of the round tables in the teachers’ lounge, pointing it at the television and switching the channel from sports. A couple of the male teachers groaned in protest.
I poked at my microwaved pasta, sitting in the back of the room, trying not to think about how Belle had promised to deliver the divorce papers to Cillian as soon as she woke up today, which should be at about two in the afternoon.
I couldn’t go forward with the sheriff thing. I just couldn’t imagine putting him through this. The humiliation. The embarrassment. The publicity of all this.
Still, the limbo had to stop. I had to move on.
“What are we watching?” Ms. Hazel plopped next to Ms. Gwen and me, popping a salt and vinegar chip into her mouth. “Wait, is that a press conference?”
“Breaking news.” Ms. Michelle sounded startled. I kept my head down as they cranked up the volume. I heard the muttering of press people ahead of a conference, and then the intense hushed voices and loud clicks of the cameras when the person who was speaking got onstage. I refused to lift my eyes from the dish I wasn’t even eating. I had this thing again where I knew if I made one move—even trail my gaze up an inch—the tears would start falling.
“Hey, Pers, what’s your hot guy doing on the news?” Ms. Michelle chirped.
“Breaking her poor colleagues’ hearts, that’s what he’s doing.” Ms. Gwen chuckled. “Emphasis on the word poor. What’re you still doing here, Persy? Did you not get the memo you’re loaded?”
“Why, hello there, honey,” whistled Ms. Regina to the TV screen in a manner I knew Cillian would hate. “You can ruin my natural resources any day of the week.”