Page 100 of A Secret and a Lie

“Bree…” The restroom door hasn’t even closed all the way, the hinges still softly groaning as it connects with my back, and I realize I’m still in the doorway.

Planning to congratulate her, my gaze immediately dips to her stomach, expecting to find it swollen, but it’s still as flat and toned as it was when she worked for me.

“Uh, hi, Allison,” she utters, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson as she moves her hands in front of her belly, as if she can hide the fact that she’s not pregnant.

However, the status of her uterus is none of my business, and I manage a smile, if a bit forced. I open my mouth to ask her how she’s doing when the door behind me swings open and Ford appears, his hand landing on my waist possessively.

Bree’s attention shifts to the man at my side, her eyes widening when she realizes who he is.

“Bree, this is my husband, Ford.” That word is delicious on my tongue. The more I say it, the more I want to keep finding excuses to use it.

“Oh, I’d heard you’d gotten…married.”

I want to ask why the fuck she said the last word likethat, like it was sour, but there’s a more pressing inquiry at the forefront of my mind. “Who are you here with?”

She gnaws on her glossy lip, shifting her weight as her eyes dart between me and Ford. Suddenly, she’s backing away, plastering a fake smile on her face as she does.

“It was nice seeing you, Allie.” Then, she’s gone.

“That was odd,” Ford comments, and I nod. “We’re going to follow her, right?”

A giggle bubbles in my throat, and I grin, slipping my hand into his as I lead him back toward the heart of the party.

The moment we enter the ballroom, I spot Bree’s sapphire dress from across the way, standing between Mark Tuften—the tech billionaire and Liam’s now-former client—and Marshall Potter.

I’m attempting to discern which of the men she’s here with since neither of them is her fiancé, when Ford interrupts. “There’s Drake. We need to leave.”

Following his line of sight, I catch Drake swiftly moving in our direction as he makes his way from the other side of the cavernous ballroom. His expression is hard, determined.

My eyebrows zip together, and I whip my head toward my husband, but just as I open my mouth to ask why, he adds, “Let’s go.”

His domineering tone sends shock waves directly to my pussy, and I clench around air, wishing it was his cock. I’m still slightly cross about not being able to play with him in the bathroom.

Before I can say anything, he’s ushering me toward the exit. If he’d done this with me only hours ago, I would’ve told him to fuck off, but Ididask him to help me. In the spirit of keeping my word, I keep my mouth shut and allow him to direct me toward the exit.

There are far fewer reporters gathered outside as we make our way to the SUV waiting for us. James nods as I slip past him and into the back seat, with Ford following me.

When the door shuts behind us, I turn toward him, an eyebrowarched. “What gives, Ford? Why did we have to leave? I still had unfinished business.”

I wasfarfrom finished dropping bombs. In fact, I had at least four more grenades left to detonate before I was planning to make a hasty departure. Judge Atkins isn’t a big enough name for that to have been my sole explosion. If I’d been able to speak with York or Aubrey, I might have been able to light a few more fires, but that was a bust.

At this point, I’m growing concerned that I may have to become the atomic bomb myself and burn it all—and everyone—to the ground, me included. It’s not like I wouldn’t survive that blast. I’d have to move, of course, but I loved Amsterdam when I lived there and wouldn’t mind returning. I have plenty of funds to live on, and I could always make more. Sex is an international business.

Suddenly, the door to the backseat opens, and Drake enters the vehicle, Ford sliding to the middle to make room.

“Did you get it?” my husband asks his friend.

Drake shakes his head, but a cheeky grin spreads across his face as the car begins to move. “I got something better.”

“Will someone please clue me in?” I interject, sick and fucking tired of being left in the dark.

Drake leans forward, shifting his attention to me, still wearing the goofy, giddy smirk.

“We’re going to help you.”

“Help me with what?”

“Take down Percy York,” Ford supplies, the hushed words sweeping over the shell of my ear and settling in my gut in a storm of disbelief and exhilaration.