Page 6 of Her Wicked Husband (The Huxleys #2)

The family law firm Huxley & Webber takes up most of a sleek skyscraper.

Every Huxley born is expected to work—and thrive—at the firm, and most of us do exactly that.

My brothers and I did exceptionally well—Harvard undergraduate and Harvard Law.

I’m content with my career and the work I do.

Dealing with The Fogeys can get a bit annoying.

After all, my dad and aunt are name partners and can be meddlesome from time to time.

I’m half an hour early. Aunt Jeremiah joins me in the elevator, holding a travel mug full of coffee. Her blood-red hair is pulled back into a knot, and the same shade gleams on her lips. Her skirt suit and stilettos are jet black.

It’s one of her court appearance looks. Somebody’s going to die, and it’s not going to be her.

“Good morning. You look a little pale.”

Her observation makes my eyebrow twitch a little. Does it show that I had a nightmare? Even though I had the run?

“Should sleep more,” she says.

“How did you know?” I often sleep poorly, but have never mentioned it to anybody in the family. Nobody knows I have bad dreams, not even my doctor.

“You didn’t leave until two last night.”

“Neither did you,” I say, trying not to sound defensive.

“Yes, but I’m a vampire. Haven’t you heard?” A corner of her mouth curves upward. “You aren’t.”

“You should still sleep, if only during the day,” I say, running with it. “As for me, I have to put in the time. Divorce cases are delicate.”

“There’s nothing delicate about a Hollywood divorce, sweetie. They’re going to sling mud at each other, saying shit that will undermine your position and make you wish you could feed your client into a wood chipper.”

“Jesus.” I suppress a shudder at the imagery.

I wouldn’t put it past her to do exactly that if a client pissed her off.

She believes in winning, not doing damage control for idiots who can’t keep their mouths shut, no matter how wealthy they are.

That’s why, despite her dictatorial attitude, people still beg her to take their cases. They know she doesn’t lose.

The elevator dings, and we step out of the car together onto the half-full floor.

Nobody can afford to slack off when one of the partners is known to arrive early.

I stop by the break room to grab a coffee, then head to my office, shutting the door with my heel.

My assistant won’t be here for at least an hour.

She has to drop off her kid at daycare because her husband is out of town.

What would it be like to be able to trust your spouse with something as important as your own children? Amélie, usually sharp and sarcastic, glows when she talks about her family, especially her husband. Apparently, it was love at first sight.

Yeah, right. More like a psyop by the guy. There’s no such thing as love, much less at first sight. He’s just waiting for the perfect opportunity to backstab her.

I haven’t told her, but if she ever needs to divorce his ass, I’ll do it pro bono. I’ll ensure she gets everything, including the kid, the house, the car—even his underwear.

I turn my attention to the huge stack of documents on my desk.

The first one’s about the Oberman family trust. I frown slightly while sipping my coffee.

Why Zachary bothered wasting his money discussing the situation with me is beyond my understanding.

The trust has been hollowed out completely by the trustee, who basically let Aaron do whatever he wanted.

Zachary sought advice on undoing it, but unfortunately, that wasn’t how the trust was set up.

If there had been more time and Zachary could have afforded the fee, I might’ve pored over everything and found a loophole to exploit.

But the man had a sudden heart attack, leaving everyone stunned, including me.

Now there’s nothing left of the estate except debt.

I doubt it could pay the latest fifty-thousand-dollar invoice from Huxley & Webber.

The firm will try to collect, but we’ll probably have to eat it. Grandma will lecture me to be more careful about avoiding deadbeat clients. But who would’ve thought a family with a history like the Obermans would be teetering on the verge of bankruptcy?

Even if I’d known the family was insolvent, I would’ve still taken Zachary on, on the off chance that he’d mention Fiona. See if that would stir anything. She made me think she was some kind of angel, only to stab me in the heart.

And he did speak to me about her with a faint smile, but I felt nothing.

Who cares if she moved to Wisconsin, or that she works in marketing at some cheese company, or that she’s still single?

She’s probably still pining over Jude Morven…

Although if she wanted him, she should’ve stayed in L.A.

, where he’s living off his family’s money, like the pathetic, invertebrate parasite he is.

Yeah. She’s so stupid she didn’t even stay in L.A. to chase after that loser “soul mate” of hers. Why should I have any feelings for her? I’m too rational for that.

