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Chapter Four

ADRIANO

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IPACE THE LENGTH OFthe law library, my Italian leather shoes soundless against the plush carpet. The stench of bile andsakehas been scrubbed from my skin, my ten-thousand-dollar suit sent for specialized cleaning.

But the stink of betrayal?

Oh, you bet it's still there.

For nine years—nine years, dammit—Shayla Tolentino has let me believe she was divorced.

Let me offer sympathies, let me think I knew her.

She lied to me.

I hear the door open, and there she stands: chin up, shoulders back, like she didn't just vomit all over me last night, like she didn't just demolish nine years of trust with one drunken confession.

"In my office. NOW."

"This is already part of your office, Mr. Kontides."

What the—

She really thinks she still has a right to be smart with me?

After last night?

"Try giving me that kind of attitude again," I bite out, "and I'll fire you on the spot."

But of course, this doesn't scare her one bit.

Why did I even think that kind of threat would work on New York's most-sought-after legal secretary?

"Actually—"

"Don't bother." Because Iactuallydon't care to hear her make excuses. "What I want to know right now ishow."

She stares at me blankly. "How...what?"

Unbelievable.

"Howdareyou lie to me about your divorce?" It takes everything in me not to raise my voice. And start shaking some sense into her. How the hell can she just stand there andnotknow that it's no way acceptable in any industry for a secretary to lie to her boss? And especially someone as perfect as me?

"Actually—I didn't lie." She says it so, so calmly, that it makes me want to just as calmly wrap my fingers around her neck...before slowly giving it a squeeze. "I simply smiled and let you draw your own conclusions."

"Fornineyears?" I'm this close, dammit. This close to bellowing in hopes that the sheer volume of my words will get past her thick head.