Page 51

hide and seek shelter

Christian

If ever the rug could’ve been pulled out from under me, it would be this.

“What?” I repeat with what little breath is in my lungs. The question wrenches from me as my mind spins and my gut bottoms out.

There’s glee in Seamus’ face. There’s no other word for it, it was fucking glee. He knew what he was doing spewing that fucked-up shit.

Shock is written all over Fitz.

But Ayla. The panic in her features—the guilt, the dread, the betrayal. My wife who sucks at lying is… exposed.

With every breath, my shock turns into something far more lethal, far more aggressive—wrath.

I’m irate.

Helping him. She was helping Seamus. But helping him do what exactly. And what did he mean by “before”?

More so, though, it was Ayla yelling “Of course, I remember” that rocketed me from livid to violent. She remembers. She remembers and she’s been playing me, using me for her own gain or for Seamus Murphy’s.

“What the fuck.” I seethe in a voice that can only be described as dangerous.

The meaty palm that hits my chest knocks the air from my lungs. I look into the ominous eyes of Liam Murphy. “Let’s go.”

“The fuck?”

“Let’s go.” His tone is as menacing as my own. “Now.”

“Take your hands off me.”

“Outside.”

As if I answer to this prick. I look down at his hand before deciding I’m done with this charade. My “wife,” or so I thought, can— I don’t finish that thought. I can’t.

I stalk from the room.

My brother-in-law stares me down. How that’s possible with his shorter stature is only due to his overwhelming presence. “Calm down.”

I know he didn’t just try to pull that shit with me. “Don’t. Ayla?—”

“No. Shut the fuck up and listen, Barone. We both know Dad is a snake. We both know we walked in on something that could be… who the fuck knows what when it comes to him. Go home. I’ll stay with my sister.”

“I don’t give a?—”

“Stop.” He cuts me off with his words and a slice of his palm through the air, his tattooed fingers leaving a trail in their wake.

“That’s my sister.” He pokes his chest as if to emphasize his ownership.

“One, I’ll keep her safe. Two, I won’t listen to a bad word about her.

Not even from you. Three, she’ll have me at her back no matter what she’s done. ”

“And if she’s been in league with your dad and lying to all of us?”

“You know and I know Ayla can’t lie for shit.”

“And if he’s setting her up?” I’m running out of steam, anger melting into something far more destructive.

“I’ll pull the flesh off of any fucker who hurts her.

I don’t have those pesky principles most people do regarding revenge or retribution, especially when it comes to her.

That applies to my sperm donor the same way it applies to everyone.

” He pauses. “Including you. You hurt her…” His words hang there.

His threat isn’t implied. It’s explicit.

I sigh, looking at the man I trust. Or trusted. Who the fuck knows anymore?

“Right.” There’s nothing more to offer, so I turn and leave, passing Cian as he exits the elevator.

“Hey,” he calls. “What’s wrong?”

My only response is to lift a hand in acknowledgment. If I had to guess, my face says not now as I move past him, pushing the button to head to the garage.

Me: Meet me at the house in thirty.

I don’t bother to check for a response. Ren will be there. The list of people I can trust is less than one right now. My liar of a half-brother is the only person with nothing to gain from Ayla’s betrayal. At least I think so.

The drive home is a blur.

How do I come to terms with this farce of a marriage? She made a mockery of our vows. My “wife” has reduced my promises to mere words, casting aside her own hollow declarations.

What—if any of it—was real? Was the whole thing a set-up? And how far back does it go?

Was it just the fall? Was it an elaborate scheme that she elected to participate in? If so, why? Her supposed amnesia was convenient. What does it take to fake that?

I’ve always said she’s a shit liar. Perhaps she’s the greatest actress I’ve ever known, showing tells at the right times, not knowing things she always should have, convenient vulnerability around inconvenient truths.

I’ve spent six months dealing with this bullshit. I’ve worried about her mental health, finding the best doctors, fighting for her care, understanding when she doesn’t want to talk about that or her therapy sessions with her secret therapist.

Everything around this joke of a relationship is a riddle with no answer.

I’ve stressed over her physical safety, her jaunts through the woods, her standing too close to the edge. I’ve had a man on her and security tightened around our home for the unknowable enemy she’s convinced me is coming for us.

This woman has accused me of control, of subjugation, of fucking cheating. Hell, she’s assumed I tried to kill her. Who else has she told that to? Is she playing others with the idea that I failed at my “murder attempt”?

The man who’s stopped at nothing to bring her back to us, to be everything she needs, and she’s been fucking me over the whole time.

I’ve been hustled by a professional of epic proportions.

If she and Seamus are in on it—if they’re working in tandem—why did the conservatorship piece fall through on his end? Why did it need to be me? Or was I just an inconvenience in the whole thing, accidently participating where I had no business being?

What would she—or her bastard of a father—get from that?

I hold the papers. If this whole thing is a charade, I can control every outcome—financial, physical, relational. I could own my business and hers, have complete fucking domination.

Until death.

I’m mulling over all the questions that assault me when the door to the sitting room opens and Ren stalks my way. My desk is littered with paperwork and an open bottle of bourbon that’s too expensive to guzzle as fast as I am.

“I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon after leaving.”

“I didn’t expect to need to call.” I lift the bottle of liquor in invitation.

He waves it off. His face registers curiosity. “Not tonight. Thanks.” He looks to the seat, and it dawns on me he’s waiting for me.

“Please have a seat.” I give myself a healthy pour and lean back in my chair.

“I know you’re investigating me. I need you to also investigate my—” I start to say my wife but can’t get the words out. “I need to you to dig into Ayla. Start two years before we met.” I provide him with the date of our “chance” meeting at Rondelé.

“Liam is working on Seamus’ background, as you know.

” Hell, it was only this afternoon when the three of us met to discuss CAB, LLC and the Murphys’ involvement with the Laotian investors.

“But where you see overlap with CAB or C-Bar or any entity that weaves a layer with me or Ayla or that man, please dig deeper.”

“Liam has more connections in this area.”

“Liam is otherwise engaged.” I stare at my half-brother, sizing him up. I loathe being vulnerable in front of anyone. To be vulnerable with an employee is a death knell. Especially one with a connection to me personally. One that could be exploited.

I choose instead to hedge, offering a little, while withholding the majority. “Seamus made accusations tonight that have me wondering about how married”—I try not to choke on the word—“our businesses might be.”

“If I may speak freely,” Ren begins to gauge my reaction.

My acquiescence is slow. “Sure.”

“How much do you trust Seamus Murphy to give you the truth in any situation?”

I don’t answer.

“And how much of whatever he said tonight would you assume is credible?”

Again, no answer.

Ren continues, “My gut with him is not good. He’s self-centered and self-aggrandizing. His only motive is boosting his own ego.”

“Agreed.”

His lying about Ayla would be so like him. It would undermine my relationship with her, create discord, lead to problems that would take ages to resolve. His telling the truth, though, would undermine the foundations of everything we’ve built our lives on. It’s ultimate destruction for me.

Either way, he wins.

“That’s exactly why I need you investigating. I don’t trust him either.” His words, in essence, are a catch-22. “He’s scheming—in what is said and in what is left unsaid, in action and inaction.” I drain my glass. “And I need the truth.”

The fuck of it is, how can I ever believe the truth when it’s either utter devastation or too good to be true?

“Thank you, Ren.” I hate the dismissal in my tone. But I don’t have it in me to give one shit more with the state of my life tonight.

He sees himself out and I see myself to bed. Our sheets smell like her. My senses come alive, my dick hardens, memories flood me, and my heart plummets.

Within ten minutes, I’ve relocated to the guest room upstairs. This bed smells like flowers and herbs. The sheets are lush but not soft from being broken in. The pillows are too firm and too full. I need the wrongness of all of it.

I haven’t slept without my wife at my side since seven weeks after we met.

There was only one exception. The night before our wedding she insisted I not see her for “tradition” or some such nonsense.

She stayed at her parents’ house. I slept in our room.

That’s the one night she hasn’t been next to me in the more than two and a half years since I met her.

Two and a half years… Something about that should be connecting for me. But an early morning, drinks at the bar, the bourbon, not to mention the emotional fallout from Seamus Murphy’s bullshit, and I have nothing left. Sleep sucks me under, and I welcome the oblivion.