Since I’m not going to get paid, I push aside Zachary Oberman’s files and start reviewing the Hollywood divorce. I swear—if Bebe Brooks makes one more social media post about her imploding marriage with Xavier, I’m going to break her fingers.

* * *

“What do you mean I can’t talk about that piece of shit?

I’m American ! I have rights !” Bebe’s impressive tits heave under the low-cut dress.

Those breasts are real—and made her an overnight sensation on some pseudo-porn site, where she got her start.

Now she does more respectable acting, but the melons are still the stars.

My day was going fine until she showed up for her appointment because she had to talk about “something important.” I maintain my bland smile despite her shrill screams and the beginning of a headache. She seems to believe that, of the two of us, she knows more about constitutional law.

“Yes,” I say in my most professional tone. “You do. But you aren’t free of the consequences from exercising those rights.”

Bebe has a coquettish physical quality that serves her well on screen. She pouts, obviously upset that I’m not siding with her. Tears spring to her eyes, then start falling in rivulets. “He’s an asshole !”

“Do you want him to keep FruFru?” I should get a prize for keeping my expression blandly polite. FruFru . The couple’s French poodle allegedly attacked four gardeners. Not that anybody can blame the dog. If some asshole named me FruFru, I’d bite some gardeners, too.

“No!” More tears fall, jacking up my impatience .

“Then please do as I say. I can’t help you if you keep scoring own goals.”

“But you’re Bryce Huxley! You can—”

The door to my office bursts open. Amélie stumbles in, but is immediately pushed aside.

“Bryce, I can’t wait anymore! You have to hear me out!”

Fiona . The voice hits me like a bucket of ice water. I stare, then blink slowly. Maybe Bebe’s tears have given me a brain tumor and I’m seeing things.

But an illusion couldn’t push my assistant aside.

Fiona is even more beautiful than I remember, her auburn hair pulled back into a low ponytail to show off her exceptional cheekbones and delicate features, those large cat eyes and the lush mouth that tasted like honey and nectar.

I could never get enough of kissing her, stroking her taut, smooth skin. The impact of seeing her is—

Uncomfortable, I decide. The weird tightening in my gut is nothing more than indigestion, the shaky boom of my heart just an aftereffect of too much coffee this morning.

Fiona doesn’t seem to be having a great time, given the pallor and dark circles under her eyes that her makeup can’t hide.

Her black pantsuit makes her appear even thinner than she is—she’s shed weight she didn’t need to lose since graduation, giving her an air of fragility that wasn’t there before.

Her black shirt is buttoned all the way to the top, like she can’t bear to show any skin.

Or maybe she just doesn’t want me to see any.

I still don’t know why she changed so quickly back in college.

It was like somebody flipped a switch in her heart.

We’d been dating for a semester after she saved my dog.

I fell for her so hard, so fast, that even Josh was a little worried.

But I brushed his concern off, believing she and I were happy—on the same page.

Disbelief and fury hammered me when I walked in on her rolling around in my bed with Jude Morven.

My vision went red, blood boiling as rage burned.

“How could you?” I demanded in a shaky voice.

She gave me an unreadable look as she wrapped her arms around Jude. “Just decided to trade up. Besides, I never enjoyed sleeping with you. You make my skin crawl. ”

Time should’ve dulled the cruel response’s edge, but recalling it still hurts. At least my heart doesn’t bleed like it did back then.

I torched the fucking mattress, along with all my love for her. I wanted to kick my own ass for ever thinking that she was genuine or beautiful—my angel.

“Who is this tramp?” Bebe screeches, jumping to her feet. Her tears vanish.

Normally I’d find the term amusing, especially coming from my trashy client. But Fiona fucked Jude, used to wear very little for him and clung to him even when he had other girls on his arm, so I guess “tramp” fits, although I’d add “pathetic” as well.

“Nobody. An old acquaintance,” I say coolly. That’s the nicest way to describe my relationship with Fiona.

Pain flashes in her golden-green eyes. Instead of sheer derision, a small ache of my own unfurls in my heart. I harden my jaw. What the hell’s wrong with me? She turned her back on me first. She messed up, not me. She deserves nothing, especially not sympathy.

“Why the fuck is this acquaintance interrupting my appointment? Does she know who I am?” Bebe raises her inch-long lacquered talons